AkelDeema

Volume Two:
Kingdom Healers

Steve Bonenberger

1
 Dedication

This work is dedicated to those who have suffered through and then survived a religious
apocalypse or two.
Travel Far.
Steve Bonenberger

2
 Synopsis
AkelDeema: Volume Two Kingdom Healers starts with the former United States of America in a
fractured, broken and dispatched condi on.
The new normal for the remaining alive and somewhat healthy American ci zens is best
described by want.
For almost all people that survived The 2nd Big Bang now reside in need.
Food, clothing, shelter, income, gasoline and even small twigs that might be used for kindling
are all stretched thin.
Scarcity and not enough now fill each surviving family's hourly and daily vocabulary.
Prof Tribute and his wife Maddie find themselves in, and at the very center of the rebirth of a
na on state.
The na on-state they envision is one built upon the strong premise and everlas ng promise
that Christ is King!
Christ is King!
And, the church that Jesus Christ founded determines to be the founda onal and preeminent
building block upon which the new, emerging society must be forged.
Prof Tribute and Maddie find friends and supporters…and protectors from the most unlikely of
sources…
The Guild.
The Guild envisions a far different future for the now struggling American reconstruc on…

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 For It is Easier for
A Camel to Pass
Through
The Eye of A Needle…
Than for A Rich
Man…
To Enter the Kingdom
of God.
Jesus Christ, Circa 33 A.D.

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Part One
Dynamite

5
 The Guild
The First Evening
Steadman sat on his superyacht, Mayflower II, and watched American cities burn. His
ancestors may not have been the original discoverers of the American continent. But
they most certainly blazed its trails and manifested its many destinies.
Steadman observed American carnage from a safe port-of-call that strategically resided
in Key West, Florida. Not by coincidence or by chance, his present location rested far
outside of the turbulence and blast-zones that he might not be personally responsible
for, but he most assuredly celebrated, partially financed, welcomed and helped
engineer.
Rather than gasp and cry. Rather than wail and moan. Rather than imagine the horrors
that thousands and potentially millions of American families were now living inside of:
Steadman smiled.
Steadman Achilles Medford the Seventh knew that finally his appointed hour had
arrived. His mother’s prophetic Vision of and for him were close to being fully actuated
and fully accomplished.
Steadman picked up his cell phone. He found his favorites tab. He slid open: MJ’s
(Maurice Jones’) profile. He tapped the profile with his right thumb.
Nothing.
Once again, Steadman smiled.
He knew that MJ long ago flew his Chicago coop. He also knew that for a bit, no
surviving Chicagoan would be able to even think about finding a live cellular service.
Steadman also knew that MJ had some prior inkling of the possible American
mini-Armageddon. He figured that right about now, MJ and his crew were safe. Safe
and gliding along some Caribbean Sea. Or, sitting patiently moored at some port-of-call
in one of MJ’s many favorite Caribbean Island watering holes.
MJ’s superyacht went by the unforgettable name of Peerless 1.
The First Evening
There were six spots now in America that were instantly, and for dozens, if not hundreds
of half-lives to come, either partially, or fully uninhabitable.
Prof Tribute and his wife Maddie sat on their veranda that overlooked Shaw Park in
Clayton, Missouri and openly wept.

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Their worst, most macabre machinations that any ‘end time conspiracy theorist wacko’
could concoct and dream up were now coming to pass. And also, in the weirdest and
most unthinkable detached from sanity kind of way: the life mission of Prof Tribute and
his wife Maddie to rebuild America based upon the age-old premise of Christian
compassion lurked visibly right in front of their much awakened realities.
Maddie, as always, spoke first:
“Alan, look out there. Can you feel it? I know you can. How many cities are burning
right now? How many people have been killed? How many people’s lives have been
destroyed? I don’t know what has happened, but I can just feel a cataclysmic shift has
taken place…. This has to be worse than 9-11.
A quiet resolve settled in upon the two sobbing saints of God.
Dr. Alan Gnown, aka: “Prof Tribute,” was going to become the unlikely and unknown
hero to the multiplied thousands who were now suffering unimaginable harm. Most of
these sufferers did not even have a scant inkling of some forgotten preacher named:
“Prof Tribute.”
But Prof Tribute was the Eternal Father to Phobos.
At this hour, countless thousands of men, women and children crouched and packed
themselves into tiny crevices, cobbled together among spent shipping containers, slept
inside of cracks in blasted-out walls, and shivered inside of concrete canyons that could
at any moment’s notice cave in upon them.
But these impacted and affected ones did not go without light or heat. For right now,
thousands upon thousands of people huddled ‘round ‘bout Phobos.
Phobos:
Untold numbers of American families found solace, warmth and light by simply placing
tiny, little plastic Nautilus shaped night light-like devices at the center hearth of their
makeshift, worn-out, blown-apart, frazzled and even non-existent apartments, houses,
condominiums and work-spaces.
The men and women noticed that in the darkest of conditions, in the most bleak and
desolate of places—places and spaces where no outlets or electricity worked, or yet
remained, or could be located—Phobos alit and warmed their discomforted and
dismantled dwelling on its very own.

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Prof Tribute looked at his wife Maddie. Their hands entwined. He let her know and
declared by whispering into the gathering and dusty darkness:
“My darling Maddie…you and I will not let the evil one and his minions have the final
say. As God is our witness…and with the suffering ones as our reason…we will rebuild
American cities. We will recast American lives. We will…in this hour…this hour that has
been granted to us…find ways to elevate Christ.”
With that, the two saints of God headed off to a sleepless night…

Holly Wildfire:
Hell in Heels
Holly Wildfire. She remembered the day—that day—when she gave herself that
self-moniker. That day, both fortunately and way-unfortunately was a long, long time
ago. Her real name was Holly Stone. That name meant nothing to her. Until now.
Holly woke up in a haze. Too many nights of partying in unbroken succession left her
mind blitzed, her tongue numb and her innards on fire. The sunlight blazed brightly—too
brightly for her starlit-blue-eyes’ liking on this warm, balmy and sultry November day.
Thursday, yesterday would have been Thanksgiving. She remembered how her
parents, Dawn and Steve, put on an extra-big-show and tasty spread for Thanksgiving
and Christmas feasts. Her childhood memories of turkeys basting and biscuits browning
and families loving turned her already sour stomach inside out with self-revulsion and a
deep-pitted rage.
Holly woke up the way she always did. Naked. That’s the way Steadman liked her. She
had a few closets full of expensive, designer clothes. And she only seemed to wear
bikini tops, thong bottoms and an old pair of flip-flops she found at some discount
bargain place.
Steadman left. She never really knew where he went or why. She never knew whom he
met with or why. Whenever she asked of his affairs, he simply patted her on the ass and
said something stupid and condescending like:
“Baby, you keep beautiful in its place. Let me do the thinking.”
She hated him. She wasn’t sure of much these days. But one thing was certain, she
hated that asshole.

8
Holly made her way out of the captain’s master suite. She clothed herself in a white
linen robe. One of the many servants—this one a tiny, little Asian chick that she knew
Steadman banged on the side to irritate and in some weird way titillate her -- brought a
cup of morning coffee and a croissant.
The young tart never spoke to her. Even when Holly asked a direct question to the
young woman, she never uttered as much as a polite, “May I help you.”
Holly found her way to the hot-tub. The hot-tub and the heliport were both on the third
tier of Mayflower II. Holly turned the jets on high and let her aching and very stunning
body slowly sink into the bubbling waters.
The early morning soak always did her mind and body good.
Holly started to cry. Deep sobs and heavy heaves poured out of her soaked, swollen
and sullen soul. Something all at once turned topsy-turvy inside of her.
Earlier she heard Steadman’s helicopter whisk him away to some distant port-o-call.
She always liked it best when he left the premises. His absence made her feel safe and
in a peculiar way, ok.
Holly all at once decided to leave.
The thought of leaving this mess of a life that she alone crafted and could claim credit
for was of course a recurring nightmare…and a pressuring fantasy.
Where would she go? And how would she support herself?
Steadman gave her a very stingy allowance. He reminded Holly often that her services
were not that valuable. That stung. And his temperament and intent were never lost in
translation.
Holly sat back into the suds and humming bubbles and let her mind and naked body
relax. How did she get here?
Holly Wildfire really started in the seventh grade.
That year, age twelve, no thirteen, that’s when the twins arrived.
Holly remembered that her face and personality were always beautiful, spicy, and
infectious. Everyone loved her. Steve and Dawn, her mom and dad fawned and
preened over every aspect and minutiae of her life.
Yes, Holly Stone knew love. Yes, Holly Stone knew kindness. Yes, Holly Stone knew
safety and warmth and the love of two devoted, Christian parents.
You would have thought such devotion might have blossomed into some form of internal
righteousness and God-centered-care. You’d be dead wrong.

9
All of the attention. All of the love. All of the saturation of love-centered-pure-emotion
made Holly greedy for more.
Then the twins arrived.
Her breasts formed up round, soft, perky and straight out of some catalog. No one could
miss them. And Holly quickly learned how to use them and her unmatched good looks
and unquenchable and unmistakable charms as weapons.
She remembered the day Holly Wildfire was born.
Holly sat in Sunday school class, as she had dutifully done, each and every Sunday
morning of her life. Her father, Steve Stone, lovingly and carefully pastored Center
Church.
Holly’s mom, Dawn, exemplified grace, kindness, warmth, and stoic virtue. Holly
marveled at how her mom gauged and managed the church people. No matter the sling
or accusation. Despite the endless wagging of tongues. In the very face of the
onslaught of gossip and backbiters and envious, oft-times venomous slobs and religious
snobs, her mother kept smiling.
Holly told herself she was made of (to her), sterner stuff. No way in hell would she take
that kind of shit from church people. Holly, at the earliest of ages and the first of
cognitions, determined her life would be different. Different and “better.”
Holly made up her mind that she would be the life of every party. And rather than be the
butt of all the jokes and the recipient of all of those sniping, snarky back slaps, Holly
Stone would be the one that delivered the blows and uttered the slashing, tongue
lashings.
Holly Wildfire. That’s the name she gave herself. And she made up her mind that one
sweet day, that girl would arrive and Holly Stone would die.
The day showed up in the most unlikely of places - a Sunday school class. One of her
teachers, a man she had known and sort-of-respected since early childhood, all at once
noticed her. I mean, noticed her.
Holly could feel his gaze. She pointed the twins at him and smiled. He melted. Holly
Stone died. Holly Wildfire was born.

10
 The Compass Heading
Points North
STEVE - WHEN IS THIS SCENE OCCURRING? AFTER COMING BACK FROM HOT
TUB AFTER STEADMAN HAD HELICOPTERED AWAY? Holly made her way through
the massive, elegant, and way over-the-top “parlor.”
Steadman hated when she traipsed into what he considered one of his crown jewels,
sopping wet and dripping water. Always behind her would be two or three aides and
attendants, wiping up her squishing footfalls.
The fact that Steadman permitted Holly to walk into his most pristine and luscious of all
accommodations meant she had to pay a price for such insolent extravagance. That
meant Steadman—every single morning—demanded that Holly drop her robe and
parade herself, in all of her nakedness, right, smack dab in front of anyone who might
be present.
Steadman loved the dazzling displays of such amorous (to and for him alone) sexual
perversions. For Holly, of course, this made her feel like a woman in one of those awful
Holocaust movies, forced to strip-down and do some kind of favors for one of the Nazi
fools.
Holly would always scurry as fast as possible to her boudoir. There she would take a
long, hot soothing shower and attempt to rid herself of the filth she experienced from
such morbid exhibitionism.
For if Steadman was anything, he was a morbid exhibitionist. The man lived to elevate
himself and turn others into what he laughingly called, “dragon shit.”
Holly looked at the multiple closets. Each packed with designer clothes, handbags that
cost upwards of ten to twenty-thousand dollars each, shoes and scarves and sequined
gowns. Holly felt like puking.
Where in the world did she go so wrong? What in the world happened to her? Holly
flung herself on her satin duvet coverlet. The duvet was golden hued and arrayed with
pearl and gem-studded inlays.
Holly Stone-Wildfire wept. A fierce, self-hating and self-loathing torrent of tears flowed
out of her soul. So much so that the downpour surprised, shocked, and began to
frighten her.
Holly Wildfire did not cry. Holly Wildfire made men and women see a Shekinah glory
that caused their hearts to throb and tremble. THIS ISN’T TRUE GIVEN WHAT JUST
OCCURRED WITH THE LITTLE ASIAN CHICK.

11
Holly tried to stop herself. In mid-heave and heart wrenching sigh, she sat straight up
and propped herself upright with a few of the dozens of satin pillows that adorned her
(and when necessary, Steadman’s) bed.
One of her attendants, a young Thai girl named Ariel, asked her if she was ok?
That caused a fire to leap inside of this woman. Holly threw a lamp at the young girl and
screamed, “Get the heck outta here.”
Holly could not believe she was behaving this way. She could be mean, no doubt about
that. But, to treat others with disdain, especially the servant girls, that was something
way outside of her comfort zone.
Holly found an old gym bag and backpack in the bottom of one of the closets.
She looked, for what perhaps was the last and final time, at the opulence and
decadence that swaddled her. Swaddled and gave her a semblance of safety and
warmth for all these many years. She felt like puking again.
She packed away a few personal items in the bag and stuffed the backpack with as
much practical clothing that she could easily grab a hold of and reach. She slung the
bag over one shoulder and the bulging backpack over the other. Wearing only a
halter-top and bikini bottom hidden under a frayed and mangled pair of denim shorts,
she gave herself a final look in the floor length, gold-gilded and frosted mirrors.
She tousled her ravishing, signature, sunset-red-hair. Holly noticed her still stunning
body. Time had not been unkind to her. All of the debauchery and rich-side-of-the-tracks
living, only made her soft skin more subtle and the ridges in her physique more defined
and well-sculpted.
Holly took the servant staircase. She wound down to the galley. There was Old Cookie.
They chatted a bit. Holly liked this man. His warmth had a way of conveying a kindness
in a place where such softness was seldom permitted to show its face.
Holly asked Cookie to make her up a ditty bag. She asked him to bag up enough food
and drink and provision for a few days’ journey.
Cookie did as he was instructed. For no other option was ever a consideration for the
hired-help.
Cookie finished his task and handed the picnic basket and cooler over to Holly. As he
did so, the refined, Caribbean cook with the roan-toned skin asked his lovely lady in
residence “Where are you going Miss Missie?”
Holly looked him square in the eyes and said, “The heck outta here.”

12
 Earnings Report:
Courage Takes Wheels
There were three cars on the pier at all times. There were two drivers, always at the
ready. Steadman’s driver, Amman, was nowhere to be found. Holly knew and
remembered that most times, he attended meetings as personal valet and also
stand-in-bodyguard for Steadman. That left Danny Acheri.
Danny Acheri. Shivers ran up and down Holly’s spine every time she saw the dude,
heard his name, or heaven forbid, had to listen to him speak.
Danny, of course, was Steadman’s watchdog. His only porch to observe, guard and
keep in check? Her, of course.
Danny followed Holly around like a bloodhound hot on the scent of an escaped convict.
He seldom spoke. His eyes—black and piercing evil—seemingly never blinked.
The guy’s face, pockmarked and pencil-pricked from too many years of acne and too
many vials of steroid cream, kept him in a perpetually creepy state.
Danny. Holly had to maneuver past Danny if she had any hope of escape, let alone of
finding freedom.
There were three cars on the pier: The lemon-yellow Maserati sports car. The
blue-green sand-rail, that was most often used to run into town and get supplies. And,
‘her car’, the always latest edition, pearl-white, sandstone grey leather interior:
four-wheel-drive, Land Rover.
Luckily, she always kept a spare key hidden in the folds of her panty and bra drawer.
Holly learned that not even the creepy Danny dared look into and sift through her most
private of personal items. For Steadman made it clear that this, and this alone, was her
space. All other search coordinates were fair game.
Intuitively, Holly knew that every other area of her life was open for scrutiny, visual
stalking and shakedowns by this skulking wolf that snapped to and precisely followed
the commands of his boss-man.
Holly often felt the hairs on the back of her neck snare into tight wads of frenzy just
thinking about the compromising ways that dude secretly kept tabs on her, his only
passionate charge.

13
Eww…Holly shuddered.
Think, she had to think.
Holly left the picnic basket and the cooler on the bottom deck right next to the exit
gantryway. She ran back to her private quarters, and for the last time ever, gazed at her
world. How many years of her life had she given, no surrendered, to Steadman?
Far too many. Sadness gripped Holly by the throat. She literally shook off the sadness
and focused. She found the key right where it always sat. Right as she was about to
close the drawer, it struck her! She needed money. Perhaps lots of money.
She sat on her bed and dug in the big, floppy purse for her wallet. Holly counted the
cash: less than $ 3000 USD. No way would that be enough.
“Think!” Holly told herself to think.
She remembered all of the jewelry and gold and silver and precious gems that
Steadman gifted and bestowed upon her throughout the years. She kept a jewelry
storage box tucked anonymously amidst piles and piles of designer shoeboxes. Holly
raced over to her luscious shoe closet.
Holly started hoisting boxes and tossing thousand dollar sandals around like a child
might toss Legos out of a box. Holly dug through box after box. Until, there, at the very
cellar of her shoe castle, sat the one.
Holly, sitting cross-legged in her cavernous shoe closet, gently opened up her treasure
trove. Instantly, the tiny ballerina popped up. A soft jingle started to play a melody that
Holly had forgotten the words to. The ballerina danced and pirouetted. Fear gripped
Holly for a brief moment.
Holly imagined that one of the many transient servant girls had surely found,
confiscated and long-ago absconded with her personal fortune. But no, every, single
earring, stud, ring, bobble, bangle, gold, silver or platinum coin, gemstone,
pearl-and-diamond inlay and encrusted watch, and every other kind of over-the-top,
expensive, personal adornment known to mankind was there.
Holly started weeping. She did not see the tears coming and wondered what in the
world was coming over her. She closed the lid and hugged the box to her chest. Holly
did not know how long the fit lasted but she had to pull herself together. Holly got up and
righted herself. Holly found her purse and wallet again. She checked to make certain
that all of her credit cards were still there.

14
Holly knew that once her absence was known, Steadman would immediately cancel all
credit cards that had anything to do with him. Holly long ago planned for this exit
though. And in the very back fold of her wallet, there were a Visa Gold and an Amex
Platinum with her name, Holly Stone in raised lettering.
Holly headed back to her closet for one last set of items. Holly found a couple pairs of
trousers, a light-jacket, and a couple of sweatshirts. She tucked her flip-flops into her
purse and put on a pair of fresh, new sneakers.
Holly crept slowly towards the exit gantry. She looked this way and that for any sign of
Danny. She knew that during the daytime, he also had to care for Steadman’s prized pit
bulls. (Those things scared the bejesus out of her).
Seeing no sign of Danny, Holly carried all of her items to the Land Rover and threw
them into the SUV, She would bury her treasure trove under her light luggage jammed
full of clothing and potato chips to conceal its presence after she was safely away.
When she finished loading, Holly took a last, long look at opulence.
The Mayflower II spoke of elegance gone mad.
The Mayflower II screamed Steadman Medford the 7th.
Holly knew that martinis, Krystal champagne, lobsters, Lamborghini, Gucci, Fendi,
Maserati, and all other such shackles, would never again hold her in their powerful
sway.
Holly knew that leaving Steadman, sooner or later, meant embracing poverty.
Holly expected to feel remorse and sadness. Neither of these, or their cousins of
despair and grief, appeared. Rather, relief and freedom swept-up and caught-up her
soul.
Holly felt exhilarated!
Holly sat down in the piping hot, leather seats. She started the engine. The clock read
4:45 pm EST. Where had the day gone?
Holly quickly pulled out her sunglasses and put the four-wheel-drive into “D”, pointing
the nose of the Land Rover towards St. Louis, Missouri. She pulled away quickly, but
quietly. Only when out-of-view of Steadman’s yacht, did Holly turn the air-conditioner to
MAX. Holly soon found her favorite country and western Sirius station.
Yes. Holly Stone was heading home. And it would turn out that the last thing on
Steadman Medford the Seventh’s mind would be the disappearance of his long-time
and primary squeeze.

15
 Windshield Time:
The Blue Tomato and Ditching Ditzy Mom and Dad
Holly actually felt free. She hummed along to an old country standard, “Someday Soon.”
Holly quickly found, rounded, and zipped along onto the Overseas Causeway. The
Overseas Causeway ran over a hundred plus miles and directly connected the Florida
Keys to Miami across an engineering spectacle simply known as The Seven Mile Bridge
and forty-two other bridges.
Holly could not believe that finally, freedom and her name were dually linked. For so
long, how many years now? Eighteen years. For eighteen years, Holly Stone-Wildfire
had been a prisoner of her own making. It had been that long since Holly answered her
mother’s emails. It was eighteen years since she heard her sweet mama’s voice. The
cruelty Holly inflicted upon her parents in exchange for the luxuries of Steadman’s life
began to gnaw at her already very swollen and dam bursting psyche.
As the white dashes of the Causeway swept by, she remembered the night that
Steadman swept her off her feet. And she, in a like manner, mesmerized and captured
the imagination of this most fortunate of all men.
Holly remembered the entourage—there were ten of them that entered that night. It was
a night in Nashville like every other night. Holly tended bar at The Blue Tomato.
Her parents hated the fact that their daughter, an only child and recipient of every good
and perfect gift they could imagine, deliberately chose to tend bar and wait tables and
sling alcohol to drunks.
Holly biffed her parents and scolded them for their holy and, in her mind, unjust
judgements. Holly reminded her mother that nice people went to, and frequented bars.
Holly chided her parents and reminded them, with scathing harpoons, that lots and lots
of church folk attended her watering hole’s gatherings and sipped up the luscious
bourbon julips that she danced and paraded their way.
Holly wistfully recalled the night—no—the very moment that Steadman Medford the 7th
waltzed and promenaded into The Blue Tomato and whisked her off both feet.
Steadman came into her bar dressed like a damned captain of some seafaring sailboat.
He wore a captain’s hat—one of those silly white, linen caps with the shiny, plastic black
bill that had golden egg yolks splattered in the shape of a ship’s anchor on it.
He wore a crisp, white, freshly laundered, fully dry-cleaned and starched, linen ship’s
captain shirt crested with epaulettes. The kind that proudly boasted the three-gold-bars
to adorn each shoulder.

16
Steadman wore those designer boat shoes that sat perfectly at the bottom of his
ocean-blue and firmly creased Dockers. And of course, he wore no socks.
Steadman and his troupe—the man never strolled into any event or happening
alone—do-si-doed right into Holly’s country and western, cowboy bar.
Holly noticed him. But more importantly, Steadman noticed her. Their meeting, never by
chance, and immediately filled with a toxic and yet unbreakable chemical bond, went
boom.
Holly’s nemesis, a young tart named Phoebe, immediately felt her presence. Phoebe’s
threat tolerance went from Defcon Zero, expecting a night of frivolity and pleasures yet
to be discovered, to Defcon Ten and ‘uh oh’ at light-speed.
No one else was going to wait on this table. No other server even thought twice about
taking on this group of guests. Holly Wildfire alone would own this night and its soon to
be irreverent, and very loud naughtiness.
Holly shimmied up to the table, and in the midst of the raucous tarnation that the
cowboys were about to cause, calmed the place down by simply saying,
“Boys...leave this bunch of ranch-hands and cattle wrestlers to me.”
With that the laughter peeled and the tensions disappeared.
Steadman bought rounds for everyone. And the cowboys lit the stage up with bright
lights, and taught Steadman and his group of Harvard types to dance the two-step. And
say, “Yes Ma'am.”
The night blitzed along, and as the last call bell rang out, no one had exited the place.
Steadman called Holly over to him. In a drunken haze, and in the loudest whisper you
can imagine, asked for her number.
Phoebe raced over and tried to intervene, by shoving and squeezing herself right into
the tiny space between the two star-struck and soon to be soulmates and lovers. But
the damage had been done at first glance.
Phoebe dished out extra special services that night in the hotel suite. But the memory of
that girl, what was her name? Holly Wildfire…lingered in Steadman’s mind.
Steadman could not shake her out of his mind. Phoebe cried and protested. Two days
later, Phoebe headed back to Boston on a red-eye and pledged to make Steadman’s
life a living hell. For the two were betrothed, and with the wedding date long ago
announced, planned to be married.
Steadman found Holly’s number and called her. The two were welded, soldered, and
cemented together since that very moment.

17
Yes, it was eighteen long years ago. Holly was twenty years old back then.
The week after Steadman engulfed her life, Holly’s parents came to Nashville to try and
talk some sense into her very wayward and diffident spirit. Holly would have none of
their church-talk.
Holly made the mistake of introducing them to Steadman—how could she not? The two
of them were never apart. Holly’s mom and dad, Steve and Dawn, immediately disliked
this man of way too many charms and way too much means.
Holly’s dad took one glimpse, at all of the advantages this man knew since conception,
and realized that consumption, and every known form of gluttony, were the only driving
forces of his very porous and inelegant soul.
Steve knew instinctively that this young man, Steadman Medford the 7th, only really
owned debauchery. For debauchery, in any form it chose to arrive, most certainly owned
his hollowed-out soul.
Holly’s mom begged her to drop this dude and come back to St. Louis with them. Holly
cringed and began crying. Holly always got what she wanted. This was a given. But
Dawn hoped that for once, that her daughter and the delight of her life, would listen to
what she had to say. Dawn knew instinctively this would not be the case.
As Holly watched the miles and miles of open sea-lanes race by on either side of the
causeway, tears clotted, cluttered, and obscured the perfect and pristine drive.
What should have been the most scenic of all drives, turned into a downpour of bitter
and salty tears. For Holly heard the last words she spoke to her mother, on that fateful
day, reverberate inside of her empty and emptied out soul.
Holly’s mom, Dawn, quite literally held her only child to her sagging bosoms. Dawn
approached life in a much different light when she was Holly’s age. Dawn quietly and
in-between sobs said, “Baby, leave this guy now. I see awful, terrible things coming
from you two being together. Please come home with dad and me.”
Holly pulled back from her mother's loving embrace and told her own mom,
“Go to hell. This is my life. I’m no schoolgirl. And I ain’t ever going to be one of them
church ladies that you hang out with. My life is going to count for something. And
Steadman has the capacity to make my life come true.”
With that, Holly renounced her parents, never once responded again to one of her
mother’s or father’s texts, emails or voicemails and headed off to live her version of,
“La Viva Buena!”

18
 Windshield Time:
Un-Glad Tidings
Holly wiped the messy and gooey mascara from the tops and bottoms of her eyelids.
But the tears and downpour of sorrows would not stop. As Holly exited the wilds of
Miami’s spaghetti string network of interwoven highways and beltways and toll-roads,
she noticed something. The farther north she travelled, the more cars, RVs, trucks, and
SUVs, congested and clogged-traffic arteries...and...headed south.
The country and western tunes kept her humming along. The Land Rover would need
fuel pretty soon. So, Holly turned off I-95 and took I-295. She aimed the Land Rover to
intersect with I-75 just south of Orlando.
Right after she merged onto I-295 and began to head west into the Florida Panhandle,
Holly stopped for gas and to pee.
As her gas tank filled with premium, Holly rushed to empty her bladder. Then, she saw it
on the TV. Holly did not watch television. Holly never read a book cover to cover in her
entire life.
(The only time reading meant anything to her were those sacred memories of her mom
and dad reading books to her and bible passages. Those treasured memories Holly
thought were locked away forever. She was dead wrong. For a few of these holy
remembrances leapt right into her brain and she started wailing again).

Holly never thought an ounce or wasted a pound of her beauty on politics. Holly could
not cite a single tenent of a republican or democratic operating platform. Holly never
watched the news. She would go full on gangster whenever Steadman started talking
about this politician or that group that thwarted or sought to halt his ever expanding
empires.
But Holly saw this TV. She stopped and stared. With eyes shedding tears like a
windshield wiper tosses away raindrops, Holly saw destruction. She heard three words
that froze her to the marrow—New Madrid, Missouri.
“New Madrid, Missouri!”

19
Holly gathered herself and collected her emotions. She ran into the restroom and
relieved her distended bladder. Holly washed her face and hands multiple times. The
grime and grit, of makeup and gooed up mascara, made the wet paper towels look like
those washed out spin-art pieces a kid pays five bucks to make at the county fair.
Holly headed right out of the restroom and stood staring at the television set. The TV
news anchors were going on and on about how some group of lunatics blew up five
cities.
Five cities and also a big portion of New Madrid, Missouri, and the surrounding regions
that included: Western Kentucky, Western Tennessee, Northern Arkansas, and
Southeastern Missouri.
The news pukes kept talking on and on about how cities, towns, and houses and
businesses were completely cold and lightless.
The news bozos brought on ‘experts’. The ‘experts’ expounded about the
hidden-in-plain-sight ‘five square miles’ of pipeline that all security groups and military
intelligentsia and political hacks knew about. Knew about and somehow did nothing to
protect.
Holly Stone-Wildfire was many things. She most certainly was a beauty. She most
certainly was a selfish and self-absorbed American treasure. And she most certainly
only cared about one main thing—herself. But, two people trumped Holly’s
self-enamored myopia—her grandparents.
And her grandparents, and all of her cousins and aunts and uncles, lived in Southeast,
Missouri. Holly’s people were Bootheel people.

Smack, dab in the middle of the Missouri Bootheel, sat three, small towns. Three, small
towns that meant the world to Holly Stone-Wildfire. Those three towns: New Madrid,
Missouri, Dexter, Missouri, and Bernie, Missouri, were now ground zero to the largest
tragedy that the continental United States of America had ever experienced. Holly
sucked in air. She found it difficult, nigh unto impossible to exhale.
Holly could stand no more. She climbed into the Land Rover and screamed for the
Georgia line. Just as Holly approached the state-line sign that announced,
“You are leaving Florida!”
Her cell phone rang. The number that flashed bright and blue—Dawn Stone.

20
 Dawn Stone:
“Mama Loves You!”

Holly could not breathe. The call popped up next on her “Head’s Up!” display on the
Range Rover’s dashboard.
Holly’s Land Rover came equipped with the latest technological innovations. Among
these, a fully-pixelated 8 ½ x 14 “ computer screen that showed the image of the
person on the other end of the cell call.
Holly saw her mother’s face. She imagined what her face and voiceprint looked like
these days. Holly noticed aging and a resident sadness sort-of-smile-profile picture.
With a gentle-firmness, Holly punched the ‘hello’ button on the right side of her steering
wheel.
“Holly, it’s mom.”
Dawn’s voice sent Holly into violent heaves and abdominal surges. Abdominal surges
that sought to somehow purge the ugliness, shallowness, and outright meanness that
she exhibited and visited upon her parents lo these many years.
Holly pulled off of the freeway to the shoulder of the road and sobbed.
Dawn spoke to her wayward, and long, absent daughter. “Holly, are you ok? Please
listen to me. A tragedy. Something I can’t really figure out or explain to you…”
Dawn’s voice trailed off. Dawn heard the sobbing…
‘’’Honey, are you ok? Where are you? Daddy and I love you. Please...talk to me.”
Holly could not speak. She just wept.
After a few minutes, Dawn spoke again. “Honey, I want you to come home. I’m not
certain if I can talk that much right now. Or, right yet. So many miles and years between
us...but, please come home.
“ We might lose cell contact. I might not speak to you again for days. Please come
home.”
A long pause happened. Holly just cried. She could not speak.
Dawn let her know… “A big bomb went off…”

21
Dawn started weeping. Holly had never heard her mother so distraught. Dawn
squeezed out her thoughts inside of a fury of punch-stroke words in between sobs. With
a human derailment and brokenness that only those who have traveled through the
depths and portholes of hell feel, feel and know something about...Dawn said:
“A big bomb went off. Near where mawmaw and grampa live. I think. I fear. I
know...mawmaw and grampa and Julia and Sam and Michael. And...all of them...I can’t
get a hold of anyone. I think they’re all gone. Gone Holly. Please come home…”
With that, the cell line went dull and dead. Dawn’s sweet face vanished from the
computer screen and Holly screamed.
Holly screamed. A primal and final purge cleaned her emotions out.
Holly looked at herself in the mirror. She did not see brokenness. She most certainly did
not see the victim. She saw raw strength and pure rage.
In full visual sight. In untouched and rare form. Holly witnessed rage. Rage and outrage.
And it both surprised and awakened her. Holly smiled.
Holly looked at herself in the makeup mirror that was hidden and embedded inside of
the sun visor. Holly wiped the snot and smeared makeup leftovers from her eyes,
eyelids, and nose. Next, Holly spoke to herself.
Holly spoke words to herself that she never thought would come from her lips:
“Girl. You have been a fool. This ends. Right now. Whoever did this to my family. I am
going to find them. Find them and mess them up.”
Holly let that sink in. Then, right before she reengaged the engine, Holly, the unholy
renegade declared:
“Mawmaw and grampa. Aunt Susan and Uncle Henry. Michael and Sam and Ben. I let
you down. I am going to find the fools that did this to you. And I swear to God, I am
going to kill them.”
Holly then pointed the nose cone of her mini-rocketship on wheels towards Atlanta, and
before turning on Sirius and dancing to the latest country tunes, said a sort-of-prayer:
“God. Wow. I haven’t thought of you in a bit. God, I know I’m basically vomit on earth
to you. But, God, I think Steadman had something to do with this mess. I don’t know
how. But, I think Steadman had something to do with this mess.”
Holly let that thought simmer a bit. Rough as it was to think about, Holly knew that
Steadman’s fingerprints were on this somehow.
Holly ended her prayer, the second or third one she had prayed in probably all of her life
by saying:

22
 “God, I’m not asking for forgiveness. Cause I’m unforgivable. I’m asking for the truth.
Please show me who did this to my family. And lots of others’ families. And God, if
Steadman had any part in this, again, I don’t ask for forgiveness...if I find out that I’m
right on this. I’m going to kill that son-of-a-gun. Amen.”

Dawn Wellex-Stone:
Holly Stone’s Mother and Painter Extraordinaire
When Holly flew Dawn’s coop, painting and solitude filled in the endless time gaps.
Dawn once thought of herself as blessed and highly favored. Dawn at one time viewed
life, and most especially her life, through rose-colored and whimsical lenses.
When Holly abandoned her life, capriciousness and all gaiety towed along with her.
Since that day, Dawn Wellex-Stone sheltered in the surreal and unsafe place of paints,
easels, dark and dusky studios and images of attack.
Dawn felt pity for Steve. Steve bore the brunt--the constant assault--of her emotional
and relational disfigurement. For all of Dawn’s reach-out efforts to reestablish contact
with her gone missing daughter Holly, all of the attempts to connect, all of the postcards,
emails, letters, cards, calls, texts, Facebook posts, messages through friends and
relatives--every single one bombed out.
Nothing. Holly would not reply. Holly would not relent. Holly would not send a thank-you.
Holly never acknowledged a gift sent. Holly never inquired (to her knowledge) of her
well-being. Holly disappeared. Vanished. Kerpoof.
Dawn’s only form of communication, and these became more scant and scarce as the
weeks turned into months and the months matured into years, were finely filtered
messages she would receive now and then from mawmaw and grampa.
Dawn escaped. Dawn withdrew. Dawn disappeared into the lonely and provincial world
of her paints, easels, color swaths, pallets, brushes, and cowboy music. Dawn filled the
empty and echoing caverns of her studio’s silence with old, very old cowboy tunes.
Cowboy tunes and the squawking of a store-bought, personally modified and souped up
ham radio.
Dawn viewed herself as a modern cowgirl. Only the ranges she rode and the miles she
traveled kept her stationary. Dawn almost never left the safe and comfortable and
messed up space that she called “Prairie.”
Each day started the same, two cups of coffee. Check the news and scanners to see if
Steadman had expanded his turf. Send notes to mom and dad. Kiss Steve and help him
move on with his day. Then, straight to the one-time garage, that now parked paints and

23
canvases and sort-of-works-in-progress, rough sketches, completed masterpieces,
yet-to-be-started commissionable pieces, and her two cats.
Dawn only painted predators.
Predators were her signature. Predators were what she was now pretty famous for.
Only Dawn liked and preferred, and thus painted and adorned her walls, and lots of
other people’s walls, with solitary predators.
Dawn liked owls. Dawn liked snakes, and pit vipers in particular. Dawn relished
wolverines. Dawn liked sharks--Great Whites were her favorites. Dawn liked
top-of-the-food chain, primary and very solitary apex predators. Dawn understood
ambush killers.
Dawn never painted, scratched or scrawled out a pack or pride of anything. No wolves,
coyotes, jackals, lions or dingos flashed into her imagination. For Dawn, these were
cowards.
Dawn loved owls...owls and hawks...hawks and screeching eagles...screeching eagles
and wiley wolverines...wiley wolverines and of course her favorite of them all—the
Moray Eel.
In her career, Dawn painted and put into the common culture hundreds of variations of
Moray eels. Each perched and mystically hovering in their hidden ocean currents and
craggy crevices. And each welcoming the prey that most assuredly would nose about
and soon arrive.
Dawn saw herself as a predator. Each and every image, every singular brushstroke,
each color selection, each completed portrait brought her one step closer to her prey.
For Dawn swooned over the day that she would find Steadman Medford the Seventh in
some vulnerable and exposed position and kill the son-of-a-bitch that stole away her
daughter’s heart. And in so doing, sucked all of the emotional health and laughter and
well-being out of her life.
Eyes. Dawn’s work included eyes that haunted. Eyes that haunted and eyes that hunted
and followed. Eyes that stuck like porn and globbed onto your memory. So powerful
were the eyes that Dawn produced, that many could not look at, or into them.
Nonetheless, eyes were Dawn’s signature. With each pair of slitted and clear and
stiletto eyes, Dawn imagined, as she painted them, of finding Steadman. Finding him
alone in some brothel full of vagrants and once upon a time virgins and stalking him.
Stalking him and learning to identify and know his footfalls. Learning where his watering
holes were. And then, like the leopard or the jaguar...lying in wait.

24
Dawn had one particular pounce that kept her happy. The Pounce happened in the
brightest daylight possible, in front of God and everybody. As Steadman walked into her
lair, she sat unnoticed by him. Then, she pounced. Pounced and grabbed him by the
throat with her long and rapacious claws.
And there in front of God and everybody, slowly and thoughtfully Dawn slit her prey’s
throat. Dawn revelled in this kill. What frightened her, and kept balance in Dawn’s life is
the deep knowing that she was more than capable of performing and completing this
act.
Dawn found herself absorbed inside of her studio and working through a difficult and yet
alluring anatomical sketch of a scorpion’s stinger when her cell phone beeped.
The text, from Steve simply said, “Turn On THE TV! Watch the news. Oh my God. Your
mom and dad.”

Steve and Dawn Stone:

Husband and Wife Talk Time
Dawn could no longer tolerate the probings. The constant asking of, “Where’s Holly?”
Followed by the awfulness of telling the story--again. Telling the story again to religious
people who believed that God always does right by the religious who are like them. The
facts are that they kept asking.
Kept asking, and Dawn had to keep responding with, “She’s not answering….”
The perplexity and audacity of a non-answer by and from the mouth of a trusted
religious guide caused the suspicions and the rumors and outright lies and vitriol to fly!
What shocked Dawn, shocked and then turned into pure rage, is that each and every
person that prodded about her daughter gone missing, proceeded out of the mouths of
men and women--mostly women--that she had personally pulled out of the stinkiest and

25
grungiest ditches defiled humanity could imagine and then cast themselves into such
mirey mucks.
One day, Dawn woke up to texts pinging back and forth. Some said they saw Holly in a
brothel. Others said, Holly is dead and left for the ravens to pluck out her eyes.
One religious asshole said, “Holly is a meth addict and that her very own son saw her
lying in a gutter with scratches and needle marks on every part of her body.”
Dawn walked into the tiny kitchen of their recently renovated mid-1930’s bungalow. Her
husband Steve was seated at the kitchen table.
Steve was her husband of over thirty-two years. The two of them co-pastored Center
Church.
Holly, standing there in her woolen robe covered in cat hair and feet shod in her favorite
fuzzy slippers said, “We need to talk. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not later today. We
need to talk. I don’t care what appointments you have. I don’t care how far back you are
on your sermon notes. I could give two shits about whose funeral you are officiating. We
need to talk.”
Steve, a mild-mannered pastor. A studio man. A man of integrity that held no gratuitous
nature knew and loved his wife. Only once before in all of the years of their courtship
and marriage had Steve witnessed his wife so distraught. That was on the day that
Holly left their lives.
Steve closed his laptop and turned off his phone. Steve got up from the kitchen
table,pulled out a second coffee cup, and poured his wife a cup of coffee. Steve walked
up to his beloved and cherished wife and held her close.
The two of them, husband and wife sat down at their kitchen table. There were always
three chairs that fit snugly around the small, circular white-oak antique table. Holly’s
chair had been empty for almost a full decade now. But, the chair remained present with
hope…
Dawn, weathered and beaten down by the pomposity of the well-wishers and outright
smugness of the religiously pious and perfect people, said to her beloved husband and
lover and love of her life, and bearer of her every confidence and soul malnutrition, “I’m
done Steve. I can no longer tolerate the church people. I ask not your forgiveness. I ask
only for your understanding. I will never attend a church service again.”
Dawn paused. She paused and found her words. Slowly Dawn said to her blessed and
loving husband, a man renowned for his grace and capacity to absorb the pain of, and
from others, “The words they say about her...the meanness they speak of her. The
vileness of their...I don’t know how to say this…

26
 “They won’t let her be. There’s no common decency left. They keep prying into our
lives. They keep telling her story. They keep asking me and asking me where she is and
when she’s coming home and why I’m not chasing her…”
Down broke. She began to weep and moan and sob with a ferocity that only the truly
beguiled ever know. Know and experience and comprehend.
Steve Stone, her husband was a man acquainted with sorrows. All of his adult life he
ministered to the hurting and smashed and the formerly free and too often
misunderstood.
All of his days were spent caring for those who betrothed themselves to his and their
God, and watched daily as God belayed and betrayed their confidences. This man was
Dawn’s husband.
Steve got up from his chair. He walked over to his wife. He stood behind her chair and
allowed Dawn to weep. He immersed himself into now, their combined sorrow.
The session lasted a long time. No words were exchanged. No well tidings were
wished. No hope for breakthroughs were examined. Just sorrows were shared.
This moment was like when two, giant blue whales finally travel enough of the ocean
depths that they find one-another. Male and female, female and male. And know that
their lives are complete. Complete and non severable.
They have found, their soulmate and a permanency of love that endures, can be
experienced.
Steve finally broke the silence. He knew enough of his wife to know that she would not
talk for a bit. She needed time to process. Steve also knew that his wife had a plan.
“What are you thinking here, honey…”
Dawn spoke into the silence and said, “I will never go to our church again. Please don’t
ask me to do so. I will never help with a wedding party. I will never work in the nursery. I
will never run and get supplies. I will never attend a festival. I will not sing any solos. I
will not go.”
Dawn thought through how this shock wave would impact the bliss of their wedded
lives. “I know that this is going to harm you. I can’t stop that. For that, the pain I will
bring to you my love, I am sorry. But, I will not ever go again into that….”
Dawn could not find the words to express her feelings right now. Dawn concluded their
session by standing and looking into Steve’s deep-set, hazel eyes.
Dawn took Steve’s cheeks into her two very warm and wet-from-her-own-tears hands
and let him know, “You, I stand by. For you, I will do anything. For you, I will travel far.

27
But for them, I will do nothing ever again. Instead, I will spend my days in “The Prairie”
painting, painting and learning what happened to our Holly.
“My hunch is that this Steadman is a very bad guy. I aim to find out who he is. Where
he came from and what in the hell he wants from our daughter.
“Steve listen to me. Holly will come home. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. I don’t
know how long it will be. But I love God. And God told me that Holly will come home
again. Till that day, my job is to find out all I can about this Steadman Medford the 7th.
“I want you to know my sweetheart, I could kill him one day. I’m not saying I will. But I
want you to know that one day, I could put a bullet into that son-of-a-bitch’s head. Right
between his two beady little eyes.
“We both know I have the capacity and the skill to do just that.”
With that the two people, married-a-long-time, kissed, embraced, and Dawn went to
shower and dress, and Steve hustled off to his waiting parishioners.
As Dawn walked away, she said one more thing, not really to Steve but more to the
universe.
“If I find out that bastard hurt my Holly. I’m going to kill him God. You can hold off on
your forgiveness cause I don’t give a damn how you feel about it.”

‘Dawn and Abby-Abby and Dawn’:

Markswoman Extrordinaire and Trophy Hunter
Dawn Wellex grew up a farm girl. Her father, Rex Wellex, who never met a man or
woman whom he did not love and appreciate, owned and operated, “Wellex Silos” in
Bernie, Missouri. People came from towns and farms far and wide to measure, weigh,
sift, and then store their grains in Rex’s Silos.
The two silos stood as stoic and silent corrugated metal sentinels along Hwy 25.
The corrugated, pitted, dented, shot-at, sun-faded metal structures housed and stored
the dreams of hundreds of family farms. Inside of the silos’ hollowed out structures,
grains were deposited and grains were co-mingled.

28
It’s as if the entire dreamscape of the gut-section of the United States of America’s farm
families’ lives were all harvested, transported, and then carried by conveyor-belt up and
up to find a resting place amidst the anguished deposited toils of hundreds of others.
Yes, Rex’s Silos were the meeting and mingling place for all people who found farming
and ranching and cattle-keeping as central paradoxes for their otherwise barbed wired
lives.
Rex counted people. Rex counted and measured grain deposits by the bushelload. And
Rex remembered each person and seemed to never forget a name and a face, nor
relinquish a friendship.
Dawn loved her father. As a child growing up on a farm just a bit east and north of
Dexter, Missouri, she learned to rope and ride. Dawn was a cowgirl. Dawn was a
horsewoman. Dawn was the best damned barrel-racer that Southeast Missouri ever
produced.
Dawn was a gunsmith. Dawn built, or customized from stock versions, her own
weapons. Dawn received as a direct, genetic gift from Rex, an eye for detail. Like Rex,
Dawn could tell the difference between a hawthorn bush and a blackberry patch from
200 meters.
She loved all types of munitions, ballistics, laser sights, magazines, trigger apparati, and
calibrations. Dawn loved exactness. Dawn thrived in settings where millimeters and
milliseconds were the difference makers.
Dawn learned to rope and ride.
Dawn, from age twelve till she left for college at age eighteen, never lost a shooting or
roping competition. She beat and bested marksmen and markswomen and horsemen
and horsewomen from all parts. She took on all comers. From state fairs to county fairs,
from statewide to regional turkey shoots, she stared down and squeezed out perfection
from 100 paces or more, and beat them all.
From shooting skete to hunting quail. From chasing down and stalking antelope in the
Rockies to tracking black-tailed-deer on her Uncle Larry’s farm in the hills of wintry
Michigan...Dawn almost never missed her mark.
Dawn’s earned nickname, Gamer, never left or failed her.
As a child and young, arriving lady, Dawn loved and lived for the competitions. She felt
not even a hint of pressure. Dawn Wellex never choked. Dawn never sweated. Not a
single drop of agitated perspiration ever dotted her forehead.

29
Dawn Wellex only felt calm and smooth. People watching awed and found
astonishment. For her holed-out targets were always clustered, overlapping into poetic
silkiness.
Many people said, “She looks like a ballerina with a bullwhip when she rides.”
When the gun fired, or the whistle blew, the targets hoisted, or the flags signaled the
race was on, Dawn only noticed time slowed down. She never felt rushed. She never
experienced emotional fatigue. Dawn never knew panic existed.
She never once encountered embarrassment in big moments.
For Dawn, competition, and most important of all winning competitions, brought life to
her. Dawn was a loner from birth. She never really played with her two sisters, Susan
and Jane-Marie. She never really hung out with other girls. Dawn hung out with cows,
pigs, goats, and her horse.
Abby came into her life at age eight. Abby was the best cutt’n quarterhorse you ever
saw rope and ride and chase up dust on four hooves. Dawn’s horse, Abby, was a
purebred Appaloosa mare. Her father found Abby through a two year, exhaustive
search. Abby had the best of blood-lines and a pedigree that almost matched Rex’s.
Dawn and Abby, Abby and Dawn. The two, horse and rider, rider and horse were
unified. Dawn and Abby moved in tender, mystical, unified fluidity. A natural-borne
precision that only marksmen and surgeons and maybe the highest-level-professional
athletes know and can fully comprehend.
Dawn’s love affair with shooting and guns and riding and hunting seemed to come quite
naturally to Abby. Abby never flinched or bolted at the sound of the rapport. When Dawn
raised her sidearm, or shouldered her trusted .44 Mauser, Abby leaned into the hunt.
Abby lusted over and lived for victory more than Dawn ever did.
Dawn often would say aloud, “Damnitt, Abby, you know more about chasin’ and winnin’
than any man or woman ever lived.”
So some thirty years later, when Steve Stone, her beloved husband texted Dawn in
mid-afternoon on a Black Friday, on a cold November Day, and said in bold
CAPS,“TURN ON YOUR TV!”, Dawn Wellex-Stone, the hunter/predator, came back to
life.

“Prairie Dawn”:
Global Talker and Super Sleuth

30
Dawn lived in her studio. She almost never went out to play. Dawn did not play well with
others. As a loner, she self-identified as a ‘badass-lone-she-wolf’.
She did not smoke. She did have to admit that lately she drank more than her share of
Bordeaux at night. That sort-of troubled her. She drank coffee by the bucket full. Her
twin passions were painting portraits that really were homages to ambush predators and
shooting.
When anyone entered Dawn’s studio, that used to be the Stone’s two car garage, they
had to be very sure-footed. The reason made Dawn chuckle. For underfoot were
thousands and thousands of spent, round pellets. Round pellets that made the creased
and bumpy concrete floor react more like a skating rink than a former driveway and
parking space.
Dawn refused to clean up, pick up, or remove a single, spent, metal pellet. This was to
Steve’s, and every other person who entered into her private space, constant lament.
Dawn preferred and wished these metal marbles were spent brass casings that once
housed bullets upon their nosecones. Bullets that she fired out of her Mauser Sniper
Rifle--the prized possession that she personally modified, rebored, and retooled to
make very deadly...very deadly...and deadly accurate from any distance under 250
meters.
The modified Mauser was Dawn’s second beauty of her life! (Her first, of course being
Holly...but that was another story altogether.)
The neighbors might have a problem with her squeezing off hundreds of rounds daily
from the barrel of her assault/sniper rifle. So to appease their squeamishness, she
consoled herself by playing hunter and game with the sweetness of her air-pellet-pistol.
Since she could not feel the pull and jolt and marvelous recoil of her rifle, since she
could not bask in the intoxicating scent of coiling saltpeter clinging in the air, Dawn
settled for the “PFFFFT!”
“PFFFT!” That's the sound that her exact replica, Israeli issue Desert Ace, .357 model
made each time she squeezed off a round from her CO-2 powered, air-pellet-pistol.
Long ago, Dawn afixed a green-laser-scope to the barrel. Not that she needed it. But
she liked zeroing in on her only target that mattered these days—Steadford Medford the
7th.
Dawn’s studio was an odd-combination of splattered paints, easels with half-finished to
fully completed compositions resting on them, and dozens and dozens of sketches of
reptilian eyes and cougar’s paws and black Mamba's scales.

31
Mixed in between this gallery of her own making were quite literally hundreds of photos,
news clippings, and magazine front covers of Steadman Medford the 7th. All of these
Dawn carefully attached in their own special slots on the walls of her studio.
And each and every picture of Steadman carried dozens, if not multiplied hundreds, of
clustered pock-marks. Pock-marks and tiny little tears that half-shredded the paper
images.
For Dawn almost never missed her mark.
Dawn did not watch or listen to newscasts. Dawn did not get her news from listening to
the knuckleheads’ rants on talk radio. Rather, she kept blaring a kind-of-21st century
radio station—a 50,000 + watt, self-constructed and hand-assembled blowtorch of a
ham-radio station, complete with global transmission capacity.
From the moment Dawn walked into her studio in the morning, her routine never shifted
once. Not once did she alter or in any way change her work-flow. Dawn would:
● Flip on the lights
● Slightly open up the garage door to get some ventilation
● Turn on the space heater in the winter or, the cooling unit in the summer
● Start another pot of coffee
● Open up her paints and check the queue of projects in process
● Walk over to her radio-station that connected with like-mindeds across the world
● Begin the day by saying:
“Morning weirdos and kinkies. Prairie Dawn broadcasting…”
Then came the call of duty, “Any Steadman sightings?”

32
 Part Two:
Wrecking Ball

Isla Ocho:
Home Port-of-Call
Steadman’s helicopter, Mayflower I, landed at his private heliport near Miami about 11
am EST. Awaiting his arrival was an entourage of accountants, sycophants, bean
counters, and bodyguards.
Every person of his touring group climbed into an idling trio of black, well-fortified SUVs
and headed over to board Mayflower III.
Mayflower III was Steadman’s seaworthy and seafaring office. The gleaming vessel
was a modern architectural and technological floating marvel. Holly Wildfire had never
seen, nor stepped foot on his Command Vessel. This was the Seat of Admiralty for
Steadman’s entire empire.

33
Steadman Medford the 7th ordered the Captain of Mayflower III to speed along at
twenty knots. The Captain, a full-bellied and red-bearded Scandinavian seafarer named
Bjorn Firth, who went by the common name Brash, simply obeyed his owner’s
command.
Brash knew better than to push back against Steadman. Brash also knew that
Mayflower III was not built for such elongated, excursion excesses. Especially given
the currents, undertow, and the fact that this was hurricane season.
Whitecaps and headwinds prevailed. Brash instructed the Chief Engineer to strain the
twin-diesel-engine pushers to their limits.
“Boss man says 20 knots. 20 knots is what we do.”
The CE knew better than to push back. Brash was known for his concussive and
full-throttled takedowns of any form, or light lilt of insubordination.
Mayflower III was one of the finest ships on the high seas. Her twin-diesel-engine
pushers were built to cruise at 12 to 15 knots comfortably. On occasion, and in times of
dire stress, the vessel could reach up to 20 to 25 knots. But, and this was a big ‘but’, the
red-line for the engines hovered right at 23 knots. 23 knots equalled 7700 RPMs.
Even novice mariners knew the folly of attempting to set sail at such ridiculous speeds.
But to do so, to even attempt to make this leap into ‘hyper-speeds’ for the entirety of an
almost 250 nautical mile journey, that was inviting nautical calamity.
The 250 nautical mile journey from Miami to Isla Ocho was never simple or easy. For
the course meant Cap’n Brash had to speed directly into one of the strongest ocean
currents ever charted.
Now, to do so at virtual, nautical warp-speed—that was the very definition of
‘Fisherman’s Folly’.
Seafloors gobbled up vessels and the fools that commanded them that attempted such
perilous crossings.
Since flotillas and frigates first set afloat, all captains knew the price for straining the
bolts and rivets, the pistons and sails, the sails and the propellers, the propellers and
the driveshafts, that kept their tiny lifeboats at sea. Captains knew better than to risk
impairment.
The salty-seas, crosswinds, and colliding currents were brutal and caustic enough. But
to risk, and to directly disrespect the seas...

34
Brash worried and checked his gauges. Brash screamed at the First Mate and the
subaltern engineers to check the oil and temperature and pressure gauges. He hollered
and shouted into his headset at each crew member to head to the engine rooms.
Temperatures rising on any part of his vessel got Cap’n Brash’s full attention. Today was
no different. To see gauges redline. To see steam rise. To see equipment strain and
wobble...
This is what Captain’s nightmares were made of. So, Captain Brash did what he could
to intervene and to counterbalance the direct order of his owner.
Brash sent maids, ship’s mates, engineers, bosons, and even the kitchen staff down to
the engine room.
A bucket brigade formed up.
The bucket brigade kept a long tow of endless buckets of fresh (heaven forbid any idiot
would throw saltwater on the stainless steel encased, dual twenty cylinder engine
headers) waters pouring on the over-stressed diesel engines.
Hour after hour, buckets were filled with fresh water. Hour after hour, the “PSHHHH!”
sound of fresh water stinging against the imperiled engine housings could be heard.
Large plumes of steam rose off the skillet-hot sides of the diesel-pusher-engine hoods.
Still the Mayflower III pressed on.

Brash wondered aloud,

“What in the Sam Hell is he thinking? What in the world are we gonna do? He’s a
smart assed guy. He knows she can’t take this forever…”
Brash kept the throttle steady and the rudder pointed north and east. First mile-marker
was the passing of the intake to the infamous ‘Bermuda Triangle’. Then, due east to the
main Bahamian Islands. Then once Grand Bahama was crested, hard Starboard and
dive south towards Isla Ocho.
Brash eased a bit. Seemed the currents were listening to his pleadings. The winds died
down a bit and the currents now swelled in his favor. Brash set an ETA (Estimated Time
of Arrival) at just a bit past 5 pm EST = 17:00 maritime.

35
As the sun began to set in the west, as dusk enclosed on the eastern horizon, Brash
smiled. He trimmed his engines back to normal speeds. He dismissed the crew
members to their respective places of service. He entered into the calm waters,
surf-breaking shoals and welcoming weather beacons and marking buoys of Isla Ocho.
Isla Ocho was home port for his Mayflower III. It was also home port and main staging
area for The Guild.
Steadman woke from his long, Caribbean nap. He missed Holly. He had not heard from
her all day long. That troubled and distressed him. Generally, they fired texts back and
forth at each other in a moment-by-moment furious lovers’ passion that only the truly
committed understand.
Not to hear from her for over eight full hours? That was strange. Strange and quite
troubling. So, Steadman texted his main squeeze and true love of his life.
“Where the heck are you? Are you alright? Haven’t heard a word from you all day. You
better be soaking your prettiness in the hottub. I plan on returning back to Mayflower II
in the next few days. Call me. I miss you babe…”

Holly and Steadman

When Lovers Quarrel
As night fell, Holly tired and yawned. She began to question her own judgement. Had
she made the right decision? Was she fleeing Steadman out of anger? Her life in Key
West was not all that bad…
Holly’s thoughts chided and mocked her.
Steadman continued to text her at a pace that would make a 100 meter sprinter blush.
The texts came at the speed and velocity that a Gatling Gun spits out .45 calibre
rounds:
“Where on earth are you?

36
Two minutes later:
“Cookie says you left Mayflower II..”
Two minutes later:
“You better be heading yourself home…”
On and on this flurry of texts and threatening messages kept pinging Holly’s IPhone and
lighting up the display panel of her Land Rover.
Holly could not respond. She had to think. She had to prepare herself for the
confrontation with Steadman. Even though Holly played these scenes out hundreds,
maybe thousands of times in her head before today, now, to live with them in real-time
was so different.
Holly felt afraid. Afraid of what, she was not certain. Certainly seeing her mom and dad
for the first time in almost twenty years had something to do with her fear. But
Steadman...now that was a whole different kind of fear.
Holly knew from first-hand experience what happened to people--anyone really--that
dared to confront her man. She had personally witnessed Steadman:
● Strip a servant girl to her skin and beat the living breath out of her with a towline
for forgetting to place a fork in its proper position on the serving table
● Beat men, tall and strong men, to near death by pummeling them with his bare
fists whilst his henchmen and bodyguards held them in place
● Throw adversaries, and anyone whom he thought meant to bring him harm, off of
the deck of Mayflower II in the middle of oceans, just to prove his point to
anyone else that might think him a marshmallow
Holly lost count of how many dress-downs and verbal assaults that she overheard
Steadman rage into his cell phone when someone dropped a ball that either cost him
money, or in some manner embarrassed or disappointed him.
So Holly waited till she was ready to call Steadman and talk with him. Long ago she
wrote the script in her head that today she would speak with her mouth.
Holly stopped for the night just a bit south of Macon, Georgia. She was tired and worn to
a frazzle. The tension she experienced was like a bungee cord that carries too much
weight and starts to give way, fray, and snap.
Holly found a cheap hotel just off the freeway. All she wanted to do was take a hot bath,
order a bottle of wine and a pizza, and soak for a bit. Holly pulled into the parking lot
and turned off her engine.

37
She walked into the registration office and could not help but notice the televisions. Two
sixty inch flat screens showed endless loop videos of cities and townships burning up
American families.
Holly asked the attendant for a room.
She dug in her purse and pulled out a VISA card. The one she chose, out of habit and
hope, belonged to one of Steadman’s companies. She handed the Gold Visa card to the
attendant and wondered….
The card instantly showed approval. Holly smiled and decided that calling Steadman
would be ok after all.
Once Holly bathed and consumed half of her pizza and 2/3rds of her bottle of Bordeaux
she called Steadman.
“Hey babe, it’s me...you ok?”
All Holly heard were the sighs and sounds of Steadman’s breathing. The tension of the
moment raised to the instant right before a toaster oven combusts and self-immolates
from overheating.
Steadman calmed himself and said…
“Where are you?”
Holly sat up in her hotel-room bed and let her man know…
“Mom called. Grampa and Mawmaw…”
Then she started weeping.

Over the course of the next hour and a half, the two lovers talked out and through what
Holly’s next few weeks would look like. Holly and Steadman decided that she would:
● Travel to St. Louis and meet with her parents
● Maybe head down to New Madrid and look after her family. Hoping there would
be something left of it
● Help her mother and dad with any family matters that might be too weighty and
difficult for them to take on their own
● Stay in constant contact with Steadman
● Head back to Key West within a few weeks max
The two lovers ended their evening’s call when Steadman said, rather sternly and with
anything but a hidden meaning….
“You better be home by Christmas…”

38
 Traffic Snarls:
The Mass Southern Migration of Cars, Buses, Vans and Motorcycles
Holly woke to a splitting headache. She knew better than to drink that cheap-ass wine
from the hotel mini-fridge. But, berating herself would not do any good. Holly found her
purse and opened up the tiny, diamond encrusted pill box that Steadman gave her long
ago as a trinket--kind of a throw-away item. She dumped six aspirin in the palm of her
hand and swallowed them whole.
She checked the calendar on her IPhone. Yep. Today was the day her period would
start. Yuck. Holly did not like sitting in cars, let alone driving a car during the first couple
days of her menstrual cycle.
She started crying again. Where was this coming from? Holly Stone-Wildfire never
cried. Now, all she seemed to do was blubber and fuss. Holly wished that she and
Steadman had a baby by now...
Holly hopped in the shower and let the warm water flow over her very achy and
love-parched-soul. Holly wondered what she was going to encounter.
Were her mom and dad going to welcome her with open arms? She remembered the
story of “The Prodigal Son” from her Sunday School days. Holly laughed out loud and
said to no one really,
“Mom is certainly not going to kill any fatted calves for me. I’ll be lucky if I get to sleep
in the garage…”
Holly quickly dressed and stuffed all of her belongings back into the Land Rover. She
decided the best breakfast option would be to find a Starbucks and grab a coffee and
muffin.
Sirens.
The sounds of sirens seemed to be everywhere. Cops, fireengines, ambulances and
those weird looking unmarked, ‘hello’! cop cars zigged and zagged into every traffic
lane. All of them headed north and seemed to be trailing, or tracking Holly.
The further Holly traveled north, the more sparse traffic became. The southbound traffic
is what caught Holly’s attention. For it seemed like the entire midwestern section of the

39
United States decided to pack their kids and dogs and parakeets and head for
grandma's house in Texas, Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida.
The southbound lanes on I-75 were jammed. Multiplied hundreds of thousands of
people were evacuating their former living spaces and territories. These were the exact
territories that Holly was trying to enter. The Saturday drive took a great deal longer
than Holly anticipated.
Holly set sail for Nashville. Her goal was to get there by nightfall, and then to be in her
mom’s cuddling arms by late Sunday evening.
The further north Holly drove, the fewer cars she encountered in the northbound lanes.
The freeway heading north looked more like an empty roller skating rink than a national
interstate on a busy holiday weekend. The southbound lanes were a completely
different story.
Tens of thousands of people packed their kids and pets and precious belongings into
their cars, SUV’s, trucks, RVs, and motorhomes and headed south. Holly saw their
faces through her windshield. Each face she encountered carried the freeze-tag of pure
terror.
Holly raced forward and thought she was making excellent time. The mid-afternoon sun
crested just over the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Holly began the steep ascent
into the hilly and mountainous region known as “Hillbilly Country.”
Just as Holly reached the peak of a pretty substantial mountain...the road broke open. I
mean, craters the sizes of canoes and ocean-going-trawlers stopped her progress.
Holly began to meticulously inch her way up one side of a mountain and down the next.
The going was not just slow...the passage became arduous and treacherous.
Yawning valleys waited like catcher’s mitts for her and the Land Rover. One quick or
hurried move, one impatient surge of adrenaline, would send her gliding and then
careening into a certain 500 foot plunging death.
Somehow, Holly made it to Chattanooga, Tennessee.
There was simply no way she could go any further. The sun set long ago. The city lights
did not all work properly. Holly noticed that thousands of homes and buildings sparkled
with a luminosity that resembled “Fireflies.”
Holly always liked fireflies. As a kid on mawmaw and grampa’s ranch, she and her mom
would hunt down Fireflies, capture them in mason jars, and keep them as intermittent,
glowing, nocturnal pets.

40
Holly found another cheap motel. This one had lights that seemed to function. Holly
secured a room for the night. When locked inside of her room, alone in the middle of the
trail’s-end of the Appalachian mountains, Holly cried.
She tried to decide the best course of action:
● Should she abandon this stupid idea of reuniting with her parents and head back
in the morning to Key West? (The thought of getting caught in that long, snake of
cars, trucks, RVs, and buses heading due south did not appeal to her in the
least.)
● Should she call Steadman and get his advice? (She knew what he would say.
And he might even demand right now she leave and head back to their floating
home.)
● Should she call her mom and ask, ‘what happened’? Why are there so many
people fleeing Missouri, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Arkansas?
Holly decided to call her mother. She picked up her cell phone. She slid open the
contacts page. She found: “MOM.” She pushed her number…

Dawn’s Central Command Center:

The Big Map and Two Small Pictographs
Dateline: St. Louis, MO. 10:00 PM CST = 22:00 Military Time:
Dawn continued to work late into each and every night. Sleep, never a friend for Dawn,
only seemed more hostile as the years went along. Dawn kept the shortwave radio
blaring so loud that Steve came out of the house to check on his wife and beloved
life-partner.
“You think you got that loud enough?” Steve asked.
Dawn hardly acknowledged her husband’s presence. She picked up the hand-held
remote and brought the volume down a few ticks. The familiar scratch and screech
sounds of shortwave, followed by peoples’ voices, continued in the background like a

41
creaking colony of frogs seeking to attract lovers by the side of a pond in the middle of a
warm summer’s night.
Steve walked over and hugged his wife from behind. This was their standard way of
greeting and showing affection. Dawn loved the sense of being what she called,
‘corralled’, and Steve liked the warmth of being embraced now and then.
Steve looked into the eyes of a Peregrine Falcon that Dawn had been working on and
almost felt OK about the preliminary sketch. Steve stared at the eyes. Piercing and
unblinking. He remembered reading once that a Peregrine Falcon could look at the sun
and not flinch, or ever blink.
Steve began massaging the back and neck muscles of his life-weary wife...
“Why don’t you come to bed? You've been here since I left this morning for work.
Have you even stopped to pee?”
Dawn put the Q-tip sized, touch-up brush down and turning to look at her husband and
the love of her life said,
“Holly is out there somewhere Steve. She’s coming home. I’m telling you right now...I
am not letting her leave again. OK.”
This was not a question. This was a declaration of maternal and momma-bear purpose.
Steve released Dawn from his embrace and walked over to the two-car-garage door.
Normally, this space was empty. The reasons were obvious. Wind blowing in like crazy
if the door would be opened. And the door sections folding in as they rose and closed
would tear, sheer and demolish any of Dawn’s works that might be displayed there.
But….
Steve noticed a map—a full-sized, hand-stenciled and carefully painted map of the
entire United States of America. This Big Map now occupied almost the entire canvas
space of the two-car-aluminum-garage-door.
On either side of the larger geographical depiction of the United States were two smaller
pictographs.

Blast Zones and Safe Zones:

Somehow in the last two days, Dawn Wellex-Stone had managed to create an entire
operational map of the United States of America— After and post “The Second Big
Bang.”

42
Steve stood and marvelled at his wife’s intelligence gathering capabilities that were now
exhibited and on full display through her unique and majestic artistic talents.
The ‘Big Map’ was 4’ high and 6’ wide.
The ‘Big Map’ showed cities and rivers and freeways.
The ‘Big Map’ was a very close to accurate, hand-sketched, and hand--painted rendition
of the continental United States of America.
The ‘Big Map’ highlighted “BLAST ZONES” in Red and Orange and Bright Yellows.
The ‘Big Map’ cautiously indicated “SAFE ZONES” in light blues and tender tangerine
colors.
To date: St. Louis, Missouri remained: A “SAFE ZONE.”
The “Blast Zones” identified these cities:
● New York City
● Washington, D.C.
● Chicago
● San Francisco
● San Diego
The “Blast Zone” also held a special target and Red Bull’s Eye painted on the exact
location of her mother and father’s farm. The farm was located just a bit north and east
of New Madrid, Missouri.
The Farm held the unthinkable label—“Ground Zero.”
Steve stood dumbfounded and simply soaked in the gravity and the enormousness of
this moment.
Two Small Pictographs:
The ‘Big Map’ captured Steve’s attention. But, on either side of the ‘Big Map’, to the left
and right were smaller pictographs. These two pictographs froze and held his gaze....

The Left Pictograph:

The butcher block paper graph tacked to the inside of the garage door with masking
tape on the left side of the ‘Big Map’ showed fatalities by city.
Dawn painstakingly updated the graph as the hours gathered momentum. And as
information and clarity of the deep nature of the catastrophe began to arrive. The

43
numbing and unthinkable numbers that now had to be thought through and fully
accounted for etched in differing colored markers ever inched skyward.
The Left Pictograph was a time meridian of sorts. On the left Axis were numbers that
started at the ZERO horizontal axis point and moved skyward. The gradient and
coordinates were tracked in tens, then hundreds, then thousands.
The right horizontal Axis were the cities and ‘Ground Zero’:
● Chicago
● San Francisco
● Los Angeles
● New York City
● Washington, D. C.
● ‘Ground Zero’
“Ground Zero” of course was New Madrid, Missouri. “Ground Zero” was the exact
geographical location of her mother and father’s farm. “Ground Zero” is where Dawn
Wellex grew up and learned to rope and ride and shoot.
The Right Pictograph:
The butcher block paper graph tacked up to the aluminum garage door on the right side
of, ‘The Big Map’ was a real-time (as real-time as could be confirmed) locator of the
current whereabouts and movements of one: Steadman Medford the Seventh.
A slotted and jagged zigzag trail showed that right now, as best as could be verified he
was safely moored at his global operations center on Isla Ocho.
Steve was speechless.
All at once Dawn’s cell phone buzzed and rang. The name of the caller appeared.
Holly Stone. Identified only as, Perfect Daughter.

The Nautilus Krew:

Silent and Invisible Friends and Protectors
The voice that greeted Holly was firm, intense, and not all that welcoming.
Dawn asked her daughter, “Where are you?”
Holly froze a bit. She expected a ‘mom’ kind of greeting. Instead, the reception was
cold, stern, and a bit authoritarian. Normally such a response would send Holly
Stone-Wildfire into full on berserk and attack mode. But, this was her mom.

44
Holly paused and remembered the pain that percolated inside of her mother. Pain that
100% had her initials carved into it.
Holly spoke softly,
“Mom, it’s been horrible. It took me almost twelve hours to drive from Macon, Georgia,
to Chattanooga. The roads mom...they are...shredded and torn to bits. It’s like someone
blew up big holes in one part of the freeway and left the other sections all alone ...”
Holly’s voice trailed off a bit. Holly described what driving to Chattanooga taught her.
“Mom, the people, I mean thousands and maybe millions of them, are emptying out of
Arkansas and Missouri and Kentucky and West Virginia and Tennessee and heading
south...are you ok? What about mawmaw and grampa? Are they ok? What about Aunt
Susan and Aunt Jane Marie and my cousins? What in the hell happened mom?
“I listened to the damned radio till I couldn't stand it anymore. Somebody blew up
what, five or six cities? And...mom...is this right? The radio said that New Madrid,
Missouri was ‘Ground Zero’...is this true? Mom...please tell me this is all bullshit…”
Dawn held the phone away from her ear and put Holly on speaker so that Steve could
listen in and participate in the conversation. Dawn simply could not speak.
The years of agony and compressed anger...all at once, the dam burst. Dawn started to
cry and she started to moan. Holly panicked,
“Mom...Mom! Are you ok? Mom, what happened? Please talk to me…”
Her father answered, “Holly, it’s dad. Your mom is a bit beside herself. Lots happening.
I mean a lot has happened in the last, what is it, almost twenty years since you left….”
Steve let that simmer and sit a bit. He continued…
“Your mom is a bit overwhelmed, Holly. We need your help.”
A long pause filled up the conversation. Holly broke the silence by saying…
“Dad, whatever you and mom need. I’m here for you now. What do you need from
me? What do you need me to do for you?”
Steve Stone, husband to Dawn-Wellex-Stone and father to his only child, Holly Stone,
told his daughter…
“You are probably not going to make it any further north and west on your own. The
reports are bad, Holly. I mean really bad. The roads are impassable and there are
thousands and maybe millions that are displaced and/or injured and/or dead.
We are going to send helpers to you. We have friends everywhere. Tomorrow, or
maybe a day or two later, it’s impossible to know what kind of speed they can travel at,

45
some of our friends will come and rescue you. You are not to leave the place where you
are at right now. Please promise me you will not leave there alone and without their help
and support.”
Holly felt total fear. The kind of pure terror that only those in the most desperate of
places and conditions fully comprehend, or ever fully experience as a personal mentor.
Her world suddenly got very cloudy.
“Ok, Dad,” Holly confirmed that she would stay put.
Steve told his daughter,
“The people that are coming to rescue you are friends of ours. They go by the crazy
name, ‘Nautilus Krew’. You will easily recognize them, Holly. They are a motorcycle
gang. That’s their look and cover. They are ours, and always have been yours, even
though you did not know they were doing so, protectors.
“They will come and get you. We will let them know where to find you. You will abandon
your car and leave it where it is. It’s useless to you now. They will lead and guide you
first to mawmaw and grampa’s farm. Then, they will bring you home safely to us.”
Steve let his words sink in a bit. Then he concluded by saying,
“Holly, we love you. We miss you darling. We need you now. We are not as young as
you will remember us. Your mom needs some time maybe. Me, not so much. But,
please tell me that you will come to us now.”
Holly simply said, “I am coming home Dad.”

The Nautilus Krew:

Weirdos and Kinkies and Christ-Followers

The Nautilus Krew Patch:

Imagine a wheel. A Nautilus shaped like a wheel that races through deep and starry
space at light-speed. Imagine fiery entrails pouring out like contrails from its posterior.

46
Imagine men and women living life with the ultimate goal and endgame being to earn,
(Be clear, never are these given out like candy canes at an office Christmas party.) The
Nautilus Krew Patch.
The Nautilus Krew were a fierce, secretive, national—and some believed to be an
international—association of men and women who lived by one code: “Protect the
Christ Followers.”
The men and women who bore this “Fiery Nautilus Patch,” who earned the right to
associate and represent this brotherhood and sisterhood--all of them--were Christ
Followers.
First and foremost, above all else, when the barn doors closed, no matter the season,
the event, the circumstances, or, the threat level: The Nautilus Krew protected Christian
people from harm.
Harm now swarmed and engulfed and submerged large geographic swaths of the
former safe United States of America in general, and Christ-followers in specific.
The United States of America and its citizens now lived a ‘post’ apocalyptic life. For, a
bit under seventy-two hours ago, six, plutonium-enriched devices detonated in six,
carefully selected and viciously executed locations.
The Nautilus Krew were busy men and women. They were a streetgang. Their cover of
denim jackets, long and frayed beards, snarled and tangled unwashed hair, tattered
apparel, blue and tangerine scarves and bandanas adorned with crosses and nautilus
images and loud motorcycles kept them very visible.
Authorities like the FBI and DEA and ATF and other lettered forms of law enforcement
despised all members of The Nautilus Krew. They were oft-arrested, oft-hassled,
oft-stopped and frisked, oft-profiled, and oft-denied their basic human right to just exist
and chase their version of the Constitutional pledge to “Pursue Happiness.”
Few if none ever discovered that the true, hidden mooring of every member of The
Nautilus Krew was a deep and resonant faith in Jesus Christ.
Nonetheless, this group of ragtag, rugged, beat down, nomadic road warriors lived for
one purpose, and one purpose only: “Protect the men and women and their families that
made and kept American Christendom functioning.”
Marisha Howard, a big, burly, porcelain-skinned beauty looked down at her Google
Phone. The face that appeared was that of her good friend and personal pastor, Steve
Stone. The text just said,
“M. Call me. It’s urgent.”

47
Marisha, who went by the given “Nautilus Krew” name of: ‘Beat-M’ because of her
untouchable bongo and banjo skills pushed “CALL.” Pastor Steve immediately
answered…
“Beat-M, where are you? Where is your Krew? How close are you to Chattanooga?”
Marisha responded:
“You sent us to check out what happened down there in New Madrid, Missouri. We
couldn’t get close. So, we detoured a bit and we trekked down I-55 heading towards
Nashville….
We issued an emergency call after you and “Prairie Dawn” told us to do so. We have
a muster forming up of any and all that can get there just a bit east of Nashville. We
should get to Nashville by day’s end. Why? What’s up?”
Steve let Beat-M know;
“Holly is heading home. She is stuck in a tiny motel somewhere near or in
Chattanooga, Tennessee. Can you get some of your compadres to head over to rescue
her and bring her to us?”
Marisha did not answer for a bit....
“I’m not sure I can get that far Pastor Steve. The roads are pretty torn up. And she is
on the very edge of the disaster. We are just now coming into the outer-edges and first
rim of the destruction zone. I have to tell you, it’s brutal out here….”
Marisha began thinking out loud,
“Let me send out some distress and MAYDAY! messages to our local chapters in that
part of the mountains. I will ask them to head pronto over to scoop up Ms. Holly for you.
I will ask them to bring her an ATV. No way she gets through with a car or a van…”
Steve thanked Beat-M for her help and asked her to keep him posted.
The last word was spoken by Marisha to her beloved Pastor,
“Pastor Steve, I’m glad she’s coming home to ya’ll. Ms. Prairie Dawn must be going
crazy right now. Been a long time for you two...too long. But that’s none of my business.
I promise you will see your girl again...and real soon.”
With that the two phones went dead. Steve Stone went to wrestle his wife from her
paints and head to bed. Marisha started pinging dozens of her brothers and sisters of
every type of unknowable spiritual warfare.

48
 Isla Ocho:
Full Spectrum Evil on Full Display
Steadman walked into his command center. The space, all 30,000 square feet of it and
its brothers and sisters that were similar outbuildings all looked like warehouses or any
garden variety big-box store from the outside. If you stumbled upon these images while
browsing through a Google Earth session, you would see this as nothing striking. For
the buildings all melted through careful and artful camouflage into the backdrop of the
sandy atol on which they all sat.
You would see cars and electric golf carts sporadically filling up parking spaces in the
asphalt moat that surrounded the buildings. You would not see anything distinct. You
would not see fountains, statuary, or even any delivery trucks, let alone rail spurs.
What you might notice, if you really wanted to spend a few minutes and drill down from
the heavens, were two distinctive markers—a single flagpole and hundreds of greyed
out antenna arrays and satellite dishes.
The flagpole only flew one signature of overseeing Admiralty: The Guild’s.
The Guild’s Flag fluttered vibrantly in the warm Caribbean breezes. The Guild’s Flag
featured a stark, ocean blue background. In the center of the ocean blue flag arose the
symbol and strength of, The Guild—The New Zealand Osprey.
Steadman entered his domain and immediately heads turned. Voices hushed. Busyness
exploded. Hands and fingers began hammering on keyboards. Greeting Steadman was
his Commandant, Senior Advisor Dr. Audrey Ryft.
The fact that Audrey was his ‘work wife’ did not go unnoticed by anyone. Audrey ran
Steadman’s empire and slept in his bed and kept his home away from home cozy and
warm.
In Steadman’s absence, Dr. Audrey Ryft ran (and kept at a full and unrelenting pace),
his Guild.
Dr. Audrey Ryft was a Rhodes Scholar. She graduated Magna Cum Laude from
Stanford with a B.A. in organizational management. Audrey also completed her Masters
and Doctoral degrees from Stanford. She was a Cardinal through and through.
The Ryft Family owned most of the extensive pipelines and expansive transportation
portals that crisscrossed the continental United States. The fact that her family fortune
now hung very unsteadily in the balance did not go unnoticed by her, or from any of the
others that were present and inside the Guild’s circle of trust who happened to be inside
this moment.

49
Audrey escorted Steadman to his observation deck. His suite sat at the top of the
three-tiered viewing theater and provided him a panoramic view of every screen and
updated newsbreak as they occurred, could be verified in real time, or, arrived.
Steadman stared down his vision. Steadman alone imagined and built this place. There,
from his very safe Admiral’s perch and technical conning tower Steadman saw:
● Screens: multiple, as in dozens of high-definition display monitors. Each the size
of small sized theater screens
● Dozens of men and women configuring and calculating mortality and injury
reports
● Dozens of other men and women, all the smartest in their respective classes
configuring and calculating loss and damage and property destruction memos
● Dozens of other men and women studying smaller computer monitors and
running the calculus on locations of emergency crews and numbers of
governmental assets that were either deployed, or, unable to deploy
Steadman steadied himself and studied the first blush reports. His eyes focused on New
Madrid, MO. That was ‘Ground Zero’ for his assault. That is where Holly’s family hailed
from. That is where her history began. That is what he aimed to incinerate and utterly
erase from all historical memories...especially Holly’s.
Audrey knew her man. (The fact that he also slept with Holly Wildfire bothered her. But
Audrey believed that one day her superior skills and intellect and womanly charms
would win this battle). Audrey did not speak. She knew better.
Steadman took in the entirety of the last many years’ of his efforts. For many years, he
plotted, planned, financed, cajoled, got into bed with suspicious and atrocious people,
and longed for the culmination of these days. Now, his vision has come to pass…
Steadman asked Audrey for her initial assessment and damage updates:
Audrey only called Steadman, ‘Babe’. She replied,
“Babe, I think the numbers are pretty scandalous…”
(This was by far Steadman’s favorite word in the English language. For Steadman to
say something was, ‘scandalous’ meant it was over the moon and exceeded his very
lofty expectations).
Audrey continued…
“I mean, when you look at the numbers so far, it looks like we are soon to push right
through the 30,000 dead number and casualties and near-deaths seem to be ranging at
this early moment towards the 200,000 + threshold.”

50
Audrey let that accounting set in for a bit. Then she added,
“I know we were hoping for a larger kill ratio. I know the numbers, at this first blush
seem a bit tiny and shitty compared to our planning and our modeling mock-ups. But,
we’re only into this, what, thirty-six hours or so right now…
...also, we have no numbers yet on how the New Madrid device did. Our kill ratios and
property destruction projections there were fairly extensive and we will fill in those gaps
in the next few days.”
Audrey hushed. She knew her place now was to quietly sit down and let the master of
this domain process the data.
Steadman sat very still for the better part of twenty minutes or so. The room in front of
him buzzed. The high-tech, global command center alit with lethality confirmation that
quite literally had most recently upended an entire nation-state.
Steadman watched his army and his corps of engineers and eggheads race and huddle
about. He witnessed carnage being calculated from the safe distance of his observation
deck.
Steadman thought about how long this dream to control not just tiny bits of companies
and small swaths of commerce brewed inside of his soul.
“Since a child…”
Steadman reminded himself that since a small boy he dreamed of the day when his
family would call the shots. When his family would determine national and global
outcomes. And he remembered that his mother told him, as a sort of boyhood
prophecy…
“One day my son. You will take us out of being field hands and put The Medford’s into
the places of power and dominance that they belong. This is your destiny my son.”
Steadman smiled.
Then his cell phone pinged. Holly’s image magically appeared and the text asked,
“Babe, you ok?”
Steadman did not answer or reply. It was early into the next stages of his battleplans.
He knew Holly. She would be just fine. The girl had an excellent head on her shoulders.
No. Steadman’s mind raced towards: “Next.”
Steadman picked up his inter-office “RED PHONE!”
He ordered his generals and lieutenants to sprint to ‘The Guild’s’: “Situation Room:”
STAT!

51
 Swiftness:
Empty Shelves, Panicked People, Rumbling Stomachs
Holly sat alone and had no real way to measure time. Previously, her known life
consisted of yoga sessions and afternoon visits by her hand selected masseuses and
personal body-sculpts. Holly lavished in the twice weekly sessions with her private
psychic.
She wondered why all that money and time spent had not foreseen this...
Holly ended every day with a bottle of the most expensive and life-numbing Bordeaux
and an hour or so spent soaking, oozing and bubbling in her beloved hot-tub.
Now, as Holly looked at her skin, she noticed wrinkles! Her fingernails and toenails were
gross and disgusting. She needed a pedicure and manicure. She felt grimy and
actually...ugly.
Ugly, as in physical unattractiveness, never even ventured into Holly Stone-Wildfire’s
awareness. Holly was that rare and fluid form of beauty that transcended time and beat
mortality and its cousins of ‘aging’ and ‘sagging’ to a constant pulp.
Holly knew what it meant to feel yucky. But to feel ‘unattractive’ that simply caught her
by surprise.
The first day alone in Chattanooga, Tennessee gave Holly a chance to tour the city a bit.
Her car still had gas. The roads still seemed somewhat passable. The people she met
still seemed ready but absently reluctant to chat and engage.
Holly found herself not the center of anyone’s attention. That also surprised her. No one
asked her where she was from. No one inquired into her well being. People were
pleasant enough on the surface. But underneath the fractured half-smiles and
well-wishes was an invisible dread and physical fear.
People, all of them, felt like their tiny hamlet probably would be…’next’.
The conversations were about pipelines nearby. Heads swiveled on bobbing neck
poles, looking for any form or hint of trouble.
Moms and dads put fuel in their vehicles where and when they could find any. The
townspeople hoarded up every candle and propane tank their hands could carry. Men
and women, young and old, stockpiled as many cases of bottled water and foodstuffs
that could be quickly and easily secured, and then loaded into the backends of their
SUV’s.

52
Grocery stores and convenience stores and Wal-Marts began displaying empty and
barren shelves. Empty shelves and no employees. No cash registers rung. No
payments were made. No doors were locked. People ambushed or rushed into stores
and took what they could carry and lug out and swiftly headed back for ‘home’.
No supply trucks showed up anymore. Those four and eighteen-wheeled marvels that
kept bread and milk and over-the-counter medical supplies ‘ready’ and ‘accessible’?
These no longer came.
Deliveries of toothpaste, bandages, canned goods and fresh dairy and meat products
just stopped. Commerce, all forms of commerce, screeched to a standstill and
first-world convenience halted.
People were left to fend for themselves. Those fortunate enough to have fresh produce,
or home gardens and perhaps a chicken or two were lucky, or maybe even the
thoughtful ones.
Moms and dads, hospitals and city centers, water tanks and petrol supplies, natural gas
and electric power lines all went empty. This did not happen gradually. This did not take
weeks or months to come full circle.
This happened within three short days of The Second Big Bang.
Hunger. Wont. Sightless Nights. Cold dwelling places. Contaminated drinking water.
Sludge filled septic tanks that now lacked freshwater inflows began to stink. The stank
and the stench of days’ old sewage, that had nowhere to run, soured the freshness of
the morning dew.
Holly woke on the third day of her solitude and began to wonder if help and rescue
indeed were heading her way. Her cell phone no longer worked. The little hotel she
holed up in on the north and western perimeter of Chattanooga no longer had either
running water or functional and reliable electricity.

Holly found herself cold, lonely, and hungry. No stores operated any longer. The
Starbucks she frequented since her arrival just sat open. People no longer cared to go
there. The shelves long ago were picked clean. No employees were present because,
what was the point?
The Manager of the hotel knocked on Holly’s door. Holly opened the door a crack and
asked him,
“May I help you?”
The man, a young Asian American grad student asked Holly:

53
 “Are you OK? Do you need anything? You can stay as long as you want. But, if I were
you I’d get outta here.”
Holly thanked the young man for his concern and let him know that help was on its way.
“I’ll be leaving pretty soon…”
With that, Holly closed and locked the door. Holly wondered what in the world she was
going to do.
Holly had some of the provisions left from Cookie’s picnic basket. She still had some
saltines and soup. She had some bottled water and a can or two of cashews left. Holly
dug around in the cooler and found a Gatorade. She sat and waited.
The fourth morning since arriving in Chattanooga awoke cold, I mean freezing cold.
Holly no longer had heat. The commode stank from her using it to eliminate her own
waste and long ago stopped flushing.
Holly began to panic. She needed an exit strategy. Holly remembered the pledge and
vow that she gave to her Dad. She promised not to leave until the posse of his making
arrived. Just then, Holly heard the sound of motorcycles rushing into the parking lot of
her little cheap-assed-hotel.

Bambi Wymen:
“You are Coming with Us. You Cannot say ‘No!’”
A palpable fear grabbed Holly by the throat. Her breathing quickened. As the sound and
dull rumble of multiple motorcycle engines revved and then one by one went silent
outside of her own, tiny little hotel door, Holly froze to the marrow.

Not once in her entire life until this moment did Holly Stone-Wildfire ever think or
imagine that rape or its relative of sexual predation could or would penetrate her strong,
outer defenses. Holly Stone-Wildfire did not fear men. Now, Holly Stone-Wildfire feared
a motorcycle gang.
Holly peeked out of the twisted blinds of her cheap-assed hotel room. She saw six, no
seven, no eight, no nine ATV (All Terrain Vehicle) four-wheeler’s. Holly remembered that
her dad was sending a ‘motorcycle gang’. Holly thought they would arrive on full-bellied
and deep throated Harley’s. Instead, “The Nautilus Krew,” or, at least this version of it
arrived on four-wheeled ATV's with luggage racks.

54
Holly counted eight men and one woman. As the bikes went silent, sentinels and
perimeter guards took their appointed places. All of the members of, “The Nautilus
Krew” looked to be grim, sullen, large boned, tough and rugged and mean-to-the-bone.
The lone woman came up to Holly’s door and knocked. Holly opened the door a thin,
wafer-sized crack and the two women saw each other for the first time.
On the inside of the door, the holed-up and crazed side, stood a trembling beauty that
the universe long ago decided to pamper and coddle and caress in the finest of linens
and designer colognes.
On the other side, the outside of the door, the free side, stood a woman dressed in
denim and leather. A woman that the universe long ago decided to discard and leave for
the jackals and gutters to educate and care for.
The woman on the free side of the door spoke first:
“Are you Holly Stone? Is your father Pastor Steve Stone? Is your momma Dawn
Stone?”
Holly timidly shook her head, ‘yes’ but could not find words quite yet.
The woman, weighing in at a cool 250 lbs easy and standing just over 6’ 0” tall let Holly
know;
“Your dad sent us to you. I’m Barb Wymen. My friends call me ‘Bambi’. Your dad sent
me to find you. I’m here to help. My job is to make sure you're ok. Then, to take you to
New Madrid, MO. From there, I aim to bring you to your mom and dad in St. Louis. I
want you to know, you can’t say ‘no’. I will not ever let your dad down. Not ever. So...can
I come in?”
Holly gently unlatched the loose chain holding device. Holly slowly opened up the door
to her tiny hotel room. Holly allowed “The Nautilus Krew” to enter into her world. And in
so doing rescued her from a life that she had dreamed of fleeing for almost a full
decade.

Holly dreamed of escape routes. She planned out and intricately engineered tunnels
and fly-aways. But, as much as Holly wanted to leave Steadman and his mansions of
miseries, she could never find the courage or slight openings to fuel and fulfill her
fantasies.
Now, through some weirdness that still made no sense to her, in the last week:
● Holly flew the coop of Steadman’s spell
● Travelled to see her mom and dad

55
 ● Found herself entrapped in a mountain community grappled in some sort of
national calamity
● Could not go forward or reverse on her own doing
● Stood face-to-face with a motorcycle gang that claimed to be the face of Jesus
What was an ebullient, pretty, privileged ingenue to do?
Holly and Bambi embraced. Not the kind of embrace of old friends or longtime
colleagues. But rather, the embrace of two awkward strangers who now are forced to
like, live with and spend time together.
Holly started picking up clothes that were strewn everywhere around the tiny hotel
rooms. Bambi noticed her discomfort and worked to calm her fears…
“So you know, I’m here to protect you. You may not see it that way quite yet.”
Bambi let those words sink in a bit. Holly was shocked at the level of articulated
elegance in which this overweight Shrek of a woman spoke. Bambi let Holly know…
“Your mom...I don’t know her all that well. Your dad...well now...he’s an angel. I love
your dad. He rescued and saved me. I was a drug addict and a prostitute. Don’t look so
surprised. I didn't always look like this. Once, I too was fair-of-skin and striking in
physical beauties. But drugs, mainly cocaine, were my sweetness. Lived for that shit.
Loved that shit. Gave my entire soul to that shit.”
Holly kept picking up clothes items and stuffing them into her backpack. Holly wondered
how she was going to get her treasure box of gems and personal artifacts into her
backpack without Bambi noticing.
Bambi kept going…
“Your dad came to the shelter where I was housed. I was strung out and dazed from
too many days of cocaine and too many nights with men and not near enough sleep or
nutrition. Your dad held me in his arms, Holly.

“Your dad held me, this worthless piece of shit in his arms. He caressed me. He
whispered to me that he would not let me go...and he would not let me die…
“Your dad stayed with me, Holly. Your father stayed with a messed up, drugged out,
worn-out mid-forties woman that no one knew existed for three straight days.
“Your dad escorted me to a rehab. Your dad somehow paid for my recovery.
“Your dad called “The Nautilus Krew” for me. They came and got me. My job is to
escort you to him, Holly. I will not let him down. And you cannot say ‘no’.

56
 “Gather up your stuff. I will wait outside. Leave everything that is summery or
expensive. You need warm clothes. You need sturdy gear. You need to travel far.”
With that, Bambi exited the hotel room. Holly gathered up her few items that were
wintery. She packed and stowed away her gem box. She slowly left the hotel room. She
walked into the light of freedom. She turned her back on her past mansions of miseries.

Head West:
Broken Bridges and Compromised Roadways
Holly’s life now included lots of contrasts. Lots of contrasts and lots of contradictions.
Holly and “The Nautilus Krew’ bivouced on the eastern edge of the Mississippi River.
The last three days had been treacherous, dangerous and a bit enthralling.
As the shadowing darkness set in on a cold, mid-December night, Holly and her Krew,
(for that is how Holly now viewed these six men and one woman as : ‘Her Tribe!’) made
camp.
On day one, the Krew packed up. There were nine four-wheeled ATV’s. There were six
men and Bambi that assumed command of her life.
(When Holly had left her hotel room, she noticed that two of the eight men packed up
and stacked up, one behind the other, on one of the ATV’s and sped away. That left
eight ATV’s, six were for the men and two were for the women.)
Holly knew a good deal about ATV’s and four-wheel’n. She spent a decent amount of
adolescent development time and just fun time at grampa Rex’s farm. Holly knew her
way around a clutch and a handbrake.
Bambi gave Holly a crash refresher course on the differences between a throttle and a
brake pedal. Holly listened intently as Bambi let her know…
“The scouts already left. We may not see them again. Their job is to alert our Tribe
and other Krew members that we are coming. We will probably do well to get to New
Madrid by Sunday or even Monday.
“Roads are impassable. Lots of bandits and thieves. But we are local ‘Nautilus Krew’.
Our people will make sure our passage is safe.
“There will be provisions ready for us at each checkpoint. At night, there will be plenty
of others that show up to patrol our flanks. Don’t be worried or alarmed when you see
shadowy figures in the distance, or hear muffled voices in the nighttime shadows.

57
 “Your job is to keep up. Your dad told me you could rope and ride in your day. He did
not know if you had kept up your skill training or not.
“Your real job is to stick close to me. If you get nervous or scared. If something or
someone spooks you, let me know. Nothing can go wrong here. You are the prize.
“Do you understand me?”
Holly’s mind drifted far off to Key West. Holly thought if today she would have awakened
on, “Mayflower II.”
She thought of her morning coffee and croissants taken in the hot tub. She thought of
Cookie making her a rich and full-bodied smoothie of her choosing. She thought of the
servant girls that jumped at her every voice command and towed any line that she said
was necessary.
She thought of showering in her marble-faced spa bathroom. She thought of the guilded
and primo adornments of her own personal loo. She thought of getting ready for her
yoga session. She thought of Danny...those memories shook and rattled her back into
the present moment.
“Yeah. I get it, Bambi. Weird, never met a Bambi before.”
The two girls smiled at one-another.
Bambi nodded to her Krew Team. The expedition to bring Holly Stone home began.
Two men led the way on their ATV’s. Holly and Bambi rode next in formation. The other
Krew members filled in the phalanx and took up the rear.
The going was slow. The terrain was a slog. Highways and houses and farms and fields
were torn asunder. Now and again, the traveling troupe would see other stragglers
scurrying to find shelter. But the mainstay of the journey was that few human beings
dared, at these early stages of the living conflagration that was now the American
landscape and living tragedy, to chance going outside of their houses or residences.
The journey, though arduous, painstaking and time-consuming, proved to be pleasant.
Holly and Bambi spent the better part of the days chatting and joking and digging at
one-another. A bond, a friendship, a sisterhood--something Holly had long, longed for
and only once experienced--began to form up between these very different and yet
eerily similar women.
A friendship and kinship and sisterhood, that made the passage fun and seem carefree,
carried the moments.
Holly felt like she was on one of those dude ranch experiences. The kind where a
woman of her means and plenties would take a vacation to some rural place of solitude.

58
In that rural place of solitude, she would leave the coddled and pampered life for a week
or two.
Here, she would rope and ride once more. Here, she would ride ATV’s and camp under
the stars for a night or two. Here, she would know that the rugged terrain and the trail’s
end would lead to a late afternoon massage and a bottle of expensive Bordeaux.
Holly found herself the butt of Bambi’s jokes. Bambi called her and gave her the Krew
name of, “Pretty One.” It stuck like molasses that freezes to a wall on a frostbitten night.
On night three, the expeditionary force camped just a bit north of Memphis, Tennessee.
The Krew were within a half-day’s ride of the eastern shores of the Mississippi River. As
the men were making camp and preparing the evening meal and securing the
perimeter, Holly and Bambi sat in camp chairs next to a roaring fire.
The night was cold but the stars were clear. The mood was festive though the reality of
the next few day’s vision held all in personal check. (For soon Holly and Bambi would
ford the mighty Mississippi River and make their way to, ‘Ground Zero’. No one looked
forward to that treck. No one spoke of the horrors that all knew waited for these two
women to discover and somehow manage and then make sense of in that now
loathsome spot.)
Holly and Bambi each held warm mugs of thick, black coffee. Both women were
wrapped in newly sewn quilts that other Krew ladies made, specially for each of them,
out of former—and now departed—past Krew members’ denims.
Bambi looked far into the distant past. She asked Holly Stone-Wildfire;
“Your mom and dad. I don’t know your mom that much. But your dad...I never had a
father. The one I had played with my titties every night of my life. Then one night, he
opened the door to my bedroom after momma went to bed. Just as he crawled into my
bed and began to lift up my nightshirt...I grabbed that son-of-a-bitch by the balls and
squeezed ‘em both till they bled.
“The bastard dared not cry out or squeal, because he denied my constant pleadings
to my mom to make him stop. He never came into my bedroom again after that. I left
them both the day I graduated from high school. Never missed either one of ‘em.
“Chose a life of drugs and prostitution and the wrong men from that day forward...but
you. Your dad. How in the hell did you leave him?”
With that, the fireflies started to flicker. The air temperature seemed to rise a few
degrees. The butterflies maturing in their cocoons seemed to lean in and listen. All
creatures bright and beautiful wanted to know Holly’s answer…
“How in the hell did you leave him?”

59
 Purity Purloined:
Holly’s Life Response to Injustice and Injury
The camp life was busy. Tents were erected for sleeping. Camp stoves fired by Sterno
cans of jellified fuels sizzled meats and sauteed vegetables. Men scurried about here
and there. Holly felt at home. Her life continued to be full of servants and meals
prepared and comforts provided...and safety guaranteed.
Holly could not help but notice the strange similarities between her current trek through
broken farmlands and carved out highways and her previous life with Steadman. Both
were constant adventures. Both were heavy laden with servants. Both were sort-of
carefree.
Holly had this sense come over her that the carefree life would soon snap. An
awareness, a knowing, began building inside of Holly. Her life soon would become the
life of a Krew member. Huh?
That thought surprised Holly. But, all at once Holly knew, that coming very soon, she
would assume the role of servant. And in so doing, forever lose and shake off the
narcissistic life of being served.
Holly looked at her hands. Calluses! Her hands now had calluses that were forming up.
Her hair was now un-coiffed and pulled back in a ponytail. Her fingernails and toenails
were dirty, and grime and grit were living under each one of them. Her teeth were sort-of
brushed.
Holly had not bathed since the day she fled Steadman’s palace of miseries.
Her clothes smelled of travel and time in the saddle of an ATV. She felt exhilarated,
exonerated, and completed.
Bambi stared at her. Not in an uncomfortable way. But in the way that friends do when a
response is forthcoming. Forthcoming and requires a good deal of forethought and
consideration prior to exiting a soul.
Holly took a deep draft of her cooling coffee. She sighed and said:

60
 “....Why did I leave my dad? Wow. I haven’t ever really put this into words. Because
no one really cared to know the answer. I guess the simple answer Bambi is, ‘I really
never meant to leave him and mom permanently’...it just sort of happened.”
Two Krew members brought fresh, hot platters of barbecued chicken, and fresh, hot off
the skillet vegetables to both Bambi and Holly. Another Krew member stoked the fire
and sparks flew and rose into the night sky.
Someone refilled their coffee cups with piping, black hot goodness.
Holly looked back into the portals of her own personal life and timelines. For a few
moments, a warmth and a closeness bound the two women together in a bond of
silence that only real, true friends experience, experience and fully comprehend.
Bambi waited. Holly searched. The two women ate their dinners and stared into the
stark darkness. When the two women were finished eating, their platters were gobbled
up by seeming invisible helping hands.
The two ladies both got up to pee and relieve themselves. As the night closed in around
their secure, tiny campsite...as the two women nestled and snuggled ever more deeply
into their personal, handmade with exquisite love, quilts...as the sentries stood tall in the
nightwatch...Holly began to remember…
“...Why did I leave my mom and dad? You have to really go back to 11th grade youth
camp…”
“Thad Embly. That was his name. His real name was ‘Thaddeus’. I loved that name
and he hated it of course. So everyone called him, ‘Thad’.”
Holly stretched her mind and elongated her memories to lasso and pull these strands of
yarn from her foggy, but certainly not forgotten past. Holly said;
“...Thad was nineteen. I was sixteen going on seventeen. We were a thing. Thad went
to bible school. Thad was my dad’s choice for me to marry. We had been a couple for a
couple of years by then.
“Thad was my dad’s chosen protege. I was heading into my Senior year of high
school and it was understood that I too would head off to bible college. The plan was
intact and all agreed. Meaning, mom, dad, Thad, me, Thad’s parents...and everyone
who knew us. We--Thad and me--were going to save the planet from something. Not
sure now what that was exactly.
“My dad was the ‘Purity’ guy. He wrote a series of books (I think you know this) on the
whole ‘purity’ thing. Dad was the keynote speaker at these stadium rally kind of things
where thousands of young people would betroth themselves to Jesus. Now, when I
think of it, it was weird...really weird.

61
 “My dad instituted this thing where fathers bought ‘purity rings’ for their daughters and
gave them to them. Then, there was this ceremony thing, a big public fanfare where the
young women would pledge their purity to Jesus until marriage.
“I remember the day my dad gave me the ‘purity ring’. It felt really odd and awkward. It
was like I was marrying him or something. I’m pretty certain I was not the only young
woman that felt this way.
“The young boys were also given these pledge card things. They too made this very
public betrothal to Jesus...that was kinky and so strange because as you know
evangelicals are so against homosexuality. So, it just did not smell or feel quite right.
“I actually felt sad and sorry for the boys. Watching them give this public promise to
stay pure to Jesus could not have been easy for any of them...
“The whole thing felt, ‘awkward’. The whole thing felt ‘staged’. The whole thing just
seemed out of sorts and some awful attempt to slow down the onset avalanche of
adulthood.”
Holly found herself squirming. Never had any of these words, thoughts, illuminations, or
recollections found the light of day. She pressed on…
“I always struggled with the whole Jesus and religion thing, Bambi. I had seasons
where I would really ‘try harder’. I was in one of those seasons right then. I so wanted to
please my mom and dad. I so wanted to be the ‘good girl’. I so wanted to be everything
Thad needed and deserved.
“One thing I was certain of...Thad was a way better person than me. He was the
golden religious boy. My dad loved him. Everyone loved him. He was tall and muscular.
He had golden wavy hair. He was smart as a whip and he loved Jesus.
“He made me want to try. So, I kept trying to be a believer. I, for the life of me could
not quite get my mind around what that meant. I guess it's still a mystery to me.
“So, we are at the youth camp between my Junior and Senior years of high school.
Thad is the speaker guy. I am there with my best friend, Chastity Harris.
“Chastity is a beautiful young girl. Her mom is full-blown Japanese and her dad is an
African American. They go to our church. She and I are like welded together. We do
everything together. We send notes to each other. We write our married names with
XOXOXO! to each other. We talk boys with each other. We do sleepovers together. We
discuss girl stuff with each other. I loved her.
“Chastity is this girl that loved Jesus. I mean, she was ‘all in’, no questions asked. She
is the epitome of the young, Christian girl.

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 “She never misses church. She reads her bible. She serves in the nursery. She is kind
and thoughtful. She takes the homeless blankets and dinner. She is perfect in every
way.
“We are mismatched twins in many ways. She is the perfect one...and me? I’m the
miscreant and the deviant. We kid each other about this diversity of our personalities
constantly.
“She has her purity ring too. Her parents adore her. My dad loves her.
“I mentioned that Thad is the speaker guy, didn't I?”
Bambi nods her head yes. Bambi does not move a muscle. Bambi just keeps staring
into the dark woods and watching the fire and calmly listening. Holly continues…
“Every night after the services Thad and I wander off into the darkness. There is this
holy clutch that kind of absorbs us into its web of passions. We are to be married
someday, right? So, we begin this adventure, a guided and unchaperoned tour into the
mysteries and delights of each other’s bodies.
“Penetration is off limits. But everything else is in play. I love every moment of this
exotic and erotic tumble and rumble into sexualities discovered. I love the secret
nautiness and the sense of blended connection with Thad. I feel zero, and I mean zero
embarrassment, or judgement, or guilt. I love and entrust every square inch of my body
to him.
“The camp goes on and on. Night after night we dive deeper into the pleasures of
what used to be forbidden zones. The bond between us is sacred. The words between
us are so soft and electric and charged with holiness. We feel....married. But we are
not.”
Holly’s words drift off. Bambi leans in. Holly speaks the next pieces in broken and
whispered sentences...
“On the last night of the camp, Thad tells me that he wants to cool our jets. He says
that we may be touching the hems of un-holy garments. He tells me that we need to
pause.
“I am more than crestfallen. I am crushed. I spent that last night of that youth camp in
my little cabin alone. I find myself crying. Chastity is my cabin-mate of course. She does
not come back after services. She misses curfew. This girl never farts out loud.
Something is up.
“I wait and find myself praying for her. (This is not something I ever did. So it surprises
me a bit). Just after midnight, Chastity comes back to the cabin.

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 “Clearly she is distressed. Her clothes are torn a bit. Her tears are real. Her words and
thoughts are addled. Her panties are stained with her own blood. And doused with
Thad’s fresh and still oozing semen.”
Bambi knows something of real value is about to be laid bare. She sits still as a muskrat
near the shoreline when an alligator is nearby. Holly lifts the veil on her religious
abdication and says:
“Chastity lets me know that Thad, my Thad, sought her out after the service. Thad told
her that God had a message for her. Thad asked her to meet him at our secret and
secluded place in the deep woods.
“Chastity, for God’s sake, Chastity went believing God had a message for her. What
God had was Thad’s big, throbbing dick. He raped her that night, Bambi. My man raped
and assaulted my best girlfriend ever. Till you showed up...I never found another.
“Then, the son-of-a-bitch got up the next morning and led the dawn devotions.”
Silence gripped the two women. Neither spoke for a long time. Just before the two
women got up and retired to their respective tents, Holly concluded her exit from her
mom and dad by saying…
“I took off that purity ring that night, Bambi. I flushed that purity ring and all it meant
down the commode in that cabin in the woods. I decided that Christianity had nothing
for me. I lost touch with Chastity. She stopped coming to church and we drifted apart.
“Thad, the bastard, actually had the balls to ask me to prom. I slapped the ever-loving
shit out of him. I never saw or spoke to him again after that.
“My dad. I could not face my dad. I could not tell him what happened. I became very
difficult from that day forward. I, too, fought going to church. My dad finally gave up on
me, I guess.
“My mom knew something had happened. But, mom doesn’t talk much. Our
relationship had always been a bit strained. (I wonder what it will be like now. I’m
actually afraid to see her again, Bambi)...
“The purity thing...it left me with this deep, moral insomnia. So, when Steadman came
along, it was easy to say ‘yes’! Everything he had and offered, every piece of it...I
wanted. Someday, I’ll tell you about Steadman.
“But, it’s late and tomorrow’s a new day.”
With that the fire died down a bit. Fireflies alight and sprinkled hope on the horizon. A
warm glow settled in upon the camp. Holly slept like a baby that swaddles in its
momma’s bosom.

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Bambi thought and dreamed of her own love’s misadventures.
Tomorrow would be the day that Holly Stone would ford the Mississippi River and find
out what in the world Steadman and his cronies and cohorts might have done to her
family.

“Holy, Holy, Holy:”

The Fallen Chosen
The day’s journey had been slow, tedious, borderline dangerous, and ominous.
Ominous because the closer the traveling troupe moved to the Mississippi River, the
quieter and more auspicious the journey became.
An eerie sense of ugliness...a growing sense of peril...an internal knowing, began to
suffocate each member of The Krew.
Night falls quickly on the midwestern sections of the continental United States in
mid-December. Light goes from ‘visible’ to unmanageable very quickly. If you are
heading to a destination, it’s best to be indoors when night falls.
Just as The Krew stopped short on the very eastern banks of the Mississippi River,
Holly noticed men, mostly men, but a few women started to arrive. A greeting, a
warmth, meaningful embraces met each weary traveler, except herself.
Holly sat alone on her ATV and witnessed true fellowship, kinship and companionship
erupt in front of her. She was enthralled. Enthralled and a bit suspicious.
Holly’s life had been filled to overflowing with opulence. Holly’s life had teemed with the
effervescence of sycophants. Holly only knew of, and about, bought and paid for
acquaintances. Holly’s life was that of a Holy Roman Empire Queen, adorned in her
finery, who sits and watches the scullery maids and societal courtesans, not to mention
coquettes, battle for position and prominence.
To see, to see and witness men and women lavish true, honorable and deep affections
on one-another. This simply astonished her.
Within a half-hour’s passing well over three-hundred men, men and a few women
appeared out of nowhere. A convocation, a gathering, a camp meeting commenced.
Holly got off of her ATV and stretched her limbs. She found her way to a spot in the
distance and relieved herself. And as she moved her muscles and got the feeling to
return to all of her extremities, she walked back to the encampment.

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A half-circle formed up. There in the center of the half-circle stood a man. His name was
Stu Mascle.
Stu’s Krew name was: “Made Man.” Legend is that Stu earned his reputation.
“Made Man” stood tall at 5’ 7”. He was rotund and topped out at 230 lbs. Stu stood
impeccable in his denims and light turquoise and light-tangerine headband. Proudly
embroidered with Nautilus and golden cross images in many different colors and sizes.
“Made Man” was the undisputed chieftain of, and for, the east of the Mississippi River
collection of kinkies and weirdos that went by the strange name, The Nautilus Krew.
Made Man led the congregation, his men and women in their unifying hymn of peace
and courage:
“Holy, Holy Holy…
Lord God Almighty…
Early in the morning, our song shall rise to thee…”
Holly found herself pinched in the press of the men and women. Not in any type of
uncomfortable or threatening way. But more like an iron filing that is drawn, irreversibly
and irresistibly so, to the power of a magnetic force that it cannot and wishes not to
resist or deter.
Holly moved closer to the front. Holly wanted to know more about this encounter that
now held her captive in its molecular bindings.
All at once, the signing stopped. The men, the men and a few women swayed in unison
in the mid-afternoon chilling breezes.
Made Man began to speak. He stood on a wooden pedestal that a seemingly invisible
hand brought forth. Stu said in a lilting and swooning intonation that grabbed and seized
each mind...a seizure that would not permit anyone’s mind or thoughts to drift:
“...My brothers and my sisters. My kinship. My joint-heirs. We gather today to
celebrate the life and service of one of our own.
“Amongst us are former CEO’s, once upon a time doctors and skilled surgeons,
lawyers, defrocked priests, pitiful former pedofiles, vegetable pickers, butchers, once
prominent mega preachers, plumbers, one-time atheists, dis-embargoed veterans of
someone else’s foreign wars, wrong-headed prior theologians and previously employed
thieves, crooks and prostitutes.
“Our bond, our pledge, the glue that holds us together is that we are all: ‘The Fallen
Chosen’...

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 “To be in our mix, to be accepted into our Tribe, means that God abandoned you...and
that you were jettisoned by the church and all who formerly knew and loved you.
“As a ‘Fallen Chosen’ one, you have committed your life to serve others. Regardless
of the outcome. No matter the result. In spite of our failed attempts...you and I are here
and united in the strong conviction that we are left on this earth only to rescue broken
people...one at a time...and bring them...many times against their wishes, to safety.
“One of the outcomes of our work is that sometimes we actually win. Once in a while,
we see victories.”
Stu let that simmer a bit. Before him stood his Tribe of men, mostly men and a few
women who fully comprehended and in-fact lived directly into the fury that was the truth
of his words.
Stu continued…
“...All of us here know why we serve. To receive, and to earn…”The Patch!”
Made Man paused and another seeming invisible set of hands delivered to him a
“Patch” and an enameled Pin and disappeared into the misty perimeter of the
encampment.
Made Man held up for all to see: “The Patch!” and its counterpart: “The Pin!”

The Patch
This is what everyone here lived for, strived for and believed to be the ultimate life-prize
to attain. For no one was ever bequeathed a “Patch.” No one was ever given a “Pin.”
These were life-achievements worth fighting for, and well worth working to attain.
To earn, “The Nautilus Patch!” One had to, ‘Travel Far’.
To be a recipient of, “The Nautilus Patch!” you had to almost single-handedly rescue a
teetering soul that was stranded on the beaches of hell.
To become a member of, “The Nautilus Krew” in full measure and stature you had to
enter into the perditions and estangements and entanglements that are by definition
evil...and you had to rob hell of one of its trophies.
You had to bring a soul back from the porch of hell. That’s how you earned a “Nautilus
Krew Patch and Pin!”
In the crowd and press that day was of course Bambi Hymen. Bambi’s track record was
not so good when it came to rescuing the perishing. Thus far, her resume only boasted
failure after failure. Nada.

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Not a single attempt at soul winning had Bambi yet accomplished. Her ledger only
notched zeroes. Goose eggs. To date, not one of her would-be efforts to rescue had
resulted in a person found...and a soul reclaimed.
Bambi listened to Stu’s words with delight. For one day, and she hoped that Holly would
bring and usher in that ‘one day’, one day she would be the proud recipient and humble
owner of a “Nautilus Krew Patch and Pin.”
Bambi knew that in order to see her life vision realized that she would have to see Holly
Stone-Wildfire safely to her home in a suburb of St. Louis, Missouri. Bambi knew that
destination was a long way away...
Stu stood on his tiny podium beside the Mississippi River and surveyed his people. He
sought after one face in this tiny crush of people. The face he looked for? Barb
Hymen’s. Barb who went by the given Krew name of: “Bambi.”
Stu said in a whispered tone that all heard very clearly:
“Bambi, please step to the front and join me.”
Bambi heard her name spoken. To say she was surprised was an understatement. To
say she was worried was more to the point-of-fact. Bambi knew she had failed again.
For Holly Stone was still on this, the eastern side of the MIssissippi River.
Bambi’s charge was to bring Holly Stone to Steve and Dawn safely.
Bambi hung her head in humble surrender. She wove her way through the crowd and
expecting to be lambasted for failing, yet again, submitted to her fate. She fully
expected to receive a tongue-lashing and to be removed from her post as Holly Stone’s
protectress and guide.
Made Man welcomed Bambi with a hug and embrace that tugged at her heart and
brought a tiny sliver of hope. Made Man turned Bambi around and the two of them now
faced and stared down their peers.
Made Man said,
“...Bambi...you are truly one of us. You have Traveled Far. You have done
unimaginable things for those who did not care to live again. To date, you have been
faithful and true in your service.”
Stu let that sink in and heads bobbed in deep agreement with their wing and squadron
leader’s words. Stu went on…
“This day. Prior to coming this way, I spent well over an hour with our true leader and
one of our Original Founders ‘Prairie Dawn’. We spoke of many things. We spoke of the

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difficulty of your journey. We spoke of the faithfulness of your character. We spoke of
the reality of your service...service in light of the challenges set before you.
“ ...We spoke of the coming and imminent peril that you will face in the next few
hours...for no one (that we are aware of) has yet to set foot upon the soil that you are
now willingly going to trespass upon.”
Stu let his words hang in the air. For never before had anyone seen take place what
was now going to happen.
Made Man raised his hands and said;
“...Prairie Dawn and the leadership council have declared you to be the next, earned
recipient of, ‘The Nautilus Patch and Pin’! The reason you, and mind you all, never
before has anyone received their Patch and Pin prior to the completion of their mission,
and you alone are to receive this Patch and Pin on this day, is because of the level of
dangers that you now face, and willingly march into.
“Prairie Dawn told me that the likelihood of you, and her daughter getting to St. Louis,
Missouri alive and well are almost nil. Prairie Dawn said that she did not wish to issue
yet another Patch and Pin posthumously.”
With that, a hush fell on the congregation of washed out and forgotten saints. Bambi
knelt on both knees and almost prostrated herself at the feet of her squadron leader.
The men, and a few women hovered roundabout and swelled upon their new member.
No one present disagreed with this change in operating procedure.
For all present knew the grim prospects that now this woman of strength, faith and
gathered mercies willingly stepped into.
Made Man prayed. The men, and a few women including Holly Stone touched the hem
of this holy one’s garments. Stu begged God:
“...Father...grant her mercies. Give her strength. She goes beyond our reach now. She
moves beyond our sight lines. We can do no more for her. She carries one of your
‘Fallen Chosen’. Please Dear God allow her to, ‘Travel Far’. Amen.”
With that, Barb Wymen, AKA Bambi was handed her earned, never given, “Nautilus
Patch and enamel Pin!”
Before well wishes could be exchanged. Before Bambi could be swallowed into this
society of special care, Stu called Holly Stone forward.
Holly was shocked and really taken aback. Slowly, Holly wound her way through the
press of men, mostly men and a few women to the front of the gathering.
Stu spoke to this woman by her now given Krew name:

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 “...’Pretty One’. Your mom and dad send their love and best wishes. You are about to
see things that few outside of our inner circles of wisdom have been permitted to see
and experience.
“The only reason you will be granted this gift of sight is that your mom is ‘Prairie
Dawn’. She is our devoted leader. She and I spoke at length about you this morning. I
think I now know you quite well.
“Your mom enshrined upon me the holy task of granting ‘The Patch!’ to Bambi. That
you saw for yourself. This is a holy celebration for our Tribe.
“Your mom entrusted me with the job of getting you home to her safely. I told her I
could not promise to accomplish this feat in good faith. She understood.
“Your mom, our devoted leader, told me to do what I could to bring you to her,
regardless of the perils. And she told me to ignore any and all of your push-backs that
you might put forth.”
Stu now took this young ‘Pretty One’ in his grasp. Stu looked deeply into her olive green
and shimmering eyes and asked;
“Will you, ‘Pretty One’ now join us? Will you become a pledge candidate? WIll you
entrust your life and your journey to ‘The Nautilus Krew’?”
Holly in an impish, honest and timid voice replied:
“I don’t know what that means.”
Stu’s retort stood her upright:
“It means that you surrender your past harms, and await the mission that God will one
day, sooner or later impose and place upon you and you alone to fulfill. That mission will
be to save and rescue at least one completely submerged human being.
“Do you accept this mantle as your new reality and as the new concourse and
thoroughfare of your life, from this day forward and never looking backward?”
Holly without hesitation found herself openly declaring:
“I do.”
Now Made Man asked Bambi to deliver the ‘pledge’ to Pretty One: her sole mission.
Bambi took both of Holly’s hands in her own much larger hands. Bambi instructed Holly
to repeat after her:
“...I, Holly Stone, from this day forward, in front of God and these fellow Tribe
members, do solemnly swear to commit myself to the mission of finding and saving at
least one soul from the porch of hell.”

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With that a double celebration took place. For the remainder of the waning afternoon
men and a few women doused one-another and reveled in the joy of one who earned
her ‘Patch and Pin’. And one who had begun her journey to find and complete her own
mission.
Just as dusk was about to set in...just as the light diminished the Krew made their way
to the eastern banks of the Mississippi River. There, waiting for Bambi and Holly, was a
17 ‘ aluminum skiff that had a 27 HP single prop engine.
The captain was a clever man named Kent Ryoble. Kent greeted his two passengers
and helped them stow their packs in his sturdy sailing vessel.
Kent pointed the bow towards the western shore of the Mississippi River. The eastern
members of the Krew quickly faded into the misty darkness. Holly and Bambi stared into
the dread that would soon open up like an envelope from a past lover and swallow their
souls.

Landing Zone:
Meeting Old Friends Face-to-Face
The skiff landed with a soft thud on the muddy, western banks of the Mississippi River.
Kent had a dilemma: tie up his skiff and outbound motor and leave them for bandits. Or,
take the tiny little engine with him and cast the runabout adrift?
Kent chose to wrangle the tiny outboard motor from its mounting brackets and carry it
with him. Once this was done, with the outboard motor dripping wet and in hand, Kent
released the tow rope and watched his tiny little rivercraft swim with the current
southward.
While Kent undid the screws and latchings, Bambi and Holly carried all of their gear and
also Kent’s gear to the safety of dry ground. Holly now knew that her role going forward
was never to be waited on and plumped up. Her job was to help and to serve.
Bambi took note of Holly’s quick learning and made a mental note to remind her later
on, and then on a frequent basis, that serving meant anticipating the needs of others
before these needs became visible, visible and necessary.
Bambi and Holly made a pile of their gear and scant belongings. They made a separate
pile of Kent’s items. After a brief wait, Kent came walking up the embankment carrying
his prized 27 HP outboard motor. (Kent knew that the time would come when he would

71
need this again. He determined that skiffs and rivercraft were easier to find and acquire
going forward than would be the tiny motor.)
Bambi and Holly stood in silence. Neither spoke. The evening was now pitch black.
Almost no wildlife could be heard or seen. No owls screeched. No snakes slithered. No
coyotes roamed. Both women wondered what in the world happened here. And both
women wondered how in the world anyone made it past, “The Second Big Bang” alive.
Kent did not speak yet. No words had yet been exchanged between these three
travelers. Kent pointed to a clearing further inland and led the way. The women began
lugging gear and hoisting packs and trudging towards the shelter of a treeline.
After a couple of trips back and forth, all gear was now safely ready for transport. Bambi
and Holly tried to imagine where their night’s journey might end. Neither woman felt
threatened by Kent. He was presumed to be a “Krew” member. That meant safety.
Safety meant true trust.
Kent spoke first:
“Ladies, I’m Kent Ryoble. My wife is Claire. She will be here soon to gather us up.
Barb, welcome home. Tonight, you will stay with us. Tomorrow, you will head over to
what’s left of Rex’s place. I have been close a couple of times now, to the boundaries of
his propertyline. I have not ventured past what’s left of his old barbed wire fencing.”
Kent did not wait for the ladies to respond. He let them both know:
“Claire and I are not Nautilus Krew. We help when they ask. Dawn, I think that’s your
mom Holly, is Claire’s childhood and best friend.”
This memory shook Holly to the core. Holly remembered the voice and laughter of
Claire. When she and Dawn visited Rex’s farm, the only person that Dawn spent any
real time with was Claire. Holly had forgotten her until this very moment.
Kent said,
“Holly, your mom pinged us on the shortwave yesterday. She told us you were
coming. She asked us to help out, pick you two up and look after you. I let her know we
would gladly do so. I told your mom that I will not step foot on Rex’s farm….she
understood.”
Kent asked the women if they had any questions.
Holly was the one who spoke up:
“Kent, can you tell me, us, what happened? Can you tell me, us, who did this?”
Kent looked at Holly and replied:

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 “Not here, Holly. When we get to our house. After supper, Claire and I will tell you
what we know. I will only say, it’s bad Holly. I have no earthly idea who would do this to
anyone, let alone a nation.”
With that Claire showed up.
Claire Ryoble was a tall woman. She stood at over 6 feet. She was slender and clearly
fit. Years of caring for animals and tending to the needs of a farm and a husband-farmer
will keep your mind, soul, and body toned.
Claire arrived riding a mare, with three other sturdy pack horses in tow. Claire greeted
the two women and her husband with affectionate hugs.
Claire took Holly in her arms and exclaimed:
“My oh my, young lady! I have not seen you for ages. Tonight, maybe we can get
through to your mom on the shortwave and chat a bit.”
Next, Claire touched the face of her husband-farmer with the cleft of her left palm. A
more caring and intimate embrace you will never see or encounter.
Claire finally said to Bambi;
“We meet again, my adopted daughter. I have not seen you since the day you left our
farm. I miss your smile and the extra pair of hands.”
With that no more words were exchanged. Kent, Claire, and the two women stored their
gear in lean-tos that were tethered to the backs of each of their pack horses. Holly had
not ridden a horse and felt the bumps of a saddle since being a young woman. Bambi
knew her way around a saddle.
The four riders disappeared into the silent, silent and completely empty, countryside.
The journey to Ryoble's Ranch took about an hour. The path was known by the horses.
The only source of light was a small, Nautilus shaped, plug-in nightlight that provided
plenty of visible light.
Holly and Bambi were curious about the strange looking devices that Kent rigged to the
forehead of each of the pack horses.
Holly made a note to ask Claire and Kent about the Nautilus lights…
The four horsemen arrived around 8 pm CST = 20:00 military time. Kent and Claire
showed Holly and Bambi where to stow their gear. While the two ladies removed saddle
and tack and tows from the horses, Claire and Kent made their way to the main
farmhouse and began making dinner.

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Holly found herself carrying saddles and hanging up halters. She instinctively returned
to her childhood chores of finding and filling hay racks. She even picked up a rake and
cleaned up the manure from the horse’s stalls.
When all of the chores were done, Bambi and Holly closed and locked the barn doors
and made their way to the warmth and glowing lights of the main farmhouse. The
farmhouse looked and felt exactly what it was—a homely and welcoming house in the
middle of a dark, nuclear winter.
Dinner was ready for them. All were famished. Claire was more than an excellent cook.
Her main ingredient was love. The dishes were tasty and a bit feisty. For Claire liked her
dishes spicy.
When dinner was done and the dishes were all washed, dried and put to rest in their
holding cupboards, the evening tea was offered beside the recently stoked fire.
The four companions, two survivors of the largest explosion to ever be detonated on
American soil, and two whose destiny called them to enter into the forbidden blast zone
that would begin with tomorrow’s sunrise, sat at rest and sipped their chamomile
evening teas.
It was Bambi that broke the silence:
“Kent and Claire, mom and dad...it’s been a long while. When I left, what was that
eight, no, nine years ago...we parted in not the best of ways. I was young then. I’m sorry
for the harm I have caused you.
“...I just could not face another cow’s teat or pig’s grunt. I needed to find some
adventure again. Man, did I screw that one up.
“ ...I never thanked you for taking me in. When rehab was over, Pastor Steve asked
you to take me in. You did so without a second thought. I should have behaved more
properly. I’m sorry. Now, I wish I never would have left.”
Bambi let those words hover a bit. It was Claire who responded:
“...Barb, I will not be able to get used to the Bambi thing. Barb, no apology necessary.
You were young. Believe it or not, Kent and I were young once too. The years we had
with you were enough. Let’s look to brighter days, and maybe a calf will arrive in the
spring that we can both tend to.”
That was Claire’s way to mend fences.
Holly stared at this woman. Claire was her mom’s contemporary. Holly saw fine lines
and spidering wrinkles everywhere on Claire’s exposed skin. Holly also saw beauty.

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Holly’s mind raced twenty-five years into her own future and all at once knew that one
day her own body would wrinkle, easily tear and smear.
A closeness closed in on the firelit room. A knitting of souls happened without effort or
prescription. Kent was the one who broke the silence.
Kent began to speak about the afternoon when nuclear devices exploded and pipelines
went up in flames…

Ground Zero:
Meeting Peril Face-to-Face
Kent let the silence bring and ring in comfort. Claire. He worried most over Claire. They
never had any children of their own. He often cursed God for his wife’s life trauma. To
make amends for this life-gap, the two of them took in stragglers.
Claire called them misfits. She often remarked,
“...They’re all just me in different flavors, Kent. I never did fit in with anybody but you
and Dawn. And what you saw in me still baffles the hell out of me. Look at me. I’m
nothing but a long washboard that never had enough soap and water.”
Kent smiled at his wife. He loved, adored, and treasured his wife. Yes. What worried
and troubled Kent were the traveling, radioactive isotopes. Kent was a tinkerer. Kent
was an inventor. Kent was a scientist at heart.
Kent knew what nuclear dust and nuclear-excited isotopes could do once they
embedded themselves inside of the safe and welcoming confines of soft-human skin.
Kent didn’t really care that much about his own life. Hell, he’d had the life any man
would give an arm and a leg for. He’d owned his own ranch. He’d known the love of a
great woman. And he’d lived long enough to know the difference between right and
wrong.
No. Kent did not care two spits about his own life. But Claire’s life...that was a horse of a
different color. Kent knew that living this close to a nuclear, ‘LIVE!’ site...that meant
trouble.
Kent began to tell the ladies of what happened…

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 “...It was what about two weeks ago. Yes. It was ‘Black Friday’. The day after
Thanksgiving, when all those nut jobs are out chas’n down TV sets for thirty bucks…
“...The roads were packed. The crazies were out shopping. Traffic was snarled.”
Kent started to choke up. How to describe what happened? He continued:
“...Some bad people, Holly and Barb. Some very bad people blew up five
cities...and...I’m sorry I have to be the one to tell you this, Ms. Holly...your grampa Rex’s
farm.
“….The details are still sketchy. No government group has yet made any
announcement that I have heard of. But, somehow, those dirty bastards got their grubby
hands and fingers on some enriched nuclear material.
“...Somehow they figured out how to excite the nuclear molecules that were already
enriched…
“...Somehow those sons-a-bitches blew up five cities and worst of all...your grampa’s
and everybody else’s farms, houses, cattle, crops, families, schools, churches…
“...You name it. They blew it all to smithereens.
“...Worst part is they excited, ignited, and then exploded enriched, nuclear materials
into the atmosphere.
“...It’s kind of their worst legacy. Because no one knows how long its gonna last. And
no one can tell or predict when it’s gonna clear up.”
Kent took a good long draft on his chamomile tea. He looked at the three women in his
living room. One, his beloved and now at deep risk. The other two women, persons of
care and personal responsibility.
Kent spoke now of the event;
“...That day. Claire and I...we were tending to the hogs. It was what? about 5 PM. The
day was cold and rainy. The hogs were agitated. That got my attention. (Animals can tell
when all hell is about to break loose.)
“...Claire looked at me kind of funny. I know that woman’s looks. I know that woman. I
love that woman. She let me know something was not right. She told me to follow her.
“ ...We made our way to the root cellar. I felt silly. We only go there when tornadoes
are a ’head’n our way. But Claire was obstinate. You have no idea…
“...All at once a boom. I mean a sonic boom shook the holy shit out of all of us. Me.
Claire. The pigs. The cattle. The chickens. The horses. The goats. The whole damn
place. A sound so loud it like-to-broke my eardrums.

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 “...A flash of light. So bright that it would-a blinded both me and Claire had we been
outside. It raced across the skies at light-speed.
“...The earth shook. A rumble and a tumble that lasted what, Claire? Ten, maybe
fifteen minutes.
“ ...Me and Claire...we hugged and clung to each other like kids on a Ferris Wheel for
the first time.
“...I’m telling you...I was darn certain we was gonners. No way I think then that I’d be
here a-talk’n to you two about that day.
“ ...Me and Claire we stayed in that root cellar for hours. We just hung onto each other
and cried like babies. We know’d our pigs and horses and cows and them chickens
were done for. We know’d our house and home were lit up like a stale Christmas tree
that you burn as kindling.
“...After a bit. We check’d our parts. We was like two young lovers. Each other's hands
swishing and swashing over da other one’s bodies.
“...We decided we was OK. But we gotta get up, right? We can’t live in this root cellar,
right? We gotta try to figure a way outta this mess, right?
“...So, we gather up our strength. Me? I’m a coward. That lady right there? Strongest
damn human beings God ever put on a green acre.
“...Claire led the way out of course.
“...We crept and crawled out of that tiny, little food locker. What we saw...what met
us...well, we are still trying to figure it out. But, it was like walking into hells’ front porch.
“...Cows dead. Horses mutilated. Pigs exploded from guts, from the inside out.
Chickens and roosters scratch’n and tear’n into the dirt trying to find China.
“...Our house? Somehow OK. Our barn, a bit messed up. But the horses and livestock
seemed to miraculously survive the blast.
“...A black, vile, God awful taste’n and smell’n smoke puffed up like a crematorium’s
blast furnace’s chimney from Rex’s place…
“...Me and Rex...we go way back to kindergarten. His wife, Lucy? One of God’s finest.
“...Claire says to me…’my God, Kent. Rex and Lucy!’
“...Claire and me been trying to make sense of this ever since.”
A long silence was interrupted by the heaving sobs of Holly Stone weeping.

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Claire and Barb raced to their friend’s rescue. While the two comforters held their friend
and did all they could to ease her sorrows, Kent concluded his night’s revelations by
saying:
“....Tomorrow, I will take you two to the edges of what used to be Rex and Lucy’s
place. I have been there a few times now, trying to figure out what happened over there.
I won’t go in there.
“...I will do the best I can to prepare you both. I will give you what tools I can to help
you. But, I won’t go inside of that place. That place to me now is a ‘Forbidden Zone’.
“...Holly, I’m sorry I was the one to be the bearer of such bad news. But someone had
to tell you the truth. It might as well a-been me.”
With that the fire died down. The lights dimmed. The four horsemen made their way to
their respective sleeping quarters.
Tomorrow would arrive early. Kent aimed to have the two women moving before 9 am
CST = 0900 military time.
Holly wept alone that night. So many changes...so much she could not account for as of
yet. Holly drifted off into a restless and fitful sleep. She dreamed of rolling tea pots and
men that looked like foreigners. These men laughed at her in her tempestuous dreams.
Holly awoke to the voice of Steadman…

Kent Ryoble:
Mahatma and Personal Caretaker
Morning comes early on a farm. There are pigs to slop, cows to milk, horses to brush,
and chicken coops to raid. Holly and Bambi woke up to the sound of roosters alarming
all who were nearby that the new day indeed had arrived.
Holly did not have to be told what to do. Holly pulled on her trousers, ran a brush
through her long locks and without as much as brushing a tooth made her way to the
barn. Bambi and Claire and Kent were already deep into the daily chores.

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When the last egg was safely harvested, Kent sent the two women to prepare
themselves for the next leg of their personal travelogue. They did not know what they
would encounter. How could they know?
Claire made breakfast and Kent stayed in the barn and made preparations of his own.
With the sun’s morning warmth filling the tiny kitchenette of the Ryoble’s farmhouse, the
four companions and now fellow ‘Fallen Chosen’ sat and relished in the simple joys of
eggs rightly cooked, fresh-oven-baked biscuits, thick slabs of bacon, preserves newly
minted from Claire’s raspberry bushes, and coffee milled from the nearby monastery.
The four horsemen, two living on the frayed and spoiled edges of a nuclear disaster,
and two about to literally walk into hell’s own kitchen, sat and nested in the welcoming
silence.
Kent is the one that broke the silence. He informed the two women…
“You are not school girls anymore. You both found, and it seems like you lost, your
prince charming. You are now women--of an age when a child's play and childish
thoughts no longer serve you.”
Holly and Bambi sat up and took notice. Claire had a fair inkling of where her husband
was heading with his discourse. None flinched. No lights flickered. No emotional filters
would be permitted. No punches would be pulled.
Kent Ryoble was, if he was anything, a plain spoken man who did not believe in what he
called, ‘buttering anyone’s bread’.
“What you two are going to see, and smell and taste and hear and have to walk
through and into...I cannot even imagine.
“...There is nothing I can do to help you once you pass the barrier of what used to be
Rex’s property line. I have some guesses of what you are going to see. But, I will keep
these to myself.
“...What I can do is to ask you to touch nothing. Pick up and sift no remains. Ask as
many questions in your mind and catalog them for another day. But, leave everything,
and I mean everything exactly as you find it.
“...What you are walking into is America’s holocaust. Every single singed, and burnt
and crumpled beyond recognition, item is a relic. It is an artifact. Someday, it will be a
sacred and holy museum piece.
“...You are walking into America’s largest tragedy. Keep this in mind.”

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Kent paused. He wanted the veracity and the deep impact of his words to lean into the
darkest crevices of these two women’s minds. He did not wish to leave one stone or
thought unturned.
Kent found the rest of his words;
“What I do want you to do is to remember. Collect data. Write down and mentally
memorize every crucial and God-awful detail of what you see and notice. A time will
come when the rest of us, the remaining ones, will want to debrief you on what you
have seen and experienced.
“...What I want you to do is think, ‘who in the Sam-hell could or would do this’?”
Right before Kent and the three women got up to attend to their day’s appointed tasks,
he said;
“...I will do what I can to help you. I have built each of you a safe suit of sorts. When
you are ready, come to the barn and I will suit you both up myself.
“...Leave everything here. Where you two are heading, you will not need any earthly
goods.
“...When you have finished your mission there @ Rex’s place, head north to the next
county line. Strip down to naked (he pronounced this ‘neked)-ness. Walk like two Eve’s
in God’s garden. Leave everything and every thread of clothing where you plop it down.
“...Find a fresh spring and bathe in its renewing waters. Prairie Dawn’s Nautilus Krew
will find you. Wait for them. Bambi, you will know most of these people, at least that’s
what I think.”
The last words spoken by Kent were in-behalf of him and Claire:
“You may not know this, but Claire and me, we love you two rascals. We were young
once ourselves. We may look old and decrepit. But we were young once. You both are
always welcome here. There’s always a mare for you to ride, a bed for you to sleep in,
and a place to sit by the fire at night.”
With that, Claire started cleaning up the dishes. Holly and Bambi went to relieve
themselves. Kent headed to the barn to finish the cutting, snipping, and stitching of his
quickly rigged Hazmat Suits.
Holly left everything in her tiny room in that farmhouse. With her belongings, and placed
on top of her clothes pile, was her jewel box. She left a small fortune, her only
inheritance from years spent with Steadman, on a bed with a quilt that had farm animals
and horses as its patchwork theme.

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The two women met Kent at the barn. He instructed them both to strip down to their
bras and panties. The two women did not blush or pushback.
Kent dressed them both like a proud papa that preens over his daughter and adorns her
with a corsage on prom night. Kent clad them both in thick, rubber suits that he
hand-stitched out of his hog-sloping and butchering gear.
He covered their faces in plastic shields that were form fitting to each of their faces.
Intricately laced into the shealthings were multiple layered gauze bandages that would
serve as a makeshift, and probably unhelpful, breathing filtration apparatus.
Kent duct-taped thick, rubber gloves and boots to each woman’s hands and feet. He
covered their eyes with swimmer’s goggles that he found in an old backpack from his
and Claire’s days of skinny dipping in their neighbor’s pond to the delight of a
midsummer’s moonbean.
He then packed the two women, neither of them schoolgirls any longer, neither of them
looking for fairy princes any longer, into the exposed bed of his four-wheel-drive pickup
truck. The truck bed was strewn with tiny whiskers of straw from hundreds of forays into
the fields to feed the livestock.
The trip took close to an hour. The going was rough. The roads were no longer existent.
Kent did not fear for his own life. He feared greatly for the lives of the three women that
he loved and adored.
When the truck got to what was left of Rex’s barbed-wire boundary marker, Kent killed
the engine. This rugged man’s man started to weep.
He helped both of his frogmen looking daughters by other parents, out of his truck. He
kissed them both smack on the lips of their plastic shields and taped on gauze
windpipes. He pointed to the place where the black, filthy smoke churned up like
despoiled butter from an endless and bottomless crock.
The two women, no longer young girls, no longer preteen adolescents, no longer
starry-eyed twenty-somethings waiting for prince charming to sweep them off their feet,
rose up a special kind of courage and crossed Rex’s boundary line.
Yes. These were two full-grown women who now accepted their life mission of finding
out what in the hell happened to America. And maybe just as important, ‘who in the hell
would incinerate five major cities and torch a nation’s energy arteries’?

Rex’s Farm:
Hell’s Kitchen

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Holly and Bambi gently walked on hallowed ground. These two women, brimming with
their own personal stews of failure, dared to walk where only demons now trod.
Holly and Bambi dared to set foot where death and pestilence and incurable madness
reigned and ruled.
The mid morning brought no sun. The earth groaned on this plot of ground. A plot of
ground that once produced bounties that became breadbaskets that fed a nation’s
hungry bellies. This ground now stank of death. This ground was now awash with
infertility. This ground now spewed forth toxins and poisons.
Toxins and poisons that blinded eyes and blurred visions that might yet be left
unharmed.
Holly led the way, of course. This was the territory of her youngest of days. Holly’s best
and most treasured memories--memories and life experiences that could be brought to
a sum total by the addition and multiplication of days spent on Grampa Rex’s farm.

Holly chose her footfalls carefully. For each and every step introduced some element of
terror. There were burnt and distended carcasses of horses, cows, pigs, goats, alpacas,
and cats and dogs everywhere. Macabre sculptures of debris that glittered with
radioactive isotopes impeded their progress.
Step by cautious step, Holly in the lead and Bambi in tow made their way to what was
the centerpiece of Rex Wellex’s universe—his farmhouse.
Rex built his farmhouse by hand. The outbuildings were old and historic, in that his
ancestors constructed each as ample reflections of their versions of ‘home’. Rex
converted all of these outbuildings to either storage sheds, tool sheds, work sheds, or
animal shelters.
Rex, though, built a home for his family with the brute force of his wit and the skill of his
own hands.
Rex’s superior earnings permitted him to erect his personal version of Valhalla. The
Wellex Mansion had four columns on the front porch that were more than decorations.
These pillars were the living memorial to his wife and three daughters.
Rex’s mansion was built not of sticks and hay. But of bricks that Rex had specially
pressed and then kilned at a ceramic foundry near Memphis, Tennessee.
Rex’s farmhouse had five bedrooms and five bathrooms, a commercial kitchen that
could cook for and then feed an army, and a large, spacious dining hall. Rex’s barbeque
and poker nights were famous.

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Men and women alike gathered every single Saturday night for story telling, barbeque
eating, recipe sharing, beer drinking, and poker that could empty a sheik’s wallet.
Rex led the band. Rex drank the most beer. Rex sat at the head of the round table.
None of this remained.
As Holly and Bambi approached the ruins of Rex’s mansion...both caught their breath.
For what confronted them could not be counted as, in any way, shape or form—human.
Human bodies in various stages of decay are what these two women encountered.
The only remaining structure of Rex’s farmhouse was a half-blown-to-bits chimney. The
rest of the house had been immolated and incinerated by the fiery, nuclear blast.
Scorched and bloated and misshapen human body parts were everywhere. The women
had to tiptoe about and wade through the charred human remains of Holly’s most
immediate family.
The device must have exploded while the family sat and nibbled on the previous day’s
leftover Thanksgiving turkey and its trimmings.
No one knew or expected on that day, that intruders had trespassed upon their property.
Not one of the people present for that day’s feast could comprehend that a few foreign
nationals had targeted them and their territory as ‘Ground Zero’ for their attack upon the
United States of America and its government.
Holly found herself wanting to touch and fondle and preserve the now twisted and
tattered fondest of memories of her family. Bambi stopped her and held Holly’s hands in
her own stronger and larger hands. Bambi led her now best, and only friend towards the
northern border of Rex’s ranch.
The further the two women trekked north, the colder and darker and dimmer the day
grew. A southern breeze that heralded from the Gulf of Mexico blew strong and carried
the toxic belch that would burn for weeks yet to come as trailing search warrants.
For indeed the toxic belch, as it blended with the strong winter winds, bespoke of a
season of bitter winters that this nation state would now have to stare down. For no one
could ignore the fact that America now stood at a ruined crossroads.
Would this nation and its people rise up? Would this nation and its people find ways to
mend their wounds and heal their lacerations and bury their dead?
Holly and Bambi crossed the northern boundary of what once demarcated the property
line of Rex Wellex.

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Once the two women were outside of ‘Ground Zero’, they did exactly what Kent
instructed them to do. They stripped down to bare skin. They made funeral pyres of
their toxic, handsewn, rubber suits.
The two women found a freezing fresh water stream. They both jumped into the frigid
waters and feverishly lathered one-another's body in a vain attempt to wash away the
sins of a nation.
The two women found themselves running around, buck naked in a meadow. The
women ran not just to warm their extremities. But more to rid their souls of the spiritual
toxicities and national atrocities that were embedded into the membranes of their
memories.
True to Kent’s words, soon Holly and Bambi heard the sound of ATV’s throttling and
racing towards them. Soon, two women Krew members gathered the young women up
in warming blankets.
The Krew members brought warm clothing and winter boots and mittens. In a short
span of time, Holly and Bambi found themselves speeding north. The compass heading
of their conjoined lives held St. Louis, Missouri in its crosshairs.

Pretty One:
Life Swap
The transition from American Royalty to servant happened so quickly that no one, not
even Holly, noticed or paid much attention to it. Holly found herself embedded and
entirely enfolded into the life, culture, and habits of a “Nautilus Krew” pack on the hunt.
Holly lost all manners of personal attentiveness. No one treated her in any kind of
special way. No one spoke to her out of turn or deference. No one minded to her. No
one brought her coffee, washed her clothes, cleaned up her messes, or listened to her
laments.
Holly Stone was accepted as a pledge. That meant she built and cleaned latrines. That
meant she erected and tore down tents. That meant she foraged for victuals. That
meant she took her turn on watches. That meant she bivouacked and slept where she
was permitted. That meant she ordered no one about. That meant she followed
instructions and never squirmed or pushed back.
Holly lived the life of a fugitive on the lam. Checkpoints and helicopters and strange
looking drones, armed with cameras and some kind of non-lethal weapon systems,
scoured the land.

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The Krew made their way on foot. The leaders would not permit any loud noises or any
campfires. Their mission was holy. Their commitment was supreme. Their sole focus
was unwavering—delivering Holly Stone, AKA, “Pretty One”, to Mama Prairie Dawn
unharmed.
Holly’s troupe traveled mostly at the pre-dawn and just beyond dusk hours. Sometimes,
the Krew pressed forward into the darkest of nights. But, this was unwise. For there
were no passable streets or roads any longer.
The highway system moving north from New Madrid, Missouri, to St. Louis proper was a
tangled and gnarled mess. The Krew used roads and the highway system as a guide.
The leaders kept a fair distance from the highway system to avoid detection. The roads,
though, provided a sure compass heading.
Day passed into night. Night passed into day. Holly longed for a shower, and maybe
even a hot bath. She dreamed at night of lobster and fresh Ceasar’s Salad with real
anchovies and seasoned croutons.
On the tenth morning of their trek northwards, The Krew found themselves on the
outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri. The day was cold and bleak, and people were starting to
come out of their caves and self-constructed safety caverns.
A few cars could be heard, now and then, bustling along a road or two.
Christmas was coming.
Holly tried to remember the day it might be. She lost count and track of time and days
long ago. Let’s see…
● She left Key West on Friday after Thanksgiving.
● It took her two full days to get to Chattanooga.
● There was nowhere for her to go from there.
● Her dad told her to stay put and wait for some motorcycle dudes to get there.
● Bambi met her at the old hotel on the northwestern edge of Chattanooga.
● The trek to the MIssissippi River took four full days.
● She spent one night with Claire and Kent.
● Then there was the day at Grampa Rex’s farm…
● Ten days plus of hiking to get to today.
Yes. Christmas was coming.
In the old days, Holly and her parents celebrated Advent. Dawn bought, carefully
wrapped, and then hid a present for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Holly
scoffed at herself and wondered how in the world could she leave such familial
wonders?

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Bambi woke Holly out of her daydream and personal descent into yet another round of
self-revulsion. Bambi said,
“...Pretty One (no Krew members ever was addressed by their given name. Only Krew
names were permitted to be spoken out loud)...
“...You are going to be transferred to another local Krew. Get ready. I am staying with
you and will accompany you. No way we come this far and I don’t make it with you to
see your mama and dad.”
Holly hung her head in shame. Bambi carefully tilted the downcast eyes with her large
hands to look directly into her own starlit face.
“Pretty One. Your mom and dad are beautiful people. Your mom is the Voice that
drives our movement. Few have actually met your mom. I have met her a couple of
times. I’m not proud of the way I looked or behaved in those days…
“...Be of good cheer. I think you are coming back into their lives at just the right time.
I’m not certain what’s going on yet, Pretty One. But, I know that your mom and dad are
at the very center of the shitstorm that is about to come down.
“...And I, for one, have confidence in your mom and dad and their ability to handle just
about anything.”
With that, the morning dew started to evaporate as a few rays of sunshine began to
peek through the separating clouds. The escort Krew turned ‘round about and headed
back to the southern portion of the state and region from which they lived.
Holly and Bambi, two very woke women waited for their personal bodyguards and travel
agents to arrive. About noon, the two women heard the scream and moan of four ATV’s.
Holly and Bambi hopped on the back of two of the four ATV’s. The four-wheeled
motorcycles pointed their nosecones towards the middle of St. Louis County.
As the women clung to the shoulders and waists of their drivers and fellow Krew
members, Holly heard a voice calling her name on the horizon. It was Steadman’s, of
course.
The voice said in the sternest of tones..
“Where in the world are you? You better have a good explanation for yourself…”

Homecoming:
When Christmas Comes Early

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Holly Stone came home for Christmas.
The ATV’s rolled up to her parent’s driveway. Holly remembered riding her tricycle, and
then her bicycle, and then her first car on and off of this very parcel of cracked and
life-seared pavement.
Fear. Fear and its evil-twin—panic!—grabbed Holly by the throat.
The Krew member that drove the escort bike that delivered Holly to her parent’s front
porch, kindly asked her to get off the bike.
Holly froze. Holly clung to the waist of her driver-escort like a baby orangutan clings to
its mother’s belly when they begin traversing the treetops in a forest’s canopy.
Holly peeled herself away from the ATV and thanked her driver-escort. Holly stood tall
and looked directly at the front door of Steve and Dawn’s home.
Steve and Dawn were aware that their daughter was home now. On their side of the
door, the forgotten parents started to weep. Steve could not speak. His tears soaked his
freshly laundered and professionally pressed button-down shirt.
Dawn came to her husband’s side and brought aid and comfort to her beloved man.
Dawn took her tear-stained hands and held onto her husband’s, now chubby and aging,
cheeks.
Dawn said, “She’s home honey. Our baby came home.”
Bambi interlinked her arms in Holly’s. The two marched right up the cobblestone
walkway. Holly remembered helping her proud papa place each of those stones in their
proper places and numbered order.
Holly mounted the three tiny steps, and with Bambi as her support system, Holly
reached to knock on the glass-enclosed screen door.
The door opened without a thought or touch and there, standing side-by-side were her
parents, Steve and Dawn Stone.
A greeting erupted. A family, long separated by the ill-winds of wrong-thinking and
soured behaviors and distilled anger, found forgiveness.
Few words were spoken. Lots of hugs and embraces and tears and clutching and
whole-body examinations took place. If some neighbor witnessed this event, they might
have thought that the homecoming was for some relative or close friend that had indeed
died...died, and then been miraculously resurrected to new life.
Indeed, that is exactly what was taking place.

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Steve led his now reunited, and fully intact family, to the breakfast nook. There were
four chairs there now. For Bambi was not only Holly’s adopted sister. Bambi was also
Steve and Dawn’s second daughter.
The dinner included turkey and giblets. The spread covered all of the available
countertop space. Somehow, in the midst of a national catastrophe, Steve managed to
find the provindor that produced a feast worthy of his daughter’s return.
For Holly Stone not only returned to her parents, and by doing so rebirthed their
personal dignity, but upon her arrival to the safe haven that was the warmth and hearth
of her parent’s love, Holly Stone returned to a life of sanity. Sanity and clarity.
Silently, while her parents gabbed and giggled. While Bambi and Dawn and Steve
rekindled their bond of love and affection, while cranberries were staining the puffy
mountains of white mashed potatoes....Holly Stone found clarity.
Holly made up her mind...never, ever would she return to the clutch and grab of an evil
that was Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh.
Holly pledged to herself, and this caught her off guard, also to ‘God’— “To stay here and
help my mom and dad until the day that they die. And maybe, to find someone to really
love me. You know, the way my dad loves, fawns over, and is there for my mom.”
When the dinner was completed, Holly, Bambi, and Steve cleaned up the dishes and
prepared the desserts. Dawn withdrew, as was her custom and entrenched nature, to
the secure and comfortable confines of her garage-art-studio.
Holly looked and wanted to head off to spend some time with her mother. There were
lots of words to speak and re-speak. There were plenty of tears to shed. There were
many roads and pathways to clear their nearly twenty years of absence and debris and
clutter.
Steve, her father, stopped his daughter. Steve held his Holly close and half-whispered,
“...Not yet sweetheart. Give her the nightwatch to figure this out. Tomorrow, tomorrow
you will go and visit with her. Bambi and I will take a long walk. You two need that time.
For now, your mom needs her alone time.
“….Head for bed. Sleep soundly. No harm will ever come to you again. I knew you
would come home someday. I never thought it would take this long.”
With that, desserts were scarfed down. Evening teas were swallowed. Ill memories
were washed away.
Holly retreated to her bedroom. Bambi headed for the familiar digs of the guest
bedroom. Steve made his way to his wife’s studio.

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There, while his two daughters slept in the safety that only a real parent can and does
create and provide for their children, Steve and Dawn sat in silence and listened to the
short wave radio.
News belched forth. Reports squelched of people coming out of their temporary shelters
and half-baked hovels. All at once a voice scratched out—
“Steadman is on the move.”

Moonbeams and Morning Sunlight:

Mom and Daughter...Daughter and Mom
Holly woke up to dead silence. Not a creature was stirring. Steve and Bambi left at the
break of day to catch up and get coffee. Dawn never left her studio. Steve’s famous line
was—“Dawn and Insomnia. Insomnia and Dawn.”
Holly took a shower. toweled off and dried her hair with an ancient blow dryer. Holly
walked back into her bedroom and opened the closet doors. Not a stitch of clothing was
missing. Her childhood, preadolescent and adolescent, and then young woman tops,
trousers, dresses, shoes, boots, scarves, and even winter coats, were all seemingly
hermetically sealed with love and lots of attention.
Holly opened up the drawers to the vanity that she used for years to put on and take off
her makeup. Every single canister and brush and tube of eyeliner was exactly as she
left it. Holly turned on her heels and looked at the dresser.
She opened up the first drawer and there to her astonishment were all of her most
private lingerie items. Each piece was perfectly folded, stacked and color coordinated.
Holly sat on her unmade bed and looked and studied the walls of the bedroom. Nothing
had gone missing. No item was out of place. No piece of her personal memorabilia that
was her personal childhood signatures were absent.
Nothing was out of place. Each item was laundered and dusted and hung with precision
and immaculately cared for and exactly maintained. Every single piece of her young life
was not just well-preserved. Every single slice of her young life was converted into a
living and made-and-kept-fresh-daily shrine.
Holly wanted to flee. Holly did not want to face her mamma. Holly did not wish to
address her naughtiness. Returning home was one thing. Living into the post-life of a
penitent prodigal was a whole different matter.

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Holly needed an escape route. Only none were available at the moment. Her only exit.
Her only way out was to gather up her gumption and head straight to the garage-art
studio and talk with her mother.
Holly poured two cups of coffee from the warm dispenser. Holly loved coffee. Coffee
meant mornings. Mornings meant time spent with Steadman--when he was available.
Mornings meant sunshine and the chance to build upon her perfect life. Mornings meant
servants jumping and leaping to meet her every need.
Holly made her way to the door that separated the garage and kitchen. The garage long
ago had been converted into a working art studio and personal retreat for her mother.
Holly noticed the door had the exact same hardware and handles that she recalled
using as a child.
In those days, Holly went into the garage to get into a car, or to empty the garbage.
Now? Now, the other side of the closed passageway held her mother. The very mother
that raised her, cared for her, loved her to the extent that was possible, and then that
she rejected. Rejected and long-ago abandoned.
Holly paused right before she reached down with her empty hand to turn the doorknob.
What would she find on the other side? Would she find caring forgiveness? Would she
encounter rough going and lots of verbal attacks? Would there be no words
exchanged? How in the world could she expect her mother to process what had been
Holly’s absence over the last eighteen full years?
Holly took a deep breath. Holly turned the knob on the paneled door. Holly pulled the
door towards her and walked onto the top stoop that was the landing to the staircase
that would descend into her mother’s private lair.
As Holly gathered her bearings and begin walking down the steps into the darkened
garage, Dawn spoke:
“Mornin’ darlin’. Hoped you’d find your way here. Be careful of the beebees. There’s
plenty of those ball bearings underfoot.”
Dawn touched a button and some lights turned on. Dawn preferred the darkness to light
and the bitter cold to any kind of warmth. But for today, she turned on some lights and
brightened up the space. What confronted Holly surprised and actually calmed her.
Holly took a moment to adjust to her mother’s personal safe space. Holly noticed
hundreds of sketches and paintings and drawings and completed portraits. Holly soaked
in the attack predators. Holly was captured by the eyes. Every sketch, work-in-progress,
or completed masterpiece held a set of eyes that grabbed your soul and seemed to
steal your breath away.

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Holly shuffled over the top of the spent pellets on the floor and brought her mamma the
warm cup of coffee. Mother and daughter embraced. Holly could feel the tears and grief
about to explode that were momentarily held back by the power and strength of some
ancient, concrete retaining wall.
Holly was like a volcanic steam-seam internally. Holly knew there was no stopping the
geiser of lava and hot-rocks that would at any moment spew forth.
Dawn quieted her daughter and said:
“Holly, there will never be any explanation necessary. There is no hatred or anger any
more. I left all of that in the kitchen last night.
“Seeing you home ...hearing your laughter...knowing you’re alright. I made up my
mind that you and I are good. Please...as you care...tell me what happened. Maybe
you’re not ready quite yet. That’s ok. But someday, tell me what happened.
“Let me know where you went. Not physically cause I’ve been a good mamma and I
basically tracked and studied your every move. Forgive me for stalking you. But, I’m
your mamma and I get that privilege now and then.
“But, when you’re ready. Tell me where you went as a woman. What took you to leave
me and your dad and cling to that son-of-a-bitch Steadman.”
Dawn paused and sipped her coffee. Holly looked around and saw the portraits of
Steadman with the hundreds of pock marks. Holly fixated on the garage door.
There on the garage door sighing in the gentle and chilled morning breezes were the
updated versions of: “The Three Big Maps.”
The map of ‘Safe Zones’ showed areas of the United States of America that were safe
and yet to be placed under attack.
The map of “Blast Zones” showed the five cities of the United States of America that
were working hard to figure out how to recover from the direct hit they each had taken.
Taken and by some miraculous brute force been able to both withstand and sustain.
Holly focused on her grampa’s farm. Rex’s farm was marked as: “Ground Zero.”
On the right hand side was the map that tracked Steadman’s whereabouts.
Holly took all of this in. Holly wanted to speak to her mother about what distracted her
into this near two-decade long attraction that was her former life with Steadman.
Holly began to speak...she asked her mother…
“Why are you so obsessed with Steadman?”

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 The Grill:
Mamma’s Interrogation

Dawn answered Holly’s question in a strange and roundabout way. Dawn sat back in
her artist’s chair and with the public-band radio squawking and the morning sun rising
and the coffee still warm said…
“Your dad. I feel most sorry for him. I’m not much to look at anymore. My legs don’t
work the way they used to. My hair falls out in clumps. My complexion is rosier than
most red-headed woodpeckers.
“Your dad deserves and deserved better ‘n me, Holly. He needs love, attention,
affection, being noticed now and then, and a shred or two of acknowledgement.
“I can’t give him any of this.”

Holly stood with her back to her mom and stared at “The Three Big Maps” and absorbed
her mamma’s tale. Holly decided she owed it to her mom to listen. Holly thought this
was her earned penance. Holly told herself that this was the cost of her impertinence
and of her decades’ long selfishness.
Holly actually thought this was going to be the tone that her atonement would have to
endure. She could not have been more wrong or off-base.
Dawn sipped her coffee and went on…
“When you left. When you flew the coop. When you followed your own bliss...my world
collapsed. I built my life around you. Everything I was somehow was all bound up and
wrapped ‘round you, Holly.
“Then, poof! Just like that you left.
“It wasn’t just the leav’n that hurt me so bad. That, I could sort of get my mind around.
Hell, even I marvelled at the beautiful daughter that God gave me. You think I’m stupid?
You think I did not see the way you blossomed? You think I missed that part?
“I knew that you needed time to fly and sprout your wings and test your wares.
“But the part that killed me...is you stayed away and you would not talk to me.”
Holly gasped for breath. She wanted to stop her mom and turn around and hug her
neck and sob and weep and ask forgiveness. Holly knew better.
Holly stood there and took her lashings like the grownup that she was.

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Dawn told her daughter....
“You would not respond. You talked to grampa and maw-maw. But not to me. Almost
twenty years Holly.
“...so I started to paint.
“I bought myself an easel, a few blank canvases and some paints and a few pastels
and a couple of brushes. I had your dad rig me up a ham radio. I came in here...no! I
ran and fled to this space, not for comfort, but for revenge.”
Holly slowly turned to face her mamma. This she did not see coming.
Dawn narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice to a mere whisper…
“That son-of-a-bitch Steadman stole my daughter. I ran to this here studio and painted
these pictures to remind myself that something bad happened to my Holly.
“I started painting and listening to the people. Day after day. Week after week. Month
after month. Year after year. I listened.
“One name kept coming up: ‘Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh’.
“I knew it was no coincidence or comet out of control from some far away galaxy that
hooked my daughter and now somehow me to this man.
“I learned to hate him. I want you to know, Holly...if I get the chance...and I hope to
hell someday I do...I’m gonna assassinate that bastard.
“Not just for what he done to me and you. But for what he done to the country.”
Holly walked near her mamma. Holly wanted to say something. But Dawn was not
finished quite yet…
“I formed up ‘The Nautilus Krew’ about fifteen years ago. In the beginning, it was just
me and a couple of your dad’s motorcycle guys. In the early days, we found women and
cats in distress and saved them kind of stuff.
“Now, it’s grown into an international group of men---mostly men--and a few women,
who have one main mission—find out what Steadman is up to, and as we are able...to
put a couple of spikes in his bicycle’s spokes...and ultimately to defeat him.
“Your man is a very bad apple, Holly.”
Dawn cleared a chair of some paints and brushes and a couple of half-finished
compositions, and asked her daughter to have a seat. The two women, mother and
daughter, now were inches from one-another.

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Dawn dreamed about this day’s arrival. Holly dreaded this day’s arrival. Dawn looked
her beauty queen offspring in the eye and said,
“Tell me what you know. Don’t spare a droplet. I need names, faces, times, dates,
information, and any clue you might be able to provide that will help us stop him from
doing any further harm.”
Holly swallowed hard. Holly thought this first encounter would be one of emotional
reconnection and celebrations. No way did Holly think today was going to be her
mamma grilling and interrogating her on how to find, interdict, and then bring harm to
Steadman.
Holly felt a bit trapped. Then, somehow she found the courage to shed the skin of her
former life. Holly started with three names that appeared out of somewhere…
Holly half-choking started by saying…
“Baraq and Maurice Jones and Doris D’Artest…”

Part Three:

94
 Blueprint

NYC:
Steep Grade:
Dr. Doris D’Artest found herself standing in a queue. The queue was long and wound
around a couple of blocks. People of every stripe, nation, tongue, ethnicity, sexual
orientation, economic accomplishment or failure, and religious persuasion stood in the
cold, spitting, New York City evening mist. What brought them here? Food.
Dr. Jon Westborough spawned the mission that produced the offspring that matured into
the adult that was St. Jon’s Missionary Society.

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Dr. Jon Westborough, Senior Pastor of the Shiloh AME Church in Chicago, established
missionary work in multiple United States’ cities. Dr. Jon always focused his attention on
the urban centers.
The St. Jon’s Missionary Society fed the poor. The St. Jon’s Missionary Society found
housing for the indigent and homeless. The St. Jon’s Missionary Society provided a
modicum of healthcare for those most ‘at risk’ in America’s decaying cities.
The St. Jon’s Missionary Society was not established, and never had as its intention to
feed, find shelter for, and bandage the wounds of the likes of Dr. Doris D’ Artest.
The urban centers are where the work was most needed. The urban centers are where
the most prolific, pronounced and vulgar forms of human suffering could be found and
just bumped into. The urban centers are where Jesus was most absent in this current
iteration of the United States of America.
The urban centers are where Dr. Jon decided that he would become the face and voice
and hands of Jesus Christ. Not in Jesus’ wildest imaginations could he have envisioned
the type of wont and destruction and peril and blight that this section of New York City
now called normal.
The blast happened, that does not seem adequate. The explosion took place.That’s
way too benign. The catastrophe originated...that’s too timid.
‘Ground Zero’.
‘Ground Zero’ for New York City took place at the intersection of 6th Avenue and West
50th Street. The blast. The human invoked conflagration and ensuing earthquake. The
earth-rending and human immolating and pavement cratering forced sun arrival took
place right in front of “Radio City Music Hall.”
Traffic on that “Black Friday” after Thanksgiving Day was horrendous. Horns screeched.
Voices howled. Gridlock and traffic snarl kept every single semi-truck, delivery truck,
and car held frozen in place. No vehicle moved.
Even for New York City traffic jams, this was unacceptable. Generally, traffic inched
along. Usually, traffic moves at the pace of a snail that eats a banana. This traffic
stoppage was simply atrocious. Atrocious and unacceptable.
Every New Yorker, kept and held captive in this traffic congestion gone mad, snapped.
The cinematic frame jammed in the movie projector and the New Yorker’s emotions
belched and screamed and cat-called for someone to please—MOVE!
No one moved. No vehicle’s front tires shifted even a millimeter further or faster towards
its destination.

96
Those that were at the scene of the human incineration on that day remembered and
spoke of five, beat up, dented and scarred, white vans. The vans had wingmen in
equally beat-up station wagons that protected the front, rear and side flanks of the
rolling, center teapots.
For those who escaped being vaporized on that awful day remembered a white van at
the center of the rolling cavalry. The white van seemed to brew and spew forth noxious
fumes. The white van at the center of the assault brigade seemed to glow white. The
middle white van shimmied, spit out, and exhaled a red-hot, foul-smelling, grey and
black-tinted steam.
Those present recalled the moment, somewhere about ten to fifteen minutes prior to 6
pm EST, when the crawling caravan of death stopped. All five vehicles just stopped.
That drove the New Yorkers crazy.
There were packages to deliver, shopping sprees to plunge and indulge into, Christmas
presents to buy, once-in-a-lifetime prices to scarf up, leftover turkeys to baste and boil
into next day’s soups, and football games to watch and wager on.
As the traffic jam backed further and further up, some of the New Yorkers foolishly got
out of their trucks and cars and vehicles, and approached the stalled warhorses with the
intent of giving the slobs, who were impeding their daily progress and holiday shopping
sprees, big pieces of their minds.
Those foolish few were soon mowed down by hail storms and maelstroms of
Kalashnikov rounds. For ten full minutes the assault took place. The convincing thing
about a round of ammunition hurled at accelerated velocities from the muzzle of a
Kalashnikov submachine gun at close range is that it is indiscriminate.
The Kalashnikov rounds, and the mortars and grenades that were its cousins that
accompanied the brigade level assault on the innocents who just happened to be at the
corner of 6th Avenue and West 50th Street on that mournful day, cared not one whit if
the soft flesh that absorbed its collusion was a woman, child, or just a silly passerby.
The true carnage. The real human annihilation took place directly and precisely at the
stroke of 6 pm EST.
As the Time’s Square Big clock struck six bells, hell was unleashed on New York City.
The music died that day and at that hour.
Radio City Music Hall and every single standing structure for two square blocks instantly
exploded. From the inside out, from the outside in...fires raged. Buildings and internal
framing and exterior facades...and the people inside and around them who felt secure in
their concrete fortresses, melted at light-speed.

97
Gas Lines that wound like serpentine strands of gnarled hair underground and
underfoot, plus all of the rolling gasoline tankers in transit, just ignited. Every kind of
atmospheric gas under pressure lit up and caught fire.
A gaseous, white-phospherous cloud of pure death first rose up, then went Kaboom!
And began dropping poisonous metal fragments, like leaflets pushed out of a hovering
helicopter. The gaseous white-phospherous cloud choked and literally set afire the
lungs of every man, woman, and child for a stretch of twenty to thirty square blocks.
Three weeks past the event. Dr. Doris D’Artest stood in a breadline of her own making.
Her guts blew a fire that only those truly taken advantage of completely understand and
must grapple with.
Dr. Doris D’Artest looked at the faces and the broken bodies and the hopelessness of
her fellow-city-dwellers and knew that she, and she alone, was to blame for this
mayhem.
While the mist and the slurry of rain and sleet blurred Doris’s vision, two people each
clad in denim half-vests and trousers approached her. One, an African-American
woman who was the size of a small teakettle tapped her on the shoulder and said:
“Come with us…”

Dr. Doris D’ Artest:

Hungry, Cold and Gob-Smacked
The place looked like an abandoned penthouse. The lights, power, water, and luxurious
amenities of New York City’s upper-west side no longer existed. The building was
thirty-five stories tall. Doris and her captors--for that is how Doris viewed the two people
who now held her in their grip--walked up all thirty-five flights of stairs.

The electricity and power grid that brought life to lights and heat to furnaces long ago,
blew apart. The notion of how to fix and repair any of the most common city
infrastructure that make up and identify a modern city were not even passing thoughts
to anyone.
Survival. New Yorkers were obsessed with finding food, shelter and some way to exit
this city.
Doris stopped several times and asked permission to ‘breathe’. The two guides, one a
mid-sized rotund man of Cherokee and Italian descent who went by the strange name
of “Wisdom”, permitted Doris a few short breaks.

98
When the three people, two women and one man, reached the thirty-fifth
floor...opulence gone blind greeted them.
The Moroccan marbled floors now had a blackish tar embedded into their formally
highly and oft-polished slick surfaces and connective crevices. The Parisian, Fleur-de-lis
wallpaper had a burnt, crisp-edged, non-designer tone where the fires burned. The
entire top floor of this very expensive condominium complex, that only weeks ago
housed New York City’s finest and most refined, now smelled of charred remains and
endless cinders and falling ash.
The two leaders knocked on the door of the top floor residence and mumbled some
magic and unintelligible (to Doris) password. The door opened and only Doris passed
through the transom.
The two members of the delivery squad disappeared into the quiet night of Doris’
memories.
Doris expected to enter a burnt-out mansion. She envisioned an old manse covered in
cobwebs and crumpled and crumbling infrastructure. She thought of exposed timbers
that were blackened by fire and left exposed to the elements. What she encountered
countered, canceled, and reframed all of her lackluster imaginations.
On the other side of the door, the safe side, Doris was greeted by a man in a denim
jacket and jeans. On his shirt and denim vest was embroidered the simple name,
“Fame.”
Doris noticed, how could she not? That the room and the entire expanse of the
upper-echelon penthouse suite held a warm glow. The light seemed to emanate from a
tiny Nautilus shaped night-light that leaned against a wall socket that used to provide
electricity. The now blown out light socket was near the place where the non-working
fireplace stood.
Doris was greeted with kind words and thoughtful expressions. Doris wondered for her
safety. Doris looked around. There were a dozen or so other people that milled about
and brought food and warm tea to her and Fame.
All of the people present...men and women...mostly men, seemed to withdraw into the
baseboards as Fame began to speak.
Once refreshments and food were provided, more food by the way than Doris had seen
in any given setting since the “Second Big Bang” blew up most of her world, Fame
started the evening’s discussions…
“Hi Doris. I’m Fame. My former, given name no longer matters. Please try and relax. I
can assure you that no harm of any kind or type will come to you. You are in the safe

99
confines of, “The Nautilus Krew” now. And given some of your past behavior...you
should be very glad and grateful that it is us that found your first.
“...I can assure you that the Feds, and every single triple-digit intelligence and
enforcement agency in the United States, are searching for you.”
Fame let that remark set in a bit. Doris started to squirm and contemplated the math of
how far a bound it would be if she somehow managed to pry open one of the ceiling to
floor windows and take her own version of the leap of faith.
Fame kept going…
“We know, let me rephrase that, our Nautilus Krew knows a scant amount of your
involvement in this catastrophe, that has brought such ruin and annihilation to five
United States’ cities and the precious people that had the misfortune of living in and
around New Madrid, Missouri.
“...What we want...what we need is information about someone that you are
apparently intimately acquainted with. We need to know what your role and level of
knowledge, and even perhaps your own level of personal engagement with these
human tragedies.
“...As plainly as I can ask, “Who is Steadman Medford and what do you know of
him...and what role did you play in this human decapitation?”
Fame’s opening salvo caught Doris a bit off guard. She did not know how to respond
quite yet.
Her mind and spirit and perfectly honed intellect sought information to absorb, adapt,
and then process. Doris needed time to think. No such time would be forthcoming.
Doris was in a pinch. Seldom was the famous Dr. Doris D’ Artest in a pinch. And almost
never was Dr. Doris D’ Artest compromised.
Doris looked around the room. The men and women that held her captive all seemed
happy. This to Dr. Doris was absurd.
The city, her city, New York City, was a shambled mess.
The men and women that held her captive all seemed well fed. This to Dr. Doris was
beyond comprehension.
The city, her city, and all New Yorkers now were starving scavengers.
The men and women that held her captive all seemed warm. This to Dr. Doris was
baffling.

100
The city, her city, and all New Yorkers now were cold and many were homeless and
almost every dwelling place was nonfunctional at some provisional level.
Dr. Doris D’ Artest decided it was in her best interest to not only cooperate with these
ragtag ruffians...but maybe to strike a deal with them.
Dr. Doris D’ Artest, MIT Grad and physicist extraordinaire, was flat out gob-smacked by
the tiny, little Nautilus light device, that against all odds, seemed to keep this space
warm, lit, and its inhabitants quite happy and secure.
Doris looked at Fame. Fame, and ruffians like him, three weeks ago, she would not
have permitted to shine her Jimmy Cho shoes. Doris offered to Fame a bargaining chit:
“ ...Here’s my offer: I’ll tell everything I know that interests you. In exchange for this
pirate’s booty. You tell me how the hell that little thing-a-ma-bob lights up this room and
keeps it warm works…
“That fair?”
Fame, without hesitation said, “Yes.”

Dr. Doris D’ Artest:

Chatty Accomplice and Hapless Victim
“After he got everything he needed and wanted from me…
I never heard from him again…”
Steadman was a man of might. Steadman was a man of mighty and evergreen financial
capacity. Steadman was a man who believed in compartmentalism. Steadman built silos
for his lovers.

101
 “I met him at a conference on nuclear accelerants…”
That’s how Dr. Doris D’Artest started her confession.
Doris thought back to those swarming and intelligent early days…
“I was the keynote speaker. I’m MIT trained. I served till all of this madness happened
on the faculty at MIT and also @ NYU. I seem to have little recollection of those days
now...but meeting Steadman. That day I will never forget…
“...After I concluded my remarks in front of the most esteemed collegiate of nuclear
academics the world has yet to produce, this man comes up to me. Of course, I know
who he is. He’s Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh!
“...Anyone in the arts, and those who rely upon the generosity of grants from those
fortuned for their life and works to prosper and move forward, know of him. To gain a
grant from his ‘Medford Foundation’. Well now, that is indeed a high watermark in any
academic’s life.
“...Steadman waited patiently as the crowd of well-wishers thinned. He came up and
introduced himself to me in the most formal of all manners. He approached me in the
most humble and docile of ways.
“...Do any of you know Steadman? He’s charming and strikingly handsome. He’s 6 ‘ 3”
tall. He’s extremely fit. He carries himself with the dignity that only ‘old money’ really
knows.
“...He asked me to dinner at his private residence. I was a bit taken aback. He
assured me that no ‘hanky panky’ was on his mind. He dropped the names of a few of
my more accomplished colleagues that would also be at this dinner. Colleagues that I
was more than aware were former, or recent “Medford Foundation” winners.
“...He let me know that a limousine from his livery would pick me up at my residence
at precisely 6:30 pm EST. He let me know that I would be home by eleven pm EST
because he respected all of our time and schedules.
“...At precisely 6:30 pm EST, my doorman buzzed and informed me that a car was
waiting for me. The car took me to Steadman’s private New York residence. He owned
the entire “Hudson View” complex. His penthouse occupied the entirety of the
eighty-third floor.
“...At dinner, the talk was on nuclear devices and the potential for unseemly
characters to find their way to processed and enriched uranium and plutonium material.
“...Steadman declared his rock-solid, resolute determination that under no
circumstances should such a debacle in the making be allowed to take place.

102
 “...The academics talked into the wee hours of the night about their work, their safety
procedures, their staunch and highly secured access protocols, and how their work
simply must move forward, despite such lurking perils.
“...I assure you that this discussion lasted long into the wee morning hours.
“...As I was leaving, Steadman took me aside. He asked me if we could have dinner
sometime soon. Only on a professional level of course. He hinted that there could be a
generous ‘Medford Foundation’ grant in my near future.”
“...Two nights later, I slept with Steadman for the first of what blossomed into
hundreds of times. We two became the closest of allies and the most sensual lovers.
“...Steadman is the love of my life. Steadman bought me an apartment on the upper
west end.
“...Steadman opened up the kimono of his life and his values and his Vision during
hundreds of long, sleepless, and passion filled nights.
“...What I am about to share with you came to me via the expense of my own very
broken and shattered heart. Shattered heart and violated body. For I love this man. If he
ever came back into my world, I would dash myself once more on the granite rock face
of self-delusion for just a moment or two to be held again in the strength and rapture
and adoration of his embrace.”
Fame leaned in a bit. He could care less about Steadman’s love-making skills. He was
not here to be titillated by some woman’s woebegotten tale of love gone amiss. Fame
needed information about Steadman. He sat back on the sofa cushions and asked how
Steadman developed these roving kilns of super death.
Doris asked if there was a working bathroom. She was led to a broken down and
smashed in loo that had a plastic bucket with a pried off toilet seat-lid glued to it. When
Doris returned to the spacious living room, she looked out on the setting that now was
New York City.
She saw blackness. Blackness and thousands of twinkling starlit glows that shone forth
from the former kitchens and living rooms of apartments across her now very
bludgeoned city. From some of the windows, there were angelic arcs, like those that
hover above the heads of saints in paintings of old. Doris wondered if these apartments
also were warmed and kept close by these strange light fixtures that glowed.
Doris wondered of these twinkling lights that seemed to glow like fireflies. Her thoughts
were interrupted by a serving patron who brought her a warm cup of tea and crumpets
to nibble on.

103
Doris let Fame know that she was getting to the answer to his question. But she had to
set the stage for how Steadman surreptitiously extracted this guarded information from
her. Doris let Fame know…
“Fame. I may be love-struck. But, I’m certainly not stupid. And you have to realize that
Steadman is very persuasive. He gets what he wants. Everytime. No exception. I love
and idolize him…
“...You also have to understand that I’m an MIT trained expert--there are a handful of
us that populate labs across the faces of many nations--in nuclear accelerants. What
that means, what the possessors of these kinds of radical information know quite
exclusively how to excite enriched electrons and protons and make them go boom.
“...I’m a mixologist of sorts. I’m an Alchemist! I take things that otherwise would be
dangerous, but somewhat inert, and make them instruments of global, mass
destruction.
“...I’m a treasured asset of the United States Government. I know stuff that nations
salivate to know. I have built models that rogue nations and their roughnecks simply
cannot figure out.
“...What I’m about to tell you took me months and months to spin, and then calculate,
and then bake into mankind’s most heinous of all souffles.
“...The reason I’m going to tell you this is primarily because that son-of-a-bitch
Steadman used me like a cheap, third rate hooker. I will never forgive him for that. Once
he got what he wanted from me, he dropped me like I was yesterday’s beggar.
“...The other main reason I’m going to tell you this is because I damn well expect you
to tell me how that thing-a-ma-bob, propped up next to that non-working and useless
electrical socket, works. That thing over there has got my attention.”

Witch’s Brew:
Pillow Talk Secrets
The night was in full effect. The wisps of fog lilted upward and shrouded the thirty-eighth
floor former palace in the sky from any outside gawkers. The gathering dispersed for a
few moments. Men, mostly men and a few women, used the restroom, refreshed their
coffee mugs with hot and fresh black energy, and took a moment to get some fresh air
on the canopied observation deck.

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This New York City night was cold. Darkness hid the freezing mist. Stars glittered in and
out of focus. Visible to all were the glowing, warm lights that sprinkled from the
architecture of buildings large and small.
Yes. The work of Prof Tribute and his mega churches worked. Millions of innocents
across the national tapestry, that was still the United States of America, found warmth
and light and spiritual hope because of “Phobos.”
When the Krew and Doris settled back into their chairs, a welcome mat of
understanding seemed to cement their bond. Doris felt less compromised. She actually
noticed herself being drawn towards these outliers, that only hours ago she would have
disdained and even cursed.
Doris remembered the nights spent as a young, adolescent pre-teen and teen at church
camp. She recalled the singing and the campfires and s'mores. Doris noticed that the
thing-a-ma-bob seemed to reincarnate church camp for those near and far who felt and,
in some way, warmed to the tincture of its glow.
A few women appeared out of nowhere. Each sat still as a New Yorker in a massive
traffic jam who was wedged into a car. Each had a steno pad and ink pen in hand.
Fame told them to write down every single word that came from the mouth of Dr. Doris
D’Artest. Whatever she was about to say, The Nautilus Krew depended upon hearing
and retaining and knowing.
Doris started with a bit of a dissertation. She did not intend for anyone here to actually
hear and comprehend her remarks. But, she needed a glidepath of her own making to
gain the lift that would provide some shred of understanding for these mere mortals
seated around and about her.
“Steadman let me know that he and a few of his most trusted cohorts--he let me know
that I was now way inside the circle of trust--had obtained six, precious kilos of highly
enriched, weapons-grade plutonium.
“...He let me know that through his extensive and very tight-knit networks that the
material was now stateside, secure, and ready to be deployed.
“...He told me about his plan for roving and rolling teapots. He let me know that he
intended to build, and then position and detonate mobile kilns.
“...He showed me the raw graphics and the hand-sketched tea kettles and their
holsters. He walked me through his plan…
● Construct five rolling death kilns
● Position them at the proper time in some foreign cities
● Watch them blow up a bunch of stuff and kill multiple thousands of people

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 “...He promised me the purpose was to get the attention of what he believed to be a
toxic and bloated United States of America.”
Doris caught her breath a moment. What she was about to divulge, what she was about
to confess, marked her as the sole culprit and key mastermind to Steadman’s guile…
“I promise you that I did not know he was going to do this to our nation. He asked me
to give him the key...how to make his gadgets go ‘boom’. I told him his missing
ingredient was—Graphite.
“...You cannot know the shame and guilt and anger I have borne these last three
weeks. I gave him the key ingredient. I unlocked Pandora and set her free. You see,
graphite is the secret sauce.
“...Graphite is easily and readily accessible…
“...Graphite is formable and malleable and can be easily shaped and applied like
Playdough…
“...Graphite is highly combustible and works easily with almost any kind or type of
flammable substance…
“...Graphite is both a sealant and an accelerant ‘par excellence’!
“...I’m the guilty one. I told him how to take the highly enriched plutonium and taught
him step-by-step how to warm and excite the atoms and molecules…
“...I’m the one who taught him how to measure temperature settings and how to gain
exothermic valuations without the capacity or need to build a chain reaction…”
Doris started to weep. No one came to her aid. After untold moments of sobbing and
crying and soul-wringing Doris added her final remarks…
“All of this, that bastard squeezed out of me, in and during and after our sexual
encounters. You see, the desire to control others at any cost and no matter the means
is our shared aphrodisiac.
“...He, Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, took my brain power and handed it to
worthless nobs and religious nincompoops. What they did with my beautiful wisdom
blew up my own world.”
Doris sat upright and completed her confession by saying…
“At our final breakfast, the last time I saw him or spoke to him or heard anything from
Steadman, he asked me to write a simple formula for him. On a napkin, I wrote the
vesper of death that resulted in my city becoming this portal of death…
“My lover took my deep-life-long-learning and built hell-wagons with it. I promise
you—I can kill that bastard. I probably won’t get the chance...but I could. Steadman

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Achilles Medford, the Seventh, stole my heart and stuck a syringe into my brain and
sucked out all of my life’s achievements.
“Now, I’m the hunted one.”
Fame stared at Doris and wished for some compassion. None arrived. Fame decided
the only pennance worthy of such evil was to help, in some small way help The Nautilus
Krew find a way out.
Fame leaned into his words and said to Doris…
“Steadman. Will you lead us to find and capture this man?”

The Unicorn:
The Life and Guile of Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh
Doris days ago decided, that when she was captured by some caped crusader or some
thug of the United States government, that she would tell everything about this man
named Steadman Medford, the Seventh. Doris made up her mind that her bespoiled
lover deserved worse than death for what he did to her.
So, when Fame asked for reliable information and an equitable amount of ammunition
about Mr. Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, Dr. Doris D’Artest was a willing and
vibrant fount of information.

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Doris started with Steadman’s mother…
“His mother. I never knew her. He often spoke of her. This woman grew a son that
was groomed to overthrow the government of the United States of America.
“...His mother told him he would be the one that would exact their family’s pounds of
flesh from what she considered an illegitimate form of government.
“...I have no idea what the offense or offenses were that drove such hatred. But I can
tell that his mother called Steadman, ‘The Unicorn’.
“...Steadman was raised with the belief that he would free his family from the
oppression that they saw in the United States of America and its government.
“...What’s so interesting is the Medford’s date back to the Mayflower. You knew that
didn’t you? The Medford’s were signers of, “The Mayflower Compact.” The Medford’s
built the very first monopolies for tobacco, firearms, alcohol, beaver pelts, and real
property that America ever knew.
“...The Medfords formed and founded, ‘The Massachusetts Bay Colony’. So whatever
her ire with this nation is or was remains a puzzlement to me. I mean, The Medford’s
are one of the richest families in the world.
“...Day after day...night song after night song, Steadman’s mother whispered
revolution into his mind. Revolution and divine leadership. Steadman’s mother told him
that he was ‘The Unicorn’. That he was the chosen one. That he would dethrone the
chumps that kept her family down.”
Doris paused and cleared her mind a bit. She took herself back to those tender
moments when she and Steadman were locked arm-in-arm and
slight-breath-chest-to-chest. Doris traveled back to those nights when she and
Steadman were interlocked, her head on his rising and falling chest. In those exchanges
Steadman told her…
“I am a winner. Winner means a whole slew of dunderheads and pissants have to
die.”
Doris looked at Fame and said:
“Steadman is a Visionary. He sees a new form of Government arising. Steadman is a
globalist. He believes the Guild--his Guild, of his making and imagination and then
careful construction--is the proper form of future governance.
“...Steadman is an Annilhist. He sees and views chaos, anarchy, disruption, and
scarcity and wont (for others, never for himself) as the proper tools and appropriate
agencies for uprooting and replacing the United States government.

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 “...Steadman is a Darwinist. He believes in natural selection. And he believes that the
universe naturally selected him to overthrow and replace the United States of America
and its governmental institutions.
“...Steadman is an Apex Predator—he believes that his very being represents the
highest and best form of human dominance. He readily relishes the chance to take on
all comers.
“...Steadman is the Smartest Person in Any Room. It is simply impossible to thrust and
parry intellectually with him. His retort skills are deft and his verbal knives and swords
are well-honed. Once he has you in his sights, I’m telling you from experience...you will
lose the confrontation.
“...Steadman is Manifest Destiny—he believes the hour of the United States of
America is passed and is in-fact a hindrance to humanity. He sees himself as the
liberator of humanity.
“ ...Steadman is an Originalist—his family boarded the Mayflower. His family found a
new world. His family built the first settlements. His family survived those first three,
brutal winters. His family built the first logging businesses. His family hunted down the
beavers. His family forged alliances with the Algonquin and the Mohawk. His family
sided with the British and then became Patriots. His family invented and then formed
up, ‘The Massachusetts Bay Colony’. He believes now, he will be the one that creates
the greatest form of governance the world has ever seen or experienced. And he is the
Originator!
“...Steadman is a Financial Fascist—he loves money. He loves people with money. He
loves anyone that gained large fortunes. If you did so through nefarious and even
criminal means, that gives and earns you larger credit with him.
“”...Steadman Demands Homage and Service—all who get somewhat close to him must
eventually worship him. That’s the exchange rate, he gives you stuff and you worship
him.
“...God. Steadman hates God. He hates god in any form or variety. He is an
indiscriminate hater. He hates Jews, Muslims, Christians, Budhists, and Hindus. Any
god or deity that takes away Steadman’s sunshine is his direct and stated enemy.
“...You know the Egyptian sun-god Ra? Steadmand believes that he is the reincarnation
of Ra.
“...Those closest to him call him ‘Ra’.
“...I never would. I thought this was pure bullshit and told him so, and even mocked him
for it. That seldom went over well with him.”

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Doris closed out her discussion about Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh by
asking Fame:
“Do you know about Isla Ocho?”
Fame shook his head and said, ‘yes’.
Doris stared Fame down and said;
“To understand Steadman, you have to understand and fully comprehend ‘Isla Ocho’.
To understand and fully comprehend ‘Isla Ocho’, you have to know about, and then fully
understand and try to comprehend: ‘Isla Nueva’.”

Dr. Doris D’ Artest:

Public Enemy Number One
Fame suggested a break was necessary. The dawn would soon rise on the eastern
horizon...dawn comes early in New York City. Fame showed Doris a small entertainment
room that his team converted into sleeping quarters.
Doris had a mattress and a frayed woolen blanket and a pillow to sleep on. Doris
dreamed of gadgets and gizmos. Doris wandered to a valley called “AkelDeema” in her
dreams…
Doris saw Nautilus lights--thousands of these strange things-a-ma-bob—glow bright in
her very real dreams.

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Doris noticed herself wafting above the ‘AkelDeema’ terrain that looked like a
moonscape. Only the moonscape had been scraped, tilled and despoiled by large,
crawling earth-moving machines and the men who drove them.
Doris saw in her dreams a granular substance that glowed like radium. White hot and
phosphorescent were the sparkling and glowing particles. Only the lasting impact, of
any time spent with the seemingly God-infused material, left the observer with a sense
of completion--completion and distinct soul comfort.
A knock on the semi-closed door stirred Doris out of her deep REM sleep. The Krew
member asked Doris to rise and ready herself for the day’s discussions. Doris felt
groggy. Her mind and worn-out body pushed back against the few hours of disturbed
sleep.
Doris fumbled through her morning routine. No warm shower or running water fed any
sinks or tubs. Doris noticed a washtub filled with already used water, soap, and a soiled
wet towel.
Doris scrubbed off the body odors and sandy grit as best she could. The ash and grit
and fine dust that now raced around the streets and alleys of New York City and its
boroughs was omnipresent. Omnipresent and impossible to avoid or rid from your body.
The worst part is the sandy, silty grit had a rough-coarse sandpaper like texture to it.
The grit was both invasive and highly irritable. Doris washed as many of the fine, grit
sandstone particles out of every open orifice of her once very clean and carefully coiffed
body as she could.
Doris noticed that the Krew attendant never left her post as a sturdy sentinel and
constant and highly aware sub-Lieutenant.
Doris made her way back to the main living space. The morning sun warmed the room
that boasted fifteen foot high ceilings and a once upon a time striking mural of a
mountain-scape from some far away place as its main focal point. The mural now more
resembled an ancient scroll that had somehow escaped the fires of hell. Its corners and
ridges were burned and charred.
But the image of the far away mountain could still be seen. This scene gave Doris some
element of hope. Doris was always a glass-half-full kind of girl. Doris lived life to the
fullest. Doris always looked for the sunny side of the eggs that were sizzling in her life
skillet.
Fame greeted Doris with a warm embrace and a morning hug. Two silent attendants
brought forth a hard-boiled egg, a piece of almost fresh and lightly toasted bread...and a
steaming big mug of rich and luscious coffee.

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Coffee! Coffee and toast! Coffee and toast and a hard-boiled egg! Doris felt like she’d
died and gone to heaven. This meal she savored. Doris took a long time to sip her
warming and now very rare morning elixir.
Doris spoke not a word. Fame just sat with her and also did not speak a word. Doris
wondered about these strange people that had sort-of rescued her, and at the same
time kept and held her captive.
As the sun gained the advantage on the new day, it was Doris that broke the silence.
“Who are you people? Where do you come from? Why have I not known of you
before? What do you know about me? What do you want from me? Why are you so
interested in Steadman? And, if I tell you all I know, are you going to hurt me? Or, are
you going to let me go home?”
Fame let Doris’ questions hang in the balance. A comfortable silence filled the thus far
pleasant gaps of time. Fame let Doris know…
“Who we are and why you don’t know us is of no consequence to you yet. We know a
good deal about you, Dr. Doris D’ Artest. What we want from you is information. It’s
unlikely that you will be hurt, so I think you can erase that concern from your mind. I do
not think you will ever be allowed to leave our grip.
“What you may know, but haven't quite made eggs of yet, is that you are probably the
most sought after criminal in the entire world right about now.
“What you need to get your mind around is that the people that blew up our nation’s
cities and its energy supplies, the ones that are left and can be hunted down, lassoed,
and captured are being rounded up and interrogated right about now. And that your
name, the name of ‘Dr. Doris D’ Artest’ is being thrown around with words like, ‘Public
Enemy Number One’...and ‘Million Dollar Reward’. This is offered for any information to
your whereabouts and assistance with your capture.”
Fame let that blockbuster reality freefall and find a resting place inside of this former,
national treasured asset of the United States government. Fame revved his engines and
started the day’s now unpleasant conversation by stating:
“You are lucky, Doris. We found you first. What we need. What we want is for you to
tell us how to find, find and unwind, and then topple the empire that Steadman Medford,
the Seventh is building.
“Then, and only then, once we have properly digested and fully assessed the veracity
of your confession, will we, not you, Doris, decide (your day’s of deciding your own fate
is now past tense young lady) your fate with our group. Or, we may decide to just

112
release you to the Feds and be done with you. You do get to decide which side of that
city street that you walk upon.”
Doris stared at this strange man with the equally strange name of ‘Fame’ straight in the
face. Doris let him know…
“You cannot beat, let alone defeat or topple Steadman and his Guild with toy ray guns,
magical nightlights, and prayers to some mystical god.”

Isla Nueva:
Heirless and Impotent
Fame stood up and went over to one of the ceiling to floor length windows. The rays of
sunlight caught him full in the face. Doris thought she saw an angel. For a moment, a
brief whisper of time now passing, Doris saw a halo of radiant light shimmer ‘round the
face of this very strange man named, ‘Fame’.

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Doris shook herself and, in doing so, sent a mental note that she was in a pickle here.
Dr. Doris D’ Artest never felt cornered or mounted. Not for one moment in the entirety of
her life did Doris ever feel ambushed or vulnerable.
Fame spoke into the sunlight that now framed his still very beautiful face, a beautiful
face that one-time and in a different universe swallowed the amber and red and green
bright halogen lights. Fame once headlined on broadway. Those were the days
Fame came back to the present tense. He began to speak words not to Doris, but more
to himself. Fame began to build something of a case in his mind…
“Steadman is many things. He is a fool who thinks himself a god. He is a spoiled-brat
that lived life on the right-side of the tracks. He is a charlatan and self-deified shaman
that thinks himself capable of running everyone else’s life. He is a smart-guy who has
enough power and pull and money to eliminate any critics. He is an anarchist and is
willing to kill thousands of people to get his own way.”
Fame just kept looking into the sunlight and refused to blink. Fame turned around to
face Doris, and as he did so, he adjusted his eyesight to clear the sunstreaks from both
retinas and also to begin the day’s unpleasant conversations.
“It makes no sense to me. I get what you are saying and all. But, the guy has
everything. He has money. He has power. He is obviously good looking. He’s a
charming dude. Women like you love him and give him anything he wants. Clearly he
has political influence. What’s the missing piece here? What am I missing?”
Fame walked over and sat down right across from Doris. He looked her in the eye and
asked again;
“What am I missing?”
Doris stared back at Fame and replied;
“Isla Nueva.”
These two strange words lingered in the room like the scent of burnt garlic left too long
on a stovetop. Doris leaned into the conversation…
“You know of ‘Isla Ocho’. You know about the massive, gigantic operations center that
runs Steadman’s empire. For all I know, you have spies that somehow infiltrated and
bugged the place.
“...That seems impossible to me. But you all seem pretty clever to me. But have you
ever asked yourself what ‘Isla Ocho’ means? Huh? Have you ever asked yourself why
Steadman named his command center and the seismic capital of his Admiralty, ‘Isla
Ocho’?”

114
Fame sat catatonic. Something important was about to arrive. Some nugget of
information that perhaps would open up an entire galaxy of options sat right in front of
him. Fame forced himself to say nothing.
Doris squirmed a bit on the blanched out former $30,000 designer couch. Doris sipped
her coffee and let some sunlight enter Fame’s mind…
“Steadman is the Seventh. Think about that for a moment. He has no ‘The Eighth’. He
and Holly tried for years. And nothing. So, he took on consorts. I am one of the many.
And nothing. Not a single speck of his sperm to my knowledge ever impregnated a
single tart or trolip.
“This infuriated him. Trust me. He is heirless. He has no progeny. He has sired no
generational legacies. The Medford mystique and power goes silent upon his death.
“He knows this. It gnaws at him. He cannot pass on anything of his perceived
greatness. He cannot be eternal. He knows that he is not immortal. There is no one that
will occupy the chair of power and the place of global jurisdiction on ‘Isla Ocho’.
“He built ‘Isla Ocho’ for his heir. His heir that clearly is not going to appear. So, to
combat that vacuum. To overcome this one life deficiency that he cannot fix, he built
‘Isla Nueva’.
“You, or someone in your organization needs to go there. You need to infiltrate and
study that place. You need to spend some time analyzing that island of greed and
infertility gone mad. Then, and only then, will you, Mr. Fame, understand Mr. Steadman
Achilles Medford, the Seventh.”

Isla Nueva:
Crown Jewel
Steadman sat in his rocking chair on Isla Nueva. He watched and witnessed his version
of creation rev up and subdue the earth.
For years people asked Steadman about his succession plans. Men and women
reminded him that ‘time marches on’. People wanted to know if he and Holly were going
to have children.

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Steadman sought out and hired the best medical professionals that his or anyone else’s
money could buy. He and Holly were tested and probed and sliced and time-stamped
and barcoded and sampled. He and Holly both endured and walked through endless
seasons of fertility treatments and in vitro petri dish experimentations.
Both Steadman and Holly swallowed and ingested the oddest concoctions and chemical
potions and intelligent-fertility-cult ‘cures’ and ‘remedies’ and fertilization ‘accelerants’
any human could fantasize. All of these mortise and pestle crushed and hammered
blends promised procreation.
Steadman forced himself and Holly to try all of them--multiple times.
Nothing worked.
Over time, Holly could not withstand the poking and piercing and bi-sectioning of her
most private of parts via the sharpest of scalpels. She told Steadman, ‘no more’.
As Steadman sat and watched his adopted children at play, he remembered the day
that Holly called it quits. He sat back in his rocking chair, sipped his mid-afternoon apple
martini and could hear her sweet voice.
Holly and Steadman were traveling to Spain on Mayflower II. No, it was Portugal they
were heading for. The steam across the Atlantic from the Florida Keys was slated to
take six full days and seven nights to complete.
There in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean with servants racing around in hushed flutters,
Holly let Steadman know…
“I can’t do it anymore, babe. I can’t take the disappointments. I can’t take the
rage--from you. And I can’t keep beating myself up like this.
“My dad always told me that life! is God’s business. I guess it’s just not going to be in
the cards for us to make babies. I’m sorry, Steadman…”
Steadman wished he could hear the sound of Holly’s sweet voice again. It has been
over two years since he triggered ‘The Second Big Bang’. Two full years and still he
could not get Holly to reply to a text, accept a call, or receive a gift package that he sent
and that arrived every single day at her parents’ home in St. Louis, Missouri.
Steadman raged alright. He focused his rage on God. The notion that God, any God, let
alone a god with a capital ‘G’ controlled, owned, owned and dominated and then
dictated the province of ‘life!’ never sat well with Steadman.
Steadman took his sterility and lack of virility as a personal affront. So on that night,
steaming across the Atlantic Ocean with his only real true love of life in his arms, he
imagined his own form of creation.

116
Since he could not sire any heirs of his own. Because his own loins could not produce
his own progeny. In light of the fact--the stone cold fact--that others would directly
benefit from his own risk-taking and life achievements, he imagined and then built: “Isla
Nueva.”
“Isla Nueva” sat at the very southern and eastern tip of the archipelago that formed up
the crescent shape that was geographically known as the ‘Bahamian atolls’. There were
hundreds of these tiny islands that welcomed seafarers and hurricanes.
Steadman long before had purchased “Isla Ocho.” Long before had that island been
requisitioned and then outfitted to meet the standards of technology and care that his
empire deserved and demanded.
Shortly after Holly called it quits on their futile search for fertility, Steadman found ‘Isla
Nueva.”
The island sat at the very tip of the Bahamian archipelago. The island was the
southernmost and easternmost of all of its sister and cousin islands. “Isla Nueva” was
thought to be uninhabitable.
The island had no fresh water source. The island was only two miles long and ¾ of a
mile wide. The island had no natural, protective barriers that softened the stiff and often
far-from-gentle tradewinds. Nor did it have anything close to a protective harbor or any
kind of structural, natural impediment, or even a tiny bay that could lessen the pull of the
tides.
What “Isla Nueva” did have was a lovely and gruesome reef. Some called it a ‘killer
reef’.
The reef had been built by millions upon millions of years of active coral deposits that
were rich in colors and teemed with marine life. The reef also produced the meanest,
twistiest, gnarliest, and bad-assery surf that any man or woman could ever imagine
possible. Imagine and then attempt to actually surf. Surf and live to tell the tale.
The moment Steadman saw the surf as he glided over the top of the Bahamian atolls,
he ordered his helicopter pilot to set him down right, smack dab in the center of the
forsaken paradise.
Steadman always ferried several surfboards bungee-corded to the metal skids of his
helicopter. Once he landed, Steadman stripped to his skivvies and headed to the surf.
The waters were warm and welcoming. The sun was clear and cloudless. The sea-life
was colorful and radiant. The surf was treacherous and thrilling.

117
Steadman was instantly hooked. For Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, was a
superior athlete. Steadman was a mixed-martial arts master. Steadman was also a
world-class surfer.
Steadman surfed the reef that broke from north to southwest and crested at five to eight
foot intervals and three minute sets all afternoon. He loved the fact that the swell forced
the surfers to end their pursuit of catching these waves by hurling, not tenderly placing,
them into the jagged jowls of a menacing and potentially lethal coral reef.
A lethal, coral reef that sat silently less than three meters beneath the crashing waves.
Two weeks later, Steadman purchased “Isla Nueva” and ten other uninhabited atolls
near it. Steadman did not like or wish for any seeing eyed, or pokey-nosed neighbor to
ever stumble upon his rare jewel.
Over the next two years, Steadman built a camp. No. That is not quite right. Steadman
built a training compound. He named it: “Isla Nueva.” For he sought and aimed to find
his chosen, and lucky heir.

Isla Nueva:
Formatic Transformation
“Isla Nueva.”
Steadman loved the sound of those two words. At first, he thought of naming this
training ground, ‘Isla Nueve’. His thinking was sound. Out of the ovum and sperm that
are the essence of ‘Isla Nueve’ would emerge his true heir.
This true heir would then assume their rightful throne which was, “Isla Ocho.”

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However, the longer that Steadman worked on ‘Isla Nueve’, the more his thinking
changed. The more Steadman tinkered with ‘Isla Nueve’, the more he saw that his
creation was altogether something new.
Indeed, Steadman found that his experiment on this hidden atol at the easternmost spit
of the North American continent was in fact the place where human evolution lived.
Lived, spontaneously generated, and then thrived.
Steadman changed his mind. He named his place of his creation, ‘Isla Nueva’. For here
is where the human species decided and determined--because of his superior intellect
and firm imagination--and granite force, gravity defying will--to recreate and redesign
itself.
And the model and archetypal specimen for the new creation was none other than—
Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh.
Steadman could not stand to be around young children. Babies, children, and
adolescent human beings drove Steadman crazy. He hated their nagging. He despised
their wails. He chided them for their whiney behaviors. He wished to his core that one of
these, just one of these, would be his own.
In light of the fact that Steadman could not abide children in any size, shape, or age,
Steadman decided that his heir, his ‘Steadman the Eighth’ would have to arrive via
mini-adults that were in preparation to become full grown, full forced, global leaders.
Steadman built ‘Isla Nueva’ to match his unique set of requirements:
● Stark: the island had a minimalistic approach to living
● Scant: food and water and even the shelters were built to the lowest possible,
minimalistic, livable standards
● Electronics warfare: the compound was wired for battle
● Surfing: the entire community operated according to when the tides ebbed and
flowed
● Kali: the harsh reality of daily physical combat
Stark:
Steadman shipped in, via container ship, several old, rusted out, corrugated steel,
dilapidated WWII Quonset huts. These weird looking, half-domed structures all were
fatigued by decades of neglect and almost a full century of non-use.
To Steadman, these were perfect. He wanted his charges and his would-be sycophants
and Lieutenants to live life at the most primal and even primordial of human existence
levels.

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The interiors of the Quonset huts were filled with bunks. One bunk pushed up against
and even intruded into the space of the other. Steadman wanted his would-be rivals and
potential heirs to feel squished and bothered.
Latrines. Steadman made certain not to construct any bathroom facilities. He wanted his
acolytes to squirm and have to dig their own shitters.
Fresh water and mess hall. Steadman did build out a mess hall. He installed open-aired
showers that all (both men and women) used. Not one of these provided any privacy or
permitted any up and comer, even a scintilla of personal safety, or personal retreat
space.
Privacy and all forms of modesty were detestable to Steadman. Men and women lived
alongside each other. Men and women showered amongst one-another. Men and
women frolicked in the closest of quarters.
Men and women competed in head-to-head brutal competitions against one-another.
Pushed on and on and upon. Steadman wanted every single visitor to his island (except
for the trainers and, of course, himself) to feel exposed. He wanted each of his
emerging disciples to have to scrap and scrape for position.
For Steadman, exposure meant the student had to learn to deal with seeing and prying
eyes. Prying eyes that both lusted for a chance to get a piece of that action...or to find a
physical weakness that could be exposed and pressed in the next battle session.
Scant:
Scant scarcity: Steadman permitted the barest minimum of daily, edible rations and
water supplies to be airlifted and dropped on the island. He never permitted his cargo to
be carefully dis-embargoed onto ‘Isla Nueva’.
Steadman wanted each crop of newbies to rage at each other over food and water
supplies.
Steadman loved the sight of his helicopter hovering, ten feet off of the sandy beaches,
and then dropping provisions into the center of the big circle that was situated right near
the surf with ‘X’ painted in red.
He made all of the camp dwellers wait until the helicopter disappeared into the morning
or evening skies and exit into the distant heavens. Then and only then, at the sound of
his or one of his trainer’s whistles, would the fight for sustenance begin and be waged.
Electronic Warfare:

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Electronic warfare. Steadman built a state-of-the-art center for electronic warfare. His
ultimate goal and big outcomes, at least for now, were his and The Guild’s business. His
bright little minds were the cutting edges that helped him shape futures.
Surfing:
Surfing and the fight to catch waves. Every single ‘Isla Nueva’ inductee had to surf. The
bruising and cutting of the surf and wicked killer-reef, combined with Kali and
unmatched intellectual prowess, is what Steadman’s dreams were made of.
Kali:
Kali and stick fighting. Steadman was a martial arts and MMA (mixed martial arts)
specialist. His passion was Kali. Kali was a very crude, brutal and potentially lethal form
of stick fighting.
Kali had been perfected by the Phillipinos in ancient days when their islands were
occupied by foreign oppressors. The ancient Phillipinos, robbed of any forms of
traditional weaponry, learned to defend themselves and fight for their freedoms with
sticks.
Steadman liked the purity of stick fighting. He built a stone bordered arena in the middle
of the sandy and dusty compound. The compound hardly gave shade to anyone. The
sun shone with a relentless and even-handed toll of miseries. No one could escape or
run from its dominant brilliance.
Steadman believed in suffering. At sunrise (or a bit later depending on the pull of the
surf and the demands of the daily tides) and at sunset, Kali battles raged.
Men and women fought for supremacy. These young and quickly maturing future
archers and cannonaders for Steadman’s armies engaged in hand-to-hand, bloody
conflict.
The ultimate prize. The ultimate one-up-man-ship. The daily standard bearer earned the
right (when he was present) to fight Steadman to end the day.
Never once did Steadman ever receive as much as a scratch or a welp until Quinn
Baber showed up.

The Eighth:
A Skirt Wearing Warrior

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Steadman was looking for his heir. His heir had to breathe brutality. His heir, ‘Steadman
the Eighth’ had to mimic and be able to stand strong in the pursuit of, and then
calculated meting out, of human torments.
‘Steadman the Eighth’, whether male or female, had to have a set of balls the size of
coconuts. No pussy would ever be permitted to regale as his heir and don his robe and
promenade with his scepter that pronounced his legacy’s global dominance.
Steadman worked too hard and too long to see his life accomplishments spoil on some
rotting carcass of a weakling or simpleton.
Steadman almost wore out the search for his heir apparent to arrive. Steadman nearly
toppled in his pursuit that his progeny could be found. Steadman came within a whisker
of believing that his life and its pursuits had been for naught.
For over ten years, Steadman graduated men and women into higher ranking positions
of authority in his empire. The really smart alumni were immediately shipped to ‘Isla
Ocho’. There they built out his masterpieces.
The ordinary, run-of-the-mill campers departed as graduates and found their way into
one of the branches of government, or into some national or international agency that
Steadman controlled.
The graduation ceremonies…
Those nights when DMT induced halogens and holographs grabbed the bonfire lit
nights. Those were Steadman’s peak and proudest moments. Here is when he became,
‘The High Priest’ of the arriving mega-human that he himself imagined. And that now he
himself artfully constructed.
The Program lasted one full year. The recruits all came from Ivy League universities.
The rosters never went half-subscribed. To work for one of Steadman’s companies, or,
to serve Steadman’s political and/or geopolitical interests was a career worthy of any
young, bright mind’s pursuit.
Word got out quickly. To work in the Medford world, to find your way into any high-level,
GSO Level 15 or more prominent position, you had to make it to: “Isla Nueva.”
And...you had to graduate.
Ten years of graduates. Ten years of fealty pledges to the Medford Dynasty. Ten years
of ceremonial blessings. Ten years of DMT frights and spiritual flights. And still
Steadman only flopped.

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The truth is not one single person from the thousands of applicants, and one thousand
plus graduates, met and matched, let alone exceeded, the high-water-mark that
‘Number Eight’ would need to possess in order to fulfill his life's mission.
Then, Quinn Baber arrived.
Quinn Baber first heard about the myths and realities of, ‘Isla Nueva’ while doing
post-graduate work at MIT. Quinn’s specialties were AI (Artificial Intelligence) and
Blockchain technologies.
Quinn came from a family of derailed Quakers. The Babers came to America in the
mid-1600s. The Babers were French mostly, but hailed from the middle Sexton regions
of Britain. Some of their ancestors became Quakers out of a deep disagreement with
the Church of England.
Quinn’s family owned orchards. Acres and acres of rich tiered and tilled farmland--in the
Philippines. Her forefathers abandoned the United States when the civil war began.
Their Quaker heritage and peaceable nature mandated that pacifism be their only true
personal watermarks.
Quinn’s ancestors decided to go somewhere remote and wild. Her family set their sights
on the Phillipine Islands, somewhere near a place called China.
Quinn’s family were apple farmers. Her ancestors took with them, on their journey
around Cape Horn and north and then west on the mindless Pacific Ocean, seedlings
and precious seeds that bore their signature Wincock Red Apple Label.
Quinn was raised in the streets and amongst the locals on the remote island of Batan.
The very place where one of the bloodiest of all WWII conflicts took place is where
Quinn Baber learned to stick fight.
Quinn was an only child and she was rich. Her family owned the plantation-orchard that
employed most of the people who happily resided on the island.
Quinn was a blanco. She had the pearliest, white skin any gringo ever could boast. The
sun always found her and Quinn generally walked around with a sunburn that made her
look more like an overripe tomato than a beautiful young lady.
In order to find playmates, Quinn had to learn to fight. At first, her playmates chided and
made fun of her. But as the seasons of life turned and as the calendars matured,
Quinn’s respect levels pushed through the tops of any social, barometric pressure
gauge.
Quinn took to Kali, and the ancient art-form of stick-fighting, like goats take to flower
beds in full bloom. Quinn had all of the necessary elements that any great fighter must
have:

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 ● She hated to lose far more than she desired to win.
● She despised her opponents with an unbiased internal and prejudicial rage that
only a mother rabbit comprehends when its babies are latched onto by a boa
constrictor.
● She knew warfare.
● She studied opponents and found their weakness, even if they did not know
these existed.
● She practiced incessantly and studied from the ancient masters and absorbed
their love for Kali and the spiritual lore upon which it was constructed.
● She lusted for victory.
● She analyzed all of her opponents and learned from everyone.
● She was left-handed.
● She wielded the most potent weapon of belief.
● She believed herself to be invincible.
She never lost a match. She always fought and punched above her weight class. She
knew instinctively when to parry and when to thrust.
She bore no compassion. So on the evening when Steadman challenged her, the last
person standing to the evening’s torture lesson. It was him that received the beating.

“Putang-Ina:”
Warrior School 101
To understand fighting and warfare, first you must understand dispossession. In order to
understand dispossession, you have to stare into its prelude, possession.

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Fighting and warfare find their anchors in either a person, or a people, that once ‘had’
something. To have ‘had’ something...maybe your pride, maybe your ego, maybe your
family, maybe your dignity, maybe your farmland, maybe your virginity, maybe your
freedoms...is to relish and frolic inside of the safe confines of possession.
To be dispossessed means that something that you once owned and controlled and
managed and commanded and most of all, cherished, has been raided and
pillaged--often at the very tip of a sword--from your grasp.
Your pearl of great price has been stolen from you.
This thievery. This overt robbery of your most prized of all personal possessions is the
fuel and the rich loam that stokes the fires of rage.
To be thieved of your dignity. To be forcibly removed from your homeland. To be
wickedly marched into exile...that is to understand dispossession.
Dispossession creates entire galaxies of emotions. But the shining sun around which all
other posterior and inferior planetary emotions orbit is rage.
Quinn Baber knew rage.
Quinn hated the fact that the young girls and boys, all of whom she wanted to befriend,
belched and farted in her face.
All of the young children, that could have been her friends, were the offspring of the
men and women who worked for porridge and a place to stay on her father’s orchards.
All of the young children that were lucky enough to attend school beat her, spat on her,
stole her lunch money, and ripped out her precious auburn locks.
Quinn tried bribery. She would offer sweet cakes to obtain moments of closeness from
the raffish local boys and girls. The smart ones took her bribes and mocked her
afterwards. The wicked children punched her senseless and just took her confections.
One day, Quinn found herself surrounded, once again, by the children whose parents’
work made and kept her family rich. Quinn knew and felt trouble brewing when a cadre
of boys followed a quartet of her most-hated girl nemeses into the girl’s restroom.
Quinn finished her personal business. As she exited the bathroom stall, one of the girls,
a young, brown skinned, pimply two-faced urchin named Fran, demanded Quinn hand
over her entire lunch pail...or else.
Quinn had to think fast. She saw and noticed the lust for familial revenge and economic
justice seething out of the rabid eyes of this pack of pre-adolescent jackals. Quinn tried
to reason with the pack...but the moment she started to talk, is when the jump in took
place.

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Quinn woke up ten minutes later with a kinder version of a fellow student hovering over
her. A girl who happened to enter the restroom post the fracas, ambled upon Quinn and
poked the near lifeless child, lying prostrate on the tiled restroom floor.
Quinn’s panties and matching camisole, gingham pink dress and hairbows, sandals,
and socks were strewn everywhere. Quinn bled from the vagina and annus. Quinn was
eight years old.
That night, Quinn began stick-fighting lessons. She vowed never to lose to anyone. She
promised herself that she would avenge.
Quinn emblazoned the faces of her rapists on the narthex of her memory. In the next
ten years, she found each and every one of the cowards who stalked, defiled, and
violently violated her.
She waited till they were in vulnerable and isolated places. She always carried her stick
with her. Quinn beat each of them to near death.
When Quinn left for Harvard to study quantum physics, and its obscure and distant
cousin known as ‘Human Trust Protocols’, she took with her a few clothes, some
personal items, and her baton.
She named her stick with what those boys and girls labeled her—“Putang-ina.” Roughly
translated from Tagalog into English, it means, “Mother of a whore.”
For six straight months, Quinn held back in her bouts with her contemporaries. She
mostly parried. Her thrusts were soft and non-injurious. Quinn waited. From the musky
outer rim portions of the stone-rimmed arena, she studied and built a book on
Steadman.
Each fight night when Steadman was present, Quinn observed his every move. Quinn
catalogued and stored his methods. Quinn documented his stylistic highlights. Quinn
embedded into her memory his tempos and stumblances.
Quinn learned that Steadman’s greatest strength, and his correlating stout weakness,
was his pride. So, she waited, until one day when the sun lingered the longest in its
rhythmic and orderly descent into the western darkness, to make her advance.

Shins and Forearms:

Steadman Takes a Beating
The moment.
All people work for the moment when their personal corona can shine forth.

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Every single, ambitious person knows that that moment of both recognition and then
opportunity to shine freely will find them.
The irony of such moments is no one gets this moment without putting in the solitary
years, and then correlating decades of toil. Decades of toil and misunderstanding.
Misunderstanding and mishaps. Mishaps and endless reveals of quantum and
life-shaking disappointments.
Quinn stared down Steadman. Steadman grinned. His taut muscular system glistened
with an icing of light perspiration. Steadman always took the western half of the oval
fighting dojo. This meant that his back faced the blaring, setting sun. He wanted his
vassal to battle both the brilliance of the setting sun and the flared tip of his stinging
reports.
True warriors never charge. True warriors observe first and strike second. True warriors
probe and taunt and even mock their victims.
Steadman began the fight like he did every other battle. To Steadman, a battle could be
fought in the safe confines of a mahogany paneled boardroom, or a backyard alley.
Steadman lusted for the chance to draw first blood.
Steadman toyed with the buoyant and almost nonchalant 5’ 7” auburn haired,
twenty-something in front of him. Steadman, too, studied his opponents prior to
engaging in any battle.
Steadman was a quick study. He noticed, how could he not, that the young lady named
Quinn almost never received as much as a scratch from her previous beachfront fights.
Steadman noted and catalogued that the young woman knew how to defend. But could
and would she fight?
Steadman also made note that the young woman was left-handed.
Eyes. To understand champions, you have to look at their eyes.
Steadman began the dance with a simple rant…
“So Quinn, you come from the Philippines. Do you like small dicks?”
He attempted a quick dart forward. Quinn waved off his advance with a simple parry.

Quinn panned Steadman by saying…

“All my men actually have dicks.”
The small, half-naked crowd snickered, and some even laughed. No one mocked
Steadman and got away with it.

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Steadman leaned in a bit and said,
“You bitch. I’m going to teach you what a real beating feels like…”
With that the fight ensued.
As the sun set, Quin found herself in the middle of a flurry. With the sun framing
Steadman, Quinn took herself back to that tiny and filthy restroom in the Philippines.
She remembered and squarely replaced Steadman’s face with the countenance of the
twelve year old boy who led the pack that stole her virginity.
Steadman never knew what hit him. Steadman found himself quickly turned around.
Now, he stared into the brilliance of the setting sun. Quinn began to badger and cajole.
She called him the name that the Phillipino children gave and hammered into her…
“You, Putang-Ina. You will never hurt me again…”
Steadman knew some Tagala. Steadman certainly was proficient in almost every curse
word in almost every common tongue.
At first, Steadman found himself parrying in disbelief. Did this young cunt just call his
mother a whore? All at once, rage engulfed Steadman.
He lost all sense of warrior balance. He only wanted to extract retribution. He forgot the
art of quiet and thoughtful attack.
The next thing Steadman knew, his shins and forearms were bleeding. He looked for
the thrusts from the right hand. That’s where they came from. But Quinn was
left-handed. Her shield arm was her right arm. Her punching arm was her left.
Steadman found himself confused. As the welts and cuts and lacerations on his
forearms, shins, thighs, calfs, thumbs, fingers, and abdomen began to lump and form
up, he did something unthinkable, he halted the fight.
Steadman announced that the sun was now set, although all could clearly still see by
the closing light on this day. Steadman shook the hand of Quinn Baber.
As the recruits and would-be-next-gen-leaders of and for Steadman’s empire headed
back to their barracks, Steadman sent an aid to seek out young Miss Quinn Baber.
The aid let Miss Baber know that her presence for dinner was formally requested by Mr.
Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, on his yacht, Mayflower III.
The attendant let Miss Quinn Baber know that no shower or change of clothes would be
necessary. For, she would be able to shower on the vessel and that new clothing would
be given to her to meet and match the seriousness of the occasion.

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 Destiny Moments:
A Fighting Monk Transforms into a Global Leader
Quinn Baber most certainly knew wealth. Her family owned most of an entire island.
The Baber Family provided apples and the hundreds of antecedent bi-products their
production spawned for a large portion of the Pan-Pacific Region.
Quin Baber found servants and lavish dinners and opulent palaces to be the norm.
Quinn rebuked these forms of privilege long ago. Long before Quinn found her way to
Isla Nueva, Quinn chose the life of the servile, buddhist, fighting monk.
As Quinn boarded Mayflower III, once again, she found herself immersed in a life of too
many luxuries and smiling servants.
A scantily clad servant girl named Rose, led Quinn to her own personal parlor. There
Quinn bathed while the servant girl watched and stood in wait.
Rose laid out a pearl-white evening gown, satin shoes, and a set of glittering, fire-red
ruby earrings and matching necklace for Quinn.
Rose quietly and carefully helped Quinn shimmy into a close-fitting garment and stiletto
three inch high satin heels.
Rose, never speaking a word, coiffed Quinn’s hair into a soft and stable up-doo. Quinn
carefully and delicately applied a matching soft palette of cosmetics to augment and
embellish her sun-drenched white skin.
Rose completed the ensemble by carefully placing a light-twined, silken, taupe colored
wrap around Quinn’s shoulders and ample breasts.
Quinn stared at her reflection in the three floor-length mirrors. Quinn gasped. Never in
her life had she looked this fine. Her well-disciplined muscles rippled in the setting of
arriving moonlight. Her eyes sparkled as she marveled at what a tender carousel of
caressing and intelligent care could do to help an ordinary looking girl outperform her
own personal expectations.
Quinn wondered what in the world all the fuss was about. All she did was kick
Steadman’s ass. And for that deep pleasure, she was feted to a personal gala?
The numbers did not match up. In the end, Quinn Baber believed mathematics solved
all life rhythms. Quinn was a binary number kind of girl. Here, the math did not make
sense.
Quinn wound her way up the grand staircase of Mayflower III. Seated at the head of
the ship’s captain’s table, with ice packs on his eyes, hands, arms, and abdomen, was
none other than Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh.

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Steadman did not rise. He just smiled a half-smile and waved for one of the dozen
attendants to properly seat Ms. Quinn Baber for the evening meal and following
festivities.
Quinn almost never felt uncomfortable. She could handle almost any situation that life
threw her way. Quinn was way smarter than 99.9999 percent of the people she met.
Quinn was quicker and faster and stronger than 99.9999 percent of the people she met.
Quinn Baber was richer and accustomed to life’s finer accoutrements than 99.9999
percent of the people she met.
Quinn found her stomach turned a notch or two. Her nose started to itch and twitch a
bit. Her eyes darted this way and that as she checked and searched for a way to exit
this thing, that started to feel like a Venus fly-trap.
A young male servant pulled out the chair to the right of Steadman and waved his hand
for Quinn to please seat herself. The young servant gently pushed the chair under
Quinn’s bottom, and disappeared into the mist of serving hands and rushed and hushed
commands to bring this, that, and one of everything, to the royalty seated at the ship’s
captain’s table.
Quinn and Steadman sat in silence for a few minutes. Quinn worked hard to gather her
senses and regain her spiritual and mental equilibrium. Right after the soup was served,
Steadman began the evening and said…
“You delivered quite a beating out there, young lady.”
Quinn normally would not have noticed such a comment. But for some reason she said:
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
Steadman dismissed the apology and replied:
“I had it coming. Been a long time since anyone has bested me. I’m getting old I
guess. I’ve had my eye on you for a long time now. Our team started tracking you during
your time at MIT.
“I had no idea of your passion for stick fighting, till you arrived here at Isla Nueva.”
Steadman let his comments sink in a bit. He wanted Quinn to know that what he soon
would reveal had been brewing and percolating for a very long time. As the soup bowls
disappeared and the salad forks arrived, Steadman began his formal presentation.

Destiny Moments:

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 A Father and his Adopted Daughter
A sure-handed ghost of a servant whisked away the leftover, golden-gilded salad plates,
and replaced each with the evening’s entrees. Steadman served fresh sea bass that his
staff caught this afternoon. The chef prepared an apricot marmalade as a dipping
sauce.
In mid bite, Steadman began his solicitation…
“I have been looking for you for a long time.”
Quinn glanced an eye up from her plate and wondered if she was in fact going to be
dessert.
Steadman noticed her defenses rise up and quickly fended off her withdrawal…
“Please, do not misinterpret my meaning. I am not seeking a lover. Rather, I am
suggesting that you strongly consider assuming the role of my heir.”
Quinn almost choked. She worked extra-hard to keep her quickly evaporating
composure.
“I have been without an heir all of my days…”
A long silence ensued. Steadman allowed for the thought of what his heir might feel like,
and truly encompassed it to weave its way into the innermost core of Quinn’s psyche.
The two of them finished the main portion of their meal.
Steadman rose from the table and Quinn followed suit.
The two of them made their way to the ship’s balcony that sat atop the bridge. Servants
bustled about as the moon rose steadily in the east. Tonight, the moon was almost full.
Quinn had this odd feeling rise up inside of her that her own constellation somehow just
found full completion.
A new nebula was arranging and collecting cosmic dust. Clouds were compressing.
Unnatural gasses and explosions began to spontaneously combust.
A new star—a primary Polaris—was finding its eternal source of strength and light.
Steadman and she sipped a fruity and full-bodied port. Steadman looked at Quinn. He
stared at her, not with a lover’s lust to see her unclothed, but rather with the kindness
and well-being that only a parent can muster. Muster and then cast forth.
“I had a woman in my life. Her name was Holly. She left me. We were barren. I have
had many women in my life. None of these other women mattered two shits to me,
except Holly.

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 “She left me. She left when the ‘Second Big Bang’ hit the American people.
“I think in some weird way, Holly blamed me for the big explosions. As if I could or
would have anything to do with that.”
Steadman paused. He needed to know what in the world was going on with Quinn. The
girl was opaque. Quinn was the ultimate fighter. She showed no emotion. She shed no
light on her state of being.
“I have built quite an empire.” Steadman let this tiny boast linger in the evening air.
Steadman now changed his countenance and cadence…
“I am saddened by the fact that no one that matters to me will directly benefit from my
hard work and life oeuvre. I fear not death. I fear being forgotten.”
Steadman leaned into and across the small divide that separated the man from his
would-be-daughter and asked:
“Quinn, will you be my heir? Will you be the daughter that I have never had? I know
that you are an only child. And I know that your parents both passed away many years
ago.
“You and I are twins of a-sort. We are both warriors. We are both ambitious as hell.
We both hate losing. We are both smarter than anyone we encounter. And we are both
destined to reign and rule over the slavish and weak-minded simpletons that all need
someone to point out the way for them.
“You and I can change the world, Ms. Quinn Baber.
“The world has seen lots of chaos in the last couple of years. I have been busy. I have
a teeming mass of vassals--all of whom owe me something, if not a great deal--that are
right now reconstructing America and reshaping its culture, according to the way I think
and believe.
“What I’m asking you to do is to become a princess. A modern princess that rules by
both brute force and also by intellectual and technological assets that force obedient
behaviors.
“And of course, that punishes disobedience in the most cruel and certain and unusual
ways...
“If you say ‘yes’! And I sure hope you do, then we two will leave here immediately and
head for ‘Isla Ocho’. There your throne and courtesans and jestors await you.”
Quinn sat stunned. Not in a million years did she see this coming her way.

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Quinn long had imagined a life of solitary pursuit of her passion to create a
cryptocurrency that would unify all currencies. Unify all currencies and usurp the US
Dollar from its global position of fiat dominance.
Quinn viewed America’s current desolation and reforming as a perfect place of promise
to land and launch the digital currency of her own design and making. Just how she
would accomplish such a feat had long troubled her.
Now, here, offered to her on golden trays and with Mercury’s winged feet, were the
runways and career capacity that would make her own dreams come to pass.
Quinn’s initial urge was to tell Steadman to ‘bugger off’. And to head back to the
barracks and fight one more day for survival. Then, a voice of clarity spoke two clear
words to her.
Her mind lit up with the words…”Queen Quinn.”
Yes. This was her destiny.
Yes. This explained and solved many riddles.
Yes. This completed her life mission.
Quinn sat her crystal wine glass on the table.
Quinn got up from her chair.
Quinn walked over to Steadman.
Steadman rose to meet her.
Quinn hugged Steadman ‘round the neck.
Quinn kissed her loving father on the cheek.
Quinn whispered in her father’s ear;
“Let’s set sail, Father.”

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 Part Four:
Communitas

Ta Teknon Theon:
“For Unto Us a Child is Born...Unto us A Son is Given.”

Dateline: St. Louis, Missouri Two Years After ‘The Second Big Bang’...

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Holly found herself completely unattractive. She looked into the floor length mirror and
wanted to puke again. Her distended belly seemed to reach out far enough to both
scrape the mirror in front of her and droop low enough to scratch the bottoms of her
very itchy feet. Holly wondered if she would ever actually be able to see her feet again.
Holly touched her face. Her cheeks looked more like halved and sun-drenched,
discolored coconuts than their former, rosy, slender past selves. Holly moved her hands
to her swollen and engorged breasts. Her breasts now misshapen and the size of
over-ripe cantaloupes already leaked milk.
“Not long now, little Jude, and you will feel the warmth of your first sunlight…”
Holly loved talking to Jude. Holly knew in her deepest of hearts that the child would be a
boy. Holly knew that somehow Jude would be a world-changer. His heritage and
ancestral lineage on both sides of his family tree consisted of intelligent and faithful
warriors.
Intelligent and faithful warriors that always chose to run into the eye of any storm.
Holly walked out onto the balcony of the 38th floor of the Carondelet Towers. A year
ago...had it been that long? A year ago she and Jon moved in and Prof Tribute and
Maddie moved out. What dear and endearing people those two were!
Each morning without failure or fanfare, Maddie showed up and fawned over Holly’s
every need. Maddie came over every morning and cooked her meals, washed her
dishes, bathed her aching body, and laundered her very messy personal items.
Holly made her way to the bedroom. All she seemed to accomplish these days was to
eat and eat, shower or bathe once in a while, and sleep. Holly thanked God for Maddie.
Holly tired of pregnancy. She wanted to fit into a pair of tight-fitting jeans again. The
thought of wearing any more clothes that made her feel more like a hula hoop than a
formerly, very attractive woman made her want to hurl again.

Holly closed her eyes. As she did so, the last two years marched in single file frames
back into her very active memories…
“Holly Stone.”
That’s how she greeted Dr. Jon Westborogh on that day. The day was cold and blustery.
Winds tugged and frazzled the canvas tent awning to a tattered frenzy. The combination
of mid-December rain mixed with snow pelted and clung to the dutiful workers.

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Holly, Bambi and her dad were at Forever Church serving. The avalanche of human
beings kept arriving. Wave after wave of humans just showed up. Their faces. Holly
could not and would never forget the looks on their faces. Utter and defiled terror.
Prof Tribute and Maddie set up triage units for those that were badly injured. A
makeshift morgue constructed of broken sticks and cast aside rubble always seemed to
be filled to overflowing. Holly admired the corpsmen and corps-women that silently and
with quiet dignity managed the dead.
Holly and Bambi staffed the kitchen and fed the masses. Hour after hour, day after day,
men and women walked out of their makeshift shelters and headed somewhere. Exactly
where no one knew.
But rumor was that someplace in Forest Park, near the Planetarium, an old, dilapidated
church, had food. Food and medicine. Medicine and cots. Cots and tents. Tents and
some weird gizmos that kept the night and the cold away.
Holly scooped up another generous helping of today’s lentil soup. Where the food came
from and how it kept on coming was a mystery to her. One thing to Holly was certain:
the people needed to eat.
The babies needed caring for and the elderly and infirmed had to find some kind of
healthcare.
Just as Holly was about to ladle the soup into a bowl, she noticed the hands. Large,
chocolate brown hands stained with sorrows reached out to welcome the mostly
broth-filled, warm bowl. Holly looked up and there he was Dr. Jon Westborough.
A tall man. Distinct in every way. His distinctions were overshadowed and bowed by his
obvious sorrow.
“I’m Jon Westborough...you’re new here. What’s your name?”

Dr. Jon worked side-by-side with Holly’s father and mother, and Prof Tribute.
The work and the deep-pit mine of human need that Steadman’s planned and artfully
executed catastrophes wrought never diminished.

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The human need and levels of human misery never seemed to empty. The endless and
winding queues of suffering humans never seemed to shorten.
Holly noticed herself blushing. She was reticent to reply. Out of nowhere, Holly
answered…
“Holly Stone. I’m Holly Stone. I’m Steve and Dawn’s long-lost daughter…”
Dr. Jon let out a big, loud and bellow of a laugh…
“Well now, Holly Stone. I would love to hear your story some night soon. I love your
mamma and daddy. Your daddy is one of my closest and dearest of friends.
“Your daddy has had a rough go of it with the church and the church people. That’s a
crying shame. And your mamma...well now...I think you know of some of her work…
“I’m here now. I can’t go home. There is no home to go back to for me. If you would
like, I’ll swing by after our shifts are over today and we can grab a mug of coffee and a
sweet roll. I’d like to know more about you, Ms. Holly Stone.”
Holly smiled and handed Dr. Jon his afternoon ration of soup and a hard-crusted piece
of day-old bread.
“Yes. I would like that very much. No one has asked me to talk since I got here. I
guess when you look around it’s hard to see one sort-of-healthy person these days…”

Dr. Jon Westborough:

A Husband, A Father and a Man Familiar with Sorrows
Dr. Jon found himself heading over to Prof Tribute and Maddie’s thirty-eighth floor
apartment for an emergency meeting of the “Council of Elders.” It was the first Saturday
after ‘Black Friday’. This Saturday was the first day that showed its face after the United
States of America ignited. This was the first day that followed the detonation of, “The
Second Big Bang.”

Dr. Jon spent a great deal of time with Prof Tribute and Maddie these days. Even
though Dr. Jon had a hotel room in downtown Clayton, Missouri, a little bed and
breakfast that looked right into Shaw Park, he almost never stayed the night at this
place.

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Dr. Jon loved the time with Prof Tribute and Maddie for all kinds of reasons. Their place
and any close vicinity to the two of them is where the action happened. There were
always dignitaries and Christian leaders staying and coming and going.
Dr. Jon loved the time with Prof Tribute and Maddie because Pastor Steve Stone
generally would be in the mix as a true servant and most-trusted friend and brother in
the Lord.
Dr. Jon loved the time with Prof Tribute and Maddie because he adored Maddie. The
way this woman handled herself. The dignity that she displayed in spite of her known
sorrows humbled Dr. Jon. And, Dr. Madrid Castille-Gnown was always the smartest
person in any room.
Dr. Jon loved listening to this woman invent the way the world would become.
On the Saturday following “The Second Big Bang,” Dr. Jon awoke in a stupor inside of
his tiny hotel room. He felt dizzy from a night that lacked sleep and whispered terrors.
Someone knocked on his door. He glanced at the bedside clock and noticed that the
7: 00 am CST alarm was set to go off in two minutes.
Groggily, Dr. Jon donned a robe to cover his fat belly and opened the door a crack. The
hotel’s attendant let Dr. Jon know that Prof Tribute wanted him to head over to the
Gnown’s apartment immediately.
Dr. Jon showered and grabbed a cup of coffee. All night long he pinged his wife
Annette. All night long…
All night long, Dr. Jon pinged almost every member of his Shiloh AME Church.
Desperate for some word, some sign, some divine signal flag that his wife and twelve
year old twin boys, Adrian and Adoni, were ok.
Dr. Jon worked his thumbs overtime. He pinged his secretary Sandra Wong at least a
hundred times…
SW: Are you ok? What happened? Why aren’t you answering me?
Five minutes later…
SW: Where’s Annette? Are the boys with you or her? Where are you all? Why won’t
you reply?
On and on into the night, the messages went out. On and on into the mystical ether of
text messaging, the pleas for answers and the search for assurances went unnoticed.
Dr. Jon watched the news shows. The screen blitzed and fritzed in and out.
Transmissions were sketchy and incomplete. Information was scant and specious.
Rumors and misinformation swelled, ebbed and flowed.

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What was certain is that an American tragedy, unlike any this nation-state had yet
encountered, happened. And among the cities impacted was the city of Chicago, Il.
What was equally certain is that lives were at risk and human safety hung in a very
indelicate balance.
Dr. Jon had no way of knowing that a plutonium enriched device exploded within feet of
the car that his wife and twin boys rode in. How could he know this? He was in St. Louis
on official church business.
Dr. Jon Westborough was a prominent member of the “Council of Elders.” For him to not
be present or to be unaccounted for in these most pressing of days was unthinkable.
His wife, Annette, managed in his oft-absence. She is the one that preached the
sermons and officiated at the funerals and ran all of the staff meetings when Jon had
more pressing, national affairs to govern.
His wife Annette managed their household in his oft-absence. She is the one that ferried
the boys to football and basketball practices and rode the boys hard. Annette was a
tough taskmaster. The twins’ homework assignments would always be completed
on-time and submitted according to the levels of perfection that Annette long-ago
established as suitable.
Annette expected nothing less than perfection from her near-perfect twin sons.
Annette is the one that drove Adrian and Adonis to their choir practice at Shiloh AME
Church on that Black Friday. The ‘Black Friday’ that followed Thanksgiving Day.
Annette is the one that stalled in traffic not three stop-lights from the full-block Shiloh
AME, a historical black-church campus that bordered Michigan Avenue to the North and
Adams Street to the east.
Annette and their twin boys wondered what the fuss was about.
Annette kept staring at a group of beat-up old white cars that surrounded and seemed
to provide protection for a really beat-up looking and foul-smelling white van.
Annette did not like the look or feel or smell of that strange looking white van. Her
mom's alert antenna went on instant, ‘something's not right search mode’.
The traffic just would not move. Not even an inch. This added to the disturbance that
started to grow and simmer inside of Annette’s very fertile mind.
Then...
The white van and its protective outer exoskeleton of support vehicles just all at once
stopped.

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The white van stewed and steamed. The white van seemed to brew a foul-smelling rot
that it spewed forth not one-hundred feet and five or six cars in front of the Westborough
family--right smack dab in the center of downtown Chicago.
Annette and her twin boys were not but three blocks from the entrance to Shiloh AME
Church where children were already arriving and assembling for their choir practice.
Shiloh AME Church always did a Christmas pageant that brought thousands of
church-lookers, that’s what Dr. Jon called them--on Christmas Eve.
The Shiloh AME Church Christmas pageant was famous. And the most famous part of
the pageant was the young-adult choir. Their selections always included a piece from
Mozart and a piece from Bach that the Youth Choir performed a cappella. This was their
tradition! This was their heritage! This was their majesty on full display!
Adrian and Adonis were both star, first-row tenors. The twin boys were both bright,
extremely handsome, winsome in every way imaginable, and filled with athletic prowess
and academic prominence.
The two boys leaned into the front portion of their mother’s late-model Toyota Land
Cruiser. Adrian reminded his mom that Pastor Pamela Gray, their choir director, made
no exceptions. And if they were even a minute tardy, she would not permit them to
participate in this day’s rehearsal session.
Adonis, always the leader of the two boys, asked his loving mother, Annette,
“Mamma, should we get out of the car and walk? We can make it from here and meet
you at church?”
Annette, shook her head no.
“You boys just sit tight. Maybe one of the cars, or that crazy looking van right over
there, had a breakdown or something. We’ll get you boys there on time, don't you
worry.”
The digital display clock on the late-model Toyota Land Cruiser showed: 4:40 pm CST.
At 4:45 pm CST the Imam’s personal, armored division began wailing out a maelstrom
of hell. Neither of the boys nor Annette lived to see the explosion that immolated all of
their bodies and wholly incinerated the family’s late-model Toyota Land Cruiser.
That happened at 5 pm CST. All three of them were dead before that event took place.
The ‘Second Big Bang’ triggered the end of their well-appointed and well-manicured
lives. The Westboroughs were one of thousands of families that lost loved ones on that
mournful and unlucky day.
And with their passing, Dr. Jon Westborough’s world came crashing upon him…

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 The Council of the Elders:
The Men and Women Who Decide and Invent Future
While Holly Stone-Wildfire made her way up the I-75 north, a group of men and women
huddled around mugs of hot coffee in the thirty-eighth floor, luxury apartment of Prof
Tribute and his loving wife, Dr. Madrid Castille-Gnown.
Present at this emergency session of ‘The Council of Elders’ were: Prof Tribute, his wife
and life-companion Maddie, Pastor Steve Stone and his wife Dawn Wellex-Stone, and
Dr. Jon Westborough. The ‘Council of Elders’ also included (when they were present
and available--Cap’n Rory Blair and Dr. Larry Oxford).
As Holly Stone-Wildfire kept counting and losing track, how could she not? Thousands
upon thousands of cars, buses, RV’s, motorcycles and every form of conveyance
imaginable trek south on I-75, Prof Tribute called the emergency session to order.
Prof Tribute, AKA: Dr. Alan Gnown, sat at his kitchen table that contained the most
marvelous view of Shaw Park the city had to offer or could boast. Prof Tribute began the
meeting by saying,
“I hate that I am right on this…”
The group bowed their collective heads to pray. Dr. Jon Westborough, theologian and
exceptional pastor asked the Lord…
“Please, Dear Father. Allow our family members to be safe. Please let our loved ones
be alright. Please give us clarity of speech and unclouded minds. Teach us, Dear
Father, how we are to lead your people in light of yesterday’s events. Through Christ
our Lord, amen.”
Dr. Madrid Castille, AKA, Maddie Castille-Gnown is the one that started the
conversation. It was she who held the expertise when it came to nuclear devices and
the inherent treachery that each canister of human doom concealed.

Maddie started her remarks by saying…

“Dr. Jon. I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you this. But the device that exploded
in Chicago, and mind you, we are just starting to get a scrabble of intel on these matters
from Dawn’s ‘Nautilus Krew’ members that are on the ground, looks like it detonated
within a couple of three blocks of your church building.

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 “...Steve and Dawn. My heart breaks into millions of tiny pieces to reinforce what you
both are guessing. It looks like the largest and most potent device detonated
somewhere near your family’s farm in Southeast Missouri.”
All of the caring saints present extended their deepest levels of compassion to Dr. Jon
and also to Steve and Dawn, as Maddie continued. Continued as sobs of sorrows and
subdued sighs and wails began to percolate and spew out of the insides of each and
every person present.
Maddie went on with her remarks as everyone seated at the table had to grapple with
their grief and at the same time find ways to manage the present...
“The devices—mind you, we are still less than twenty-four hours into this, so all of this
may change as updates and more reliable data sets arrive—ignited at precisely 5 pm
CST.
“The devices--all of them--seem to have been some type of highly enriched uranium
concentrate material, or, in a worst case scenario, and I’m praying to God this is not the
case, the devices--all of them--would have been plutonium enriched devices.
“If they were in-fact plutonium enriched devices, then the yields and the mortality rates
and the levels of both incerneration and the potential reach of the destructive envelope,
what we call, ‘the concussive circle’, will be somewhere between a minimum of ten to
thirty blocks in circumference from the blast point.
“Once again, as we get more information, I will update our Council on these matters. I
also hope to have some core samples some time soon. Dawn has some of her bravest
‘Nautilus Krew’ members actually volunteering to enter into the hazardous ‘no go zones’
and scrape some material together for us.
“I will go on with my initial analysis in a few minutes. But, at this point in our discussion
and fact-find, we need to check in with you Dr. Jon and you Dawn. How are you doing?
We know that your families are deep within the ‘concussive circles’. And may have
actually been at the very ‘ground zero’ or close proximity to this for the Chicago and the
Southeast Missouri devices.”
With that Maddie sat still as a tulip bulb that was planted and carefully buried beneath
the topsoil in the family garden last fall.
Dawn simply turned fire-engine red. No words came out of her mouth. No tears welled
up within her tear ducts. Dawn just raged...raged and internally vowed to avenge.
Dr. Jon Westborough went blanco. His dark, melanin-rich skin went pale. His bottom lip
quivered. His hands trembled. This six foot six inch man that weighed a minimum of

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two-hundred and eighty pounds bowed at the waist. His head thunked down hard on the
walnut kitchen table of the Gnowns.
Dr. Jon started doing the math. He righted himself. Dr. Jon sat upright again in his
chair--for this man most certainly had a chair at any table that he wanted to join forces
with or entertain.
Dr. Jon mumbled…
“Choir practice would have started at 5 pm CST...the boys and Annette would have
left the house in Wheaton about 3:15 pm CST. Annette would not allow our boys to be
tardy.
“...Traffic and the toll-roads into the city would be crushed with people and traffic. It
was ‘Black Friday’ yesterday, so the congestion would have doubled at least.
“...The boys and Annette would have been on Michigan Avenue and right near or
even just arriving at Shiloh AME..”
Awareness hit all of the members of the ‘Council of Elders’ at once. It was like the
moment a bowling ball connects at the perfect angle and speed of attack with the lead
ten pin.
All present knew, without question or even a scintilla of doubt, that Dr. Jon’s family was
at the fountainhead of the Strike!

Koinonia:
When Faith Matters
It’s hard to calculate the time it took for the tiny group of Christ Followers to regain their
bearings and reset their emotional gauges. For how can you establish a metric when
limitless sorrow is the flint and steel wool?
How can anyone set time limits or seek to restrict the expression of and upon true grief?
Who is so calloused and so jaundiced that buckling and lacerating sadness does not
penetrate the walled off corridors of their own humanity?

The group, these three men and two women took time to allow each person moments
and space to explore the depths and to ride the fathoms of their own ocean canyons.
Personal ocean canyons that yawned and swallowed even the most stout and resolute
and seemingly unbreakable soul.

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After a time, it was Prof Tribute that corralled his tiny flock and brought them back to the
table. Prof Tribute let the emotional disturbance and the wails and whimpers
intermingled with sniffles and coughs have a seat at his table.
Prof Tribute said to his beloved Tribe…
“My friends and cohorts, I’m sorry. All of us at this table saw these days coming. None
of us gloat at the fact that we were right.
“...The truth that our premonitions were not fabricated by any of us, but were in-fact
the true and certain messages of God, does not lessen or reduce our brokenness.
“...I do not preen and ask for pats on the back. I share in your losses. For each of you
present, and dozens more like you, are the only real family that Maddie and I have.”
Prof Tribute worked hard to gather his own emotional gyroscope once more. As he did
so, he laid out the working enterprise grids that their movement would attune and attend
to as the days arrived.
“Going forward, we will be the light of Christ inside of these very dark days.”
Prof Tribute’s plan included…
Maddie: she would take the lead in all technology and architectural matters.
Dr. Jon: he would assume the role of leadership. Prof Tribute let everyone know this
was not his fight any longer. He would stay home and do all he could to build ‘Forever
Church’ into something of a local force for Christ.
Dawn: she would continue to fortify and extend the reach and power of “The Nautilus
Krew.”
Steve: he would continue to be the pastoral insight and close-knit friend and eternal
sounding board for everyone seated at the table.

Prof Tribute ended the morning session by declaring to his Tribe, a Tribe that listened to
him and supported him despite the fact that not one whit of what he said way back when
made even a lick of sense…
“ We are the resource.
“We are the rescuers.

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 “We are the first responders.

“We are the rebuilders.

“We are the architects.

“We are the healthcare agencies.

“We are the ‘go to’ first and last resort.

“We are the inventors and innovators.

“We are the storehouse.

“We are the mechanism for safety.

“We are the model citizens.

“We are the prototypes and final deciders for what is ‘next’!

“...We, the ones seated at this table, will recraft and reimagine and rebuild
America according to our intelligent design. We will not be thwarted. And we will
not be silenced. And we will not be bested!”

With that the first session, after and following, “The Second Big Bang” of, “The Council
of the Elders” came to a close. All of those present left to manage their personal sorrow
and attend to their newly minted life-missions.

“TRS:”
Total Response System
Over the next two years, Maddie Castille-Gnown ran the show. Dr. Jon and his booming
voice provided the megaphone, and also rounded up and then energized the manpower

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to make the Vision come to pass. And Dawn Wellex-Stone’s “Nautilus Krew '' kept the
roads safe and the trade routes open.
The plan that Maddie foresaw and implemented was extremely simple. Extremely
simple and highly complex. Maddie built and invented the American future. The
American future revolved around what Dr. Madrid Castille-Gnown titled: “TRS: Total
Response System.”
TRS: Total Response System
Dr. Jon found himself occupying a role that he did not know previously. That was the
role of persuader. Persuader and adjunct. Dr. Jon spent the majority of his time on the
CB radio. Cell towers and cell phones that depended upon them for regular
communication links were intermittent, or no longer existed.
Websites and internet portals and network access points phased in and out. Electricity
and all forms of modern convenience just vanished! People lived in abject destruction.
America, almost in its entirety, gradually woke to a sort-of modern-tinted, medieval kind
of existence.
Each morning, Dr. Jon got out of his bed and faced grief. No matter the day, at the
display of the first ray of sun, Dr. Jon imagined calling Annette and asking how her day
would be shaping up.
Dr. Jon searched his mind for the stats of his boys. He wanted to know how Adrian and
Adonis did in their basketball or debate leagues. Nothing. Quiet. Dismal solitude rang
out in decibels that deafened his already hammered soul.
Dr. Jon stopped eating. Maddie did her best to care for this hollowed out and very large
man. But not even her mothering seemed to penetrate his woundedness.
Dr. Jon no longer spoke in clear sentences. He noticed himself hollering at people. His
voice, once a spigot of pure reason and encouragement, now more resembled a
blasting and ill-toned foghorn to a crisp and smartly amplified microphone.
Dr. Jon made a decision. He decided to just show up. He decided to be a simple caring
cog in Maddie’s larger circle of healing. Dr. Jon allowed himself to be the beta, and in so
doing, subordinated himself to Maddie as the alpha.
Over time, Maddie’s Vision glacially and then at light-speed came to pass. And Dr. Jon’s
presence became both the propellant that nudged the workers forward, as well as the
lubricants that settled daily friction points.
Each and every functional church facility around any blast zone in specific and upon the
American landscape in general adopted “TRS.”

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“TRS” consisted of:
● Church facilities that morphed into working and loving and serving communities.
● Church parking lots, that once looked like asphalt moats, teemed with life and
supported human recovery.
● Tents and ransacked RV’s and awnings of all colors and shapes and sizes dotted
and populated and filled formerly empty church parking lots, like helium fills a
flattened and folded balloon sack.
● People. People were everywhere.
The church universal and local churches assumed the role of vibrant, connectivity touch
points for their local communities in the United States of America.
The church as supply chain. Pastors as Chief Operating Officers. Dawn’s “Nautilus
Krew’ became the trusted couriers of special products and sensitive information for the
rebuilding American culture.
The church arrived, because of the thoughtful leadership of, “The Council of Elders”, at
the place of ‘most trusted’ source and resource for the troubled and harmed American
portraits that lit up every setting.
At the very center of the American reformation, were the technologies that only
Christian people had access to. Had access to because each of these life-giving and/or
life-supporting technologies were birthed inside of the very active brain of Dr. Madrid
Castille-Gnown.
The church had access to these technologies and generously shared every single
morsel or crumb of hope with those less fortunate communities that surrounded their
congregations.
Intelligent Design. The people of faith implemented “TRS” and in doing so began to
reconstruct the damaged and war-torn and certainly rent American psyche.

Maddie and Jon:

Generals and Wounded Warriors
Each day, Dr. Jon and Maddie saw the sun rise, and with its newfound beauties, came a
host of seemingly unsolvable problems.

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Maddie and Jon sat in the wind-whipped and frost-covered parking lot of ‘Forever
Church’. Maddie sipped her cooling cup of stretched-thin coffee and said to Jon;
“How are we going to do this, Jon? You tell me. Every day they come, not by the
dozens, but by the hundreds. Look at their faces.
“...They are cold. They are hungry. They are homeless. They are penniless--as if
money right now could or would solve any of their issues. And they are frightened
beyond speech.
“ ...You tell me, Jon. Where is the lad with the five loaves and two fishes? Wherever he
is, he better show up soon.”
That was all the wailing and complaining that Maddie would allow or permit herself or
anyone else to utter. From here, work commenced.
Maddie’s Vision started with ‘Forever Church’. Maddie believed that if, and this
remained a big ‘if’, she and Jon’s teams could figure out a working model that
functioned and served here at ‘Forever Church’, then, they could find ways to create
and replicate something of a manufacturing system.
The manufacturing system would then mass produce the gadgets and widgets and
modular sections that, when fully assembled, produced safety and sustainability.
Maddie looked at Jon and reminded him:
“We are recreating cities here Jon. The elements that are gone. And I mean
gone-missing are:
● Healthcare
● Morgues
● Food production
● Medicines
● Safe and potable water
● Housing
● Transportation
● Safety and security
● Education
● Protections from barbarism
● Dutiful (because now there is no such thing as meaningful) employment
“...And most important of all Jon is: ‘Faith’. We cannot overlook that it is Faith that will
resurrect, and perhaps even one day, redeem this mess we now find ourselves plopped
in the middle of.”

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Maddie let these words sink in a bit. Then she looked at Jon, her friend and colleague
and fellow-sufferer and co-bearer of unspeakable personal sorrows;
“Jon, we will not quit. We will not faint. We will not complain. And we will be the arms,
and eyes and mouths and swords of our God in these days. Let’s go..”
With that, the day’s activities began.
To gain even a glimpse of the magnitude of tsunamis, that daily washed human debris
up on their personal shores of seemingly unsolvable riddles, that these two walking
angels of faith had to confront, confront and then create work-arounds for...think of
Moses and the children of Israel standing right in front of the raging Red Sea.
The children of Israel found themselves wedged between a modern army that sought to
slay them and the raging tides of the Red Sea that taunted them with the delicious
prospect of swallowing each one of them whole.
Maddie and Jon faced a similar prospect. In front of them stood legions of men and
women and children who were starving and hobbled and punch-drunk from the
aftermath of a nuclear explosion. And behind them stood emptiness. Emptiness and
huge internal signage that read: “Do Not Return.”
Maddie and Jon had to create a “Total Response System” out of twigs, berries, and
charred and splintered kindling wood.
Maddie at least had Prof Tribute. As Dr. Jon went about his chores each day with him
came memories of a life that no longer existed.
In the midst of Jon’s deep life-rend...Holly Stone materialized.

TRS and Intelligent Design:

Technologies that Shape Reconstruction
Dateline: The Ryoble Farm: Two Years After ‘The Second Big Bang’...

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Dr. Doris D’ Artest stretched her weary limbs. She longed for the now eternally banished
days when the shutting down of her computer signaled the release of ‘party girl’. In
those days, Dr. Doris D’ Artest lit up and ignited every room she entered.
The Dr. Doris D’ Artest and her phosphorescent personality were married to her
breathtaking beauty. Her breathtaking beauty and finely-sculpted figure kept Doris at the
top of the female food chain. Men lusted after her. Men fought wars to gain even a
momentary glance of her affections.
That was then. Now, Doris supervised a series of production facilities that a monkey
could manage.
Doris had to admit and shook her head in constant amazement at the levels of
proficiency and productivity that this scrappy band of rabble brought to life.
What Doris hated is the fact that her mind and her intellect and her capabilities were
never consulted. Her expertise was limited to fixing machines and managing workers
and making certain that production deadlines were met.
Doris could not flee. Where would she go? Doris’s former life haunted her. She was kept
safe here by ‘The Nautilus Krew’. Doris knew, that if she stepped one foot outside of
Kent and Claire’s farm, that her protection would vanish.
Dawn was very clear with Doris,
“If you stray, we abandon you. If you mess up even one of our orders, we push you to
the streets. If you kink up or foul up one of our processes, your ass hits the pavement.
“...Comprende.”
Dawn’s admonitions were not questions. They were a statement of facts. Doris de facto
was an indentured servant. Only her indentiture was interminable.
Daily, Doris woke up and got herself sort of prepared to face the day. She headed over
to the mess tent and gobbled down some gruel and a semi-warm cup of diluted coffee
and began the day’s activities.
The day’s activities for Doris meant watching over and carefully administering the
work-flow that came through and because of the genius mind of Dr. Madrid
Castille-Gnown.
Doris really oversaw four main (and a few lesser) assembly processes. On Kent and
Clair’s farm, ‘The Council of Elders’ built production facilities that produced:
● Spyre!
● Nautilus Energy Units
● Hum Dingers

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 ● Viva Domes!
There were smaller operations that grew crops and many medicinal herbal plants.
Others were tasked with overseeing and maintaining the integrity of these units. Doris
was entrusted with what Dawn and Maddie called, ‘TRS’.
‘TRS’ meant: “Total Response System.”
Doris and her teams manufactured living hope.

Dr. Doris D’ Artest:

Squirmer and Malcontent
Doris reluctantly, always reluctantly, gave kudos to the genius corps that imagined,
imagined and then built the production processes that manufactured hope. Doris wished
to goodness that someone, anyone of her ‘upstream management’, would at least give
her a chance to engage in some academic discussion on how these marvels came into
being. How these marvels came into being and what made them tick.
What made these marvels of human engineering tick and then how in the world these
micro-breweries of life! began to multiply like baby fireflies in mid-July. Throughout
communities large and small...dotted across the once fruited plains of America...tiny
microbreweries of life! Just showed up.
Doris fought back her anger and repressed personal cries for help. The truth is Doris
was a production foreman. Her! The Dr. Doris D’ Artest! Doris spent all of her days
making sure and certain that Dawn’s world ran perfectly.
Who the hell was this ‘Dawn Wellex-Stone’ anyway?
And why in the hell did she capture her and keep her under lock and key?
Doris’ mind strayed during the long days and even longer, lonely nights. Who are these
‘Nautilus Krew’ people? And now that she had time to think about it, was their story true
and legit?
Was Doris indeed, ‘public enemy number one’? Or, did they make that up to just use
her?
The longer that Doris permitted herself to be kept captive, the more her mind drifted to
Steadman. Doris wondered where Steadman might be right this moment as she took up
a socket wrench and applied a gentle tug to tighten up a loose bolt.

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 “Where’s Steadman? It’s been two years and counting since the big explosions. Is he
still alive? Will he come and rescue me? I know he loved me. That Holly girl was nothing
but a tart. I’m his true love.
...Now that Holly girl is off and supposedly married to that big, fat preacher guy.
Steadman’s alone! I can help him! I know he loves me…”
On and on each day, this is the kind of internal dialogue that Doris lived inside of. Her
mind was fertile even if these religious dolts did not recognize her superior giftedness.
Just as night was about to fall, just as Doris clutched her wrap close to her body, she
heard something. No! She saw something. A dart. A zot! A movement. It was here and
then gone.
That night while she slept, Doris remembered that Steadman told her his teams
invented nearly invisible drone armies. These invisible drones he called, ‘Slnc’. ‘Slnc’
was an acronym for:
“Silent Lumination Night Scan”
Could it be? Doris wondered if maybe, just maybe Steadman heard her cries and
decided to save his long, lost, lost but not forgotten, now very much damsel in distress.
The next morning, Doris woke up and prepped for her long day’s labors. She checked
the duty logs and saw her name listed on all four of the major work-flow projects. Uggh!
Normally, Doris spent the majority of each day inside of one or maybe two of the main
project facilities. But today, for some reasonsG Doris was required to spend a quarter of
her time in each of the four main ‘Life Bridge’ out-buildings.
‘Life Bridges’:
As Dr. Madrid Castille-Gnown started her life with Dr. Alan Gnown (AKA: Prof Tribute)
many years ago, she decided that if her husband’s messages were true, then a ‘life
after’, ‘The Second Big Bang’ needed to be imagined. Imagined, arranged, architected,
and then constructed.
Maddie worked tirelessly on maps, schematics, theorems, routes, and passages, and
formulae. Her goal and only suitable outcome? To build ‘Life Bridges’.
Maddie believed that if, and she did not doubt this for a moment, her husband’s God
Messages were true, then that would mean that mass destruction on a level heretofore
unthinkable would visit and then inhabit the people of the United States of America.
Maddie knew that the government, post her husband’s vision, would sink into a
non-functional and self-absorbed, very small subculture.

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Maddie knew that people would survive the ‘Second Big Bang’. That meant, life had to
be sustained.
Maddie realized that ‘Life Bridges’ were needed to bridge the coming resource gaps.
Maddie toiled.
Maddie strained at gnats and swallowed many wasps.
Maddie received her own personal missionary commands and directives from God.
Maddie titled her received messages as: “Life Bridges.”

Life Bridges:
Health, Energy, Water and Shelter
Doris wanted to matter. Doris wanted to be included in the discussion and analysis and
improvement. Most of all, Doris longed to be a part of the discovery process once again.
Each day, Doris supervised and kept the conveyor belts of hope churning out
sustainable products that were nothing short of: genius!
Genius meant---unprecedented!
Genius meant--heretofore unknown.
Genius meant--iconoclastic.
Genius meant--next generation innovative.
Genius meant--portable.
Genius meant--user friendly.
Genius meant--simple to assemble and even simpler to make useful.
Genius meant--universal.
Genius meant--life saving!
Genius meant--life giving!
Each day as Doris settled into her routines and refined the daily practices the chores
demanded, the products, that were the direct result of Dr. Madrid Castille-Gnowns’
encounters with God, levelled and wrecked her creative force-fields.

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Doris knew herself to be one, large, living asterisk. For the work she once produced
propelled rockets and synchronized and attuned weapons’ systems.
But these products, these life extenders, these catastrophe deniers...well now. These
‘Life Bridges’ represented other realms of ingenuity.
Each day as finished products exited the assembly lines, Doris would take the
completed masterpieces into her hands and marvel at the intricacies and shake her
head at the physics’ reversing technologies.
Doris the scientist wanted to know what made these working wonders work. Doris spent
time each day micro-assessing:
● Spyre! The small, ingestible tablets that were encased in gelatin capsules that
quite literally caused the majority of illness and the stain and strains of grief to
melt and be kept away
● Nautilus Energy Units: the expanded power-paks that were seeded with the
life-giving specks of gray matter that miraculously arrived from some place
called, ‘AkelDeema’ every few days
● Hum Dingers! The cannister-like and cylindrical water bottles that did so much
more than filter out and remove toxins and radioactive trace elements from the
water supply. Each Hum Dinger! seemed to cause the person who drank from its
tap the strange and out-of-body capabilities to scale mountains and remove
seemingly immovable obstructions
● Viva Domes! The portable and hand-assembled living quarters that could either
house a single person. Or, be combined and looped into modular living quarters
that could comfortably house a dozen people or more
Doris held one of the Sprye! tablets in her hand. She hoarded these. She wanted to
somehow get some samples to Steadman. In like manner, Doris secreted a stash of
each of the ‘Life Bridges’ away. Doris knew that Steaman would find and rescue her.
When the moment of freedom arrived, Doris aimed to take with her these cosmological
and other wordly gems.
Doris’s moment came way sooner than she would have ever thought possible.
That very night, as Doris lay awake and wished to some immortal god that Steadman
would hurry up and find her, one of Steadman’s ‘SLNC’ drones visited.

The drone somehow knew which of the hundreds of Viva Domes! contained Dr. Doris D’
Artest. The drone silently hovered over her translucent half-moon-shaped-dome. Doris
thought she must be dreaming. The drone was almost sightless and most certainly

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moved without sound or even an effort that might rustle a branch, or disturb a dry batch
of gathered autumn leaves.
Doris got out of her warm, little semi-plastic dome and immediately felt the bite and
snare of the frosty night air. No doubt remained in Doris’ mind. Steadman found her!
The drone stayed stationary until Doris reached up to try and touch it.
The ‘SLNC’ drone opened a small bay door. Out of the door dropped a smooth,
palm-sized stone. Instantly and silently, the ‘SLNC’ disappeared into the deepened night
sky.
Doris clutched the black, round stone in her now well-calloused hands. Doris quickly
made her way back into her private living quarters. Doris turned up the intensity of the
Nautilus Light that kept the living space warm and well-lit when wanted or needed.
Doris closely examined the black, round stone. Doris remembered somewhere of
hearing of a ‘pearl of great price’. Doris caressed the smooth stone and as she did so,
voila! The black, encased stone opened and popped out a written scroll.
On the scroll were just six words…
“I’m coming for you, my darling!”

Judas:
No Ananias or Sapphira
Prof Tribute often said aloud to anyone who would listen or could hear:
“There will be no Ananias or Saphirras in our mix. There will be no men or women
who decide to take even a small portion, of what God has given us, as a bounty for their
own betterment. Let alone personal enrichment.”
“All the believers were together and held everything in common.”
Acts 2:44

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All Things In Common:
Prof Tribute and ‘The Council of Elders’ were no fools. Each of them had suffered
betrayal at the hands of, and because of the wagging tongues of someone that they
thought near and dear to them.
Prof Tribute reminded his Council:
“We must be diligent. We cannot be naive. We are dealing in the supernatural
elements here. We are bringing heaven and its resources...and maybe even its very
atomic building blocks, to the awareness of mere human beings.
Roscoe told me that despots and kingpins and paupers lust for that which we now
both possess and wield.
There will be no Ananias or Saphirra amongst us. We will watch over every single
subatomic structure that God entrusts to us.”
These were the cautionary words. This attitude of stewardship and a caring shepherd’s
heart over all of God’s wise gifts permeated each and every conversation. But, The
Council of Elders were not fools.
‘The Council’ made certain that no one pilfered even a grain of ‘AkelDeema’ dust. ‘The
Council’ set up robust checks and balances that all thought were bulletproof. And as an
operating paradox, that none of them trusted.
‘The Council’ knew that humans are clever. And that greed is an insoluble pest. Dr.
Doris D’ Artest was, indeed, but one of these living, insoluble pests.
Doris woke up from a sensual and ribald dream. In the dream, Steadman pursued her.
In the dream, Steadman spied on her in a most full-throated and exposed way. In the
dream, Steadman pounced on and ravaged her. The dream ended as Steadman took
Doris for his own.
Doris lapped up Steadman’s advances like a kitten laps up its mother’s milk.
Doris feigned ill. She headed to the mess tent and said to Claire Ryoble;
“Not doing so well, Ms. Claire. Think I’ll take a walk in the woods a bit and see if the
morning chill clears my stomach. I hope I’m not coming down with some bug.”
Claire looked at Doris with a hint of suspicion. Claire neither liked nor trusted this
egghead from New York City.
“Be brief in your walk-a-bout. Check back in with me. I’ll look after you and bring you
one of my herbal tea remedies if you can’t work today.”

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Doris nodded and slowly sipped her cup of warm coffee. Doris dipped her small crust of
toasted bread in the coffee and flashed Steadman’s message across her forehead…
“I’m coming for you, my darling!”
Doris made her way to one of the many walking paths and hiking trails. Truth be told,
Doris was sort-of-happy here. Although the conditions were bleak and the provisions
were stark, the fellowship of the people continually surprised and even intrigued her.
The people, all of them, except her were...happy!
The only thing that kind-of resembled the attitude and the approach to life! here at The
Ryoble’s Farm was the feeling that Doris recalled after church.
When Doris was a tiny lass, her grandmother took her to a small Methodist church in
New Jersey. The church had about thirty people. The preacher guy was more of a
grampa figure than a religious sage.
The singing was off-key. The hundred year old piano was out of tune. But after each
service, a kind of glow radiated about the place. Doris fondly remembered this
odd-heavenly sensation hovering around each person’s face. Doris heard people refer
to this feeling as, ‘The Afterglow’.
‘The Afterglow’. That’s what these people had. Doris admired this feeling of certainty
and certitude. However, her admiration did not stretch so far as to actually pursue the
afterglow’s origins.
As Doris walked deeper into the woods, she looked this way and that. Then, she swiftly
darted into the deepest part of a briarpatch. The thicket prevented anyone from
following and blinded all seeing eyes.
In the thickest part of the thorny thicket, Doris unearthed her private stash. There in a
shallow, hand-scraped pit covered in moss and ringed with autumn leaves Doris
itemized and inventoried:
● Three packets of the ‘AkelDeema’ dust particles. All hermetically sealed and safe
from winter’s reach
● Three packets of ‘Spyre!’ tablets. Each carefully secured in plastic containers
● Three Hum Dingers! Each wrapped in canvas cloths
● One Design Sketch of and for ‘Viva Domes’!
● Three Expanded Nautilus Energy Paks! Each still safely swaddled in firm and
tight-fitted cellophane wrappings
Doris eyed her pearls of great price. Yes! They were here. Yes! She had successfully
swindled the silly and pretentious religious sots that held her captive.

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Doris covered up and artfully camouflaged the hiding space. Looking this way and that,
she deftly and silently made her way back to camp.
As Doris made her way to Claire’s ‘big house’ to get a cup of warm tea, she whispered
to herself…
“Judas! Maybe no Ananias or Saphirras are here. But Judas sure as hell showed up!”

AkelDeema:
The Alpaca Trail
Dateline: AkelDeema: Two Years After ‘The Second Big Bang’:
Cap’n Rory Blair wished he were in the Bahamas. Or Bermuda. Or maybe even Tahiti.
Somewhere, anywhere but here.
Here, in ‘AkelDeema’, the valley of death and sorrows is where this man of many means
lived in the most stark and obscure of conditions. On this cold December morning,
Cap’n Blair woke up to another bleak landscape.
On the Saturday after the ‘Second Big Bang’, Cap’n Blair set into motion what he and
‘The Council of Elders’ long ago planned and made provision for.
While Steadman hunkered down with his “Guild” leadership on ‘Isla Ocho’, and at the
exact moment Holly sped towards her parent’s home in St. Louis, Missouri, and at the
precise seconds when Dr. Jon and Dawn learned the tragic fates of their families, Cap’n
Blair opened the prisons.
Provisions and Prosperity:
Cap’n Blair decades ago made up his mind. If and when Gail Bent-Arrow’s Vision of
America no longer at peace came to pass, then, he would cease being the warden of
FCC Blair Duty (Federal Corrections Complex @ Fair Duty, Oregon).
Cap’n Blair would not pardon or give freedom to the most heinous offenders. These
atrocious ones he would leave behind and cede to the care and feeding of some other
bureaucratic bimbo. But to those thousand or so men and women in his care and under
his direct jurisdiction that no longer, (if in-fact they ever did) posed a threat to
anyone...these he would set free!
Cap’n Blair long ago decided that he would be the great emancipator. Rory Blair, the
citizen, would: set the captives free.

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This meant that all low-level and non-violent and aging beyond their years men and
women held in deep, sealed, and walled-off concrete confinements would find relief.
There were conditions for such accelerated restorations.
Cap’n Blair was no fool. And yet, Cap’n Blair had neither the resources nor the
inclination to supervise or spend any time or thought, let alone precious resources,
chasing after any released former inmates that chose to flee.
Cap’n Blair resigned his post as warden. He sent a letter to Washington, D.C. and to his
immediate supervisor Mr. Culp. If anyone in Washington, D.C. existed any longer, and if
anyone in Washington, D.C. cared anymore about prisoners held in lockdown in the
faraway place known as Blair Duty, Oregon, Cap’n Blair let those ghosts know that he
was through with all of them.
Whoever rose to power to oversee and manage the broken and twisted lives of those
prisoners that remained under lock and key was no longer his concern. Cap’n Blair
made a bargain with the thousand or so men and women that he hand-selected to set
free:
“Work for and with me. I will pay you a fair wage. I will provide food, housing, and
structure. Together, we will build a society here in AkelDeema worthy of our children and
their grandchildren. All I ask is a fair day’s labor for a fair day’s wage.”
The person that Cap’n Blair personally asked to be his foreman was none other than
Skeeter Thompson.
Australia.
Rory Blair held admiration for the convicts and scattered life-scat that Britainia shipped
to Australia in the 1700’s and 1800’s. These hardscrabble men and women of dodgy
moral character quite literally built a nation that now thrived.
Rory knew that something similar could happen here in Blair Duty, Oregon. The reason
that Rory felt such certainties came down to one, uncommon denominator: “The Rocks
that Glowed.”
“AkelDeema” held Rory Blair captive. His family! For some strange and boggled reason,
The Blair’s were saddled with the awful and mutually awesome responsibility of
shepherding and caring for this land where the Divine touched down and inhabited
planet earth. And in so doing created and left behind an energy source that defied
physics.

Lepers and Prisoners:

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 The Alpaca Trail
Rory Blair, the private citizen, set up a bivouac camp just a bit north and east of Prof
Tribute and Maddie’s former residence. Just behind and occupying a good bit of the two
acre plot that made up and comprised the borders of, “F.O.B. (Forward Operating Base)
Deep Grace,” Rory Blair requisitioned lots of old—used up and soon to be tossed
away—material from FCC Blair Duty, Oregon.
A short list of the items that Rory Blair took possession of as exit and retirement gifts
from his former employer included:
● A few hundred or so tents and pop up structures
● Cots, mattresses and bedding supplies
● Portable potties and showers
● Mobile mess units and cooking supplies and utensils
● Cloth and fabric for clothing
● Winter coats and strong snow boots
● Firearms and ammunition
● Loads and loads of foodstuffs and commissary edibles
● Heavy machinery and ground moving equipment that the stupid bean-counters
mothballed and let sit in the elements and rust
● Petrol supplies, storage bladders and large fuel trucks
● Excavation equipment and recovery bins that the idiot bean-counters confiscated
and held as evidence of Rory’s believed wrong-doing
● Maps and intelligence that showed both how to enter into and then descend
down the jagged mountain passages to reach “AkelDeema”
● Six or seven hundred ‘Nautilus Light’ units
The most important item that Rory carried with him into his first real foray into private life
were the delightful memories of, ‘The Rocks that Glowed’.
As camp set up, Rory called his foreman and now dear associate into his office. His
office was set up as one of many cubicles in the vestibule of the tiny pole-barn building
that doubled on Sundays as the place of worship for, “F.O.B. Deep Grace.”
Skeeter Thompson came running whenever ‘Boss Man’ pinged him on his cell phone.
(Skeeter still loved the fact that he actually lived through his incarceration and now had
the high privilege of owning and using a cell phone).
“What’s up boss man?”

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Rory waved to his first lieutenant in charge and asked him to sit down…
“Skeeter, we have to step up the mining. How many men and women do we have here
now?”
Skeeter never needed a ledger to keep his numbers and math balanced. Skeeter did
not have to refer to any notes or spreadsheet. He knew every jot and tittle of this
organization.
“We have just under eight-hundred men and women here now Rory. (No longer would
Rory permit Skeeter or anyone else to refer to him as ‘Cap’n’ or ‘Sir’). Some, as you
know, flew the coop.
“We have most of the rock-haulers and excavators down in AkelDeema proper, right
now.
“We set up mini-camps inside of the Valley floor. Each work-crew stays for about ten
days max each.
“We have thirty crews in total for the mining and extraction work.
“All thirty of the mining crews right now are men. Each crew is a six man team.
“There are two men that are trained to use the excavators and two men to drive the
haul trucks and two men to transfer the loads to the huge recovery bins.
“We have six double men crews, again, only men doing this work right now, doing the
most dangerous job of driving the loads back to camp. Pray for these guys, Rory. Their
work is by far the most pressing.
The rest of the men and women work as support details. Support details and then the
most important jobs of all: the crushing of the AkelDeema ‘Rocks that Glow’ into fine
and granular particles.
Then, the crews that take the fine particulates and package each one with whispered
prayers into our sealed packages for shipment and distribution.”
Rory listened closely to his trusted right-hand-man. Rory reached into the ether and
asked anyone who would listen to the question…
“How long do we get to do this? We can’t protect ourselves. We have no standing
army. We are just a bunch of bums and renegades doing God’s work.”

Rory looked at Skeeter and said,

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 “Skeeter, we are doing God’s work here. And we are at risk. ‘The Rocks that Glow’ are
the divine energy source that despots and tyrants and oligarchs soil themselves over.
My friend Roscoe reminds me of this every day.
We will work till we cannot. Keep your people busy. Keep your people focused. I’m
working on supply channels and transportation routes and safe storage depots as we
speak.
We’re nothing more than a leper colony, Skeeter. You and your people have nowhere
to go. If you exit, you’ll be hunted down and captured and reincarcerated.
If I leave I’ll be hunted down and incarcerated for allowing a massive jailbreak on my
own watch, and then (wrongfully) employing those former and escaped felons in a
semi-unlawful enterprise.
We’re in this together Skeeter. We’re all felons and fugitives now.
Only, the last group we have to fear is the United States Government.
The ‘Rocks that Glow’ are a prize of great price, my friend. Bad actors and despicable
people will soon seek us out. Prepare our ramparts for a certain assault.”

Cities Empty:
The Alpaca Trail
The impact of the two plutonium-enriched devices, that simultaneously exploded inside
the mega-cities of Los Angeles and San Francisco, immediately reached AkelDeema
and Blair Duty, Oregon.
The jolt. The shock waves and the ear-piercing sonic booms from the twin devices that
were detonated within four-hundred miles of one-another sent seismic tremors fingering
out for thousands of miles.
North, south, east, and west tremors, tsunamis, shakes and then earthquakes rattled
and toppled the once pristine landscape.
The San Andreas Faultline, always a matter of concern, simply split. Just like when
Jesus ascended into heaven and the curtain that separated the common areas of the
temple proper from the ‘Holy of Holies’ rent itself in two, so too, the San Andreas
Faultline gapped.

Violent upheavals unlike any God-made or natural consequence induced earth-torn

ripped cities, streets, buildings, dams, highways, overpasses, tunnels, pipelines,

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power-plants, shipyards, munition magazines, nuclear power plants, refineries, chemical
engineering and manufacturing facilities, military bases, airplanes and trains, mountain
passes and homes asunder. Nothing was safe from the tumblers that now rolled with an
unholy and non-rhythmic series of non-stop and unstoppable gyrating rotations.
Cities as far away as Denver, Colorado, and Phoenix, Arizona, and Las Vegas, Nevada,
and even the Grand Canyon felt the mix of the agitation and just crumpled. The place
that felt the full fury of The Imam’s and Steadman’s wrath was the state of
California...and its unlucky residents.
The twin-plutonium enriched devices wedded their destructive powers with the natural
elements of ocean tides and fragile tectonic plates. The combination of man-made,
nuclear thrust plus nature’s unsteadiness equalled unprecedented and heretofore
unthinkable levels of harm.
The people who lived in California, once the Sunshine State, blinked once and their
world was safe and happy. And then the people who lived in California blinked yet again
and their world became more akin to a real-time eruption that spontaneously occurred
on the face of the sun, than their former familiar life setting.
Men, women and children...no one was exempted.
Men, women and children...no one was spared.
Men, women and children..no one was counted righteous enough to slip through this
man-made death juggernaut.
The words of Jesus Christ came to pass. For the rain indeed fell on the just and the
unjust, without even a hint of prejudice or prejudgement.
The people gasped.
The people cried and wailed.
The people immolated.
The people vanished.
The people dug open air pits with their bare hands to locate some relief zone.
No relief zones were possible.
Those that loved God and who survived the initial blast waves got on their knees and
pleaded with God to send a way out.
Those that hated God and who lived past the first thermal winds cursed God and told
him to go straight to hell.

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The cascades of torment did not relent. Hour after hour, on those first mournful days
following ‘The Second Big Bang’, those that still lived in California and who packed
themselves like living sardines into its dense cities sought ways of escape.
Cars and buses and trolleys and trains and airplanes were of no consequence. Roads
did not exist. Avenues and lanes that once headed towards a destination now ended in
certain disaster or led to some form of unimaginable peril.
Horses that still breathed and could be saddled, mounted, and rode became prized
possessions. Cattle that remained alive, immediately were slaughtered and cooked and
salted down for jerky.
Lambs and chickens all were dead and eaten within weeks. People began to migrate.
As survivors found their way to small glimpses of sanity, the only cogent thought that
seized their minds was…
“I have to get out of here!”
The irradiation of the plutonium seeped into every small stream and poisoned every
river or lake. Thirst and parched throats scratched at the souls of these once very proud
and seemingly self-confident and self-determined people.
Where to go? And how to get there? These thoughts and their companion dream of safe
routes out of hell permeated and pressed into the forefront of every person who now
lingered on limbo’s doorstep.
The lucky ones were those who had llamas and better yet, alpacas. Herdes and herdes
of these hefty pack-animals began appearing as canvassing caravans. Canvassing
caravans that sought out the still sort-of-sane and healthy and then taxied, ferried, and
carried these men and women and their children out of the land of fire and death and
into the open ranges where uncertainty and certain hope must still live.
The people named the caravans, “The Alpaca Trail.”
The alpaca tracks and the littered tailings of the human caravans left untidy
breadcrumbs as markers. The untidy markers and guideposts became guiding lights
that provided ways out for hundreds of thousands and then millions of people to find
safety.

Stealth Deliveries:

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 The Alpaca Trail
Dateline: The Ryoble Farm: Two Years After ‘The Second Big Bang’:
Every new day that arrived, with each waking stretch of her very sore and lonesome
body, Doris hoped that today would be, “The Day!”
Doris envisioned Steadman sending in storm or shock-troops to rescue her. Doris
painted scenes in her mind as the day’s mundane chores kept her chained to an
assembly line.
Doris dreamed…
● Of Steadman riding in on a modern steed made of cold-hard steel and slaying
these neanderthals that kept her enslaved.
● Of Steadman sending a stealth force of commandos that pierced the thin
surveillance veils of the Ryoble Farm and skulked her away without even a trace
of evidence she or they were ever even there.
● Of an army repelling in from hovering, stationary helicopters and wiping out all of
these ignorant miscreants that caused her such grief and taking her with them.
● Of Steadman sending a pestilence that infected all of these repellent people and
caused all of them to writhe in agony. And Doris silently swallowing the only
known antidote and swiftly heading for the hills.
Day after day, hour after hour, month on month, Doris dreamed of rescue.
And day after day, hour after hour, month on month, Doris remained a minion in some
other group’s larger scheme. Nothing infuriated Doris more than being a nothing. And
the fact that she was a nothing in the middle of something very intriguing and significant
chafed her even more.
Doris knew better than to sit and to stew.
Doris knew that around her and surrounding her was information and clues and subsets
of data that contained rarified, intellectual gold. These data subsets were the leverage
that Doris needed. So Doris did what every great and meritorious scientist of any
renown did, she put on a research cap and began to notice.

Doris noticed…

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 ● Frequent and oft-times daily deliveries of products and raw materials.
● The strange and very odd delivery teams consisted mostly of these outlier
looking men, mostly men and a few women that rode motorcycles.
● The outliers always donned the Nautilus Patch on their denims.
● The outliers always seemed to arrive at the very moment that dusk showed its
first tentacles.
● The outliers only spoke to and exchanged messages with Blaire and Kent
Ryoble...no one else ever met or spoke with these riding, night messengers.
● The outliers often gingerly handed sealed and locked boxes to Blaire and Kent.
● The sealed and locked boxes had strange markings on them and hailed from
some faraway place called: “AkelDeema”.
Doris spent many a night graphing together a treasure map. Doris cautiously queried
some of the fellow workers. Doris wanted to know about, “AkelDeema.”
What Doris discovered and what she needed to tell Steadman is that “AkelDeema” held
the treasure trove.
Doris learned through patient observation, and then careful reconstruction of data sets,
and gathered and then presumed information subsets, that “AkelDeema” contained an
energy source that despots and tycoons and oligarchs soil themselves over.
Doris decided that when she was emancipated by Steadman, and everything inside of
her soul knew this would be her fate...that then Doris would lead Steadman to the pot of
gold at the end of this very strange rainbow.

Precious Encounter:
Early Moments and Honest Inquiry

Dateline: St. Louis, Missouri: Two Years After ‘The Second Big Bang’:
Holly thoughtfully counted the weeks. Thirty-eight weeks to match the thirty-eighth floor
where soon to arrive Jude was conceived.
Holly no longer could sleep on her back, side, or heaven forbid--stomach!
Holly felt tired, nauseous, and a bit frightened. Frightened because of the hellion that
she had been and in far too many ways still was and tried desperately to atone for.
Knowing full well that Jude would have the Wildfire heritage. And hoping against hope
this would not become her family and personal legacy.

166
Holly got up from her prone position and headed to the bathroom to pee. Running water
happened in spurts now and again. The bathroom always stunk of stale urine and
stagnating feces. Holly lowered her swollen torso and overextended belly gently down
upon the commode lid. As she did so, Holly began to massage her belly.
The massaging helped her go to the bathroom. But the real comfort was to the child in
her womb. A child that very soon her hands would actually touch, hold and softly
swaddle. As Holly sat on that foul-smelling toilet, she thought about that first night with
Jon.
Jon swung by the mess tent right at dusk. Holly and Bambi greeted Jon with warm
smiles and caring hugs. Bambi said,
“You two love birds head off and make babies. I’ll stay here and man the ship.”
Holly blushed and Dr. Jon giggled. Both Holly and Jon thought Bambi’s words hilarious
and absurd. Jon was sixty-two years old, tall and fat.
Holly just turned forty years old. And while the years had been overly kind to Holly, the
decades of public service had been equally unkind and even a bit torturous to Dr. Jon.
Dr. Jon’s entire body ached. His joints swelled. His large chest, shoulders, and bloated
waistline did not sit well on his rather narrow and timid hips and thighs. Narrow and
timid hips and thighs matched by and perched upon pencil thin calves that served as
unsteady stilts. Unsteady stilts connected to, and that then sat atop noticeably small
feet.
Jon always referred to himself as a cross between a stork and a penguin. Large head
and big body balanced on a rickety set of stick legs.
Dr. Jon and Holly wandered a bit around the perimeter of the camp. Both of them zipped
their overcoats up a bit as the evening winds swirled and danced up hundreds of
semi-frozen leaves to greet them.
Dr. Jon and Holly made their way into the Nautilus Light lit and warmed cavernous
former sanctuary of ‘The Free Methodist Clayton Church’. Dr. Jon pulled out a couple of
folding chairs and harvested one of the Nautilus Lights from a corner of the building.
Right under where the famed and long-ago stolen golden hanging cross and at the
center of the sacred rostrum where the fiery pulpit once stood, the two strangers sat
down and warmed themselves to the glowing Nautilus Light.
The two, one man and one woman, sat in dead, still silence.
Dr. Jon is the one that broke the silence;
“Thanks for giving me a moment or two of your time, Ms. Holly Stone.”

167
Holly, feeling very safe and even somewhat startled by her own sense of well-being
near this very large man, smiled and replied…
“Thanks, Dr. Jon. That Bambi! I could kill her. I mean, you’re my dad’s best friend.
She’s a terror and I love her to pieces.”
Jon looked at this young, very attractive and rabidly compelling woman in front of him.
The counselor and pastor inside of him began probing;
“What brings you back here, Holly? I know you were with that Steadman fellow for
almost twenty years. Why’d you come back now?”
Holly’s demeanor switched quicker than a chameleon changes colors to adapt to its
new surroundings. Holly snapped back;
“Whoa there ,Dr. Jon. No way I’m telling you anything about me. For all I know, my
mom sent you here to soften me up and then interview and quiz me. Not gonna happen,
big preacher man. I may be beautiful, but I ain’t dumb.
“You start. I have to know something, some lots of things about you before I say a
peep about me.”
Holly, in rapidfire fashion and hardly pausing to take a breath continued…
“What in the world are you doing here? I thought you were the king of that big church
in Chicago. My dad idolizes you and thinks you’re ‘Hermes’.
“That’s his nickname for you--but you obviously know that already. My dad says you
are the luckiest preacher-guy born, and that you are the messenger of the gods.
“You first, Jon. What in the world are you doing here? And why aren’t you at home
with your wife and family?”
Jon sat stunned. No one spoke to him with such plain and striking indictment.
No one dared to confront and ask the reason for his absence or presence.
No one ever questioned his decision making.
No one ever stepped over the threshold of holding him in anything but the highest of
esteem.
Jon had a choice to make. Tell the truth or risk a life of further sadness and deepened
sorrows.
Jon chose the unknown and unfamiliar path of raw and unbridled honesty

Pernicious Estrangement:

168
 Life Lived Absent True Affection: Part One
Dr. Jon adjusted his girth. Sitting on this plastic folding chair in the middle of a dank,
busted down skeleton of a once breathtakingly beautiful church, seemed to aggravate
his already highly aggravated state of mind.
Dr. Jon looked at this young, ravishing beauty. Dr. Jon called to memory hundreds of
discussions that he and Pastor Steve engaged in with the gone-missing Holly as
principal topic.
Dr. Jon moved his heft a bit from right to left. Dr. Jon placed each elbow upon its
corresponding knee. Dr. Jon leaned into the conversation and drew himself so close to
Holly that she could feel the warmth of each exhalation.
Jon said…
“I’ve never, I mean not one time in my life, had a frank and candid discussion with
anyone about the ugly details and the particulars of my personal life. Up to this moment,
no one ever asked or cared to know about me.
“People see me as ‘Dr. Jon Westborogh’. I am renowned. I am fully regarded. I am the
long-time Senior Teaching Pastor of one of the largest African Methodist Episcopal
Churches in America...and I have lived my life in utter solitude.
“For all intents and purposes, Ms. Holly Stone, I am a celibate, evangelical monk.”
Holly blinked a few times and wanted to reply or at least comment. But the very nature
of a discussion about this aging preacher man’s sexurality caught her completely by
surprise and pushed Holly back into the recesses of the plastic chair.
Holly did not know where in the world this opening salvo was heading. Should she be
afraid? Was a sexual advance coming? Did this preacher man expect some kind of
sexual interlude to spark?
Holly felt intimidated and suddenly threatened.
Dr. Jon was a seasoned communicator. Dr. Jon spent large portions of his life
counseling the sick and soothing the bereaved and disarming the triggered. Jon let
Holly know…
“Holly, relax. I’m an old man. You have nothing to fear from me or about me. I want
nothing from you but friendship. Your father and mother mean the world to me. I intend
to add you to the shortlist of the very few people in the world that I can trust and feel
safe around.
“No one. Not even your dad knows what I’m going to tell you tonight. I need to speak
these words Holly. What you do with them, well now that’s your business isn’t it?”

169
Dr. Jon had to get up from the plastic chair. He stretched his oversized and saggy body.
Jon spun around a few times and sat back down. Holly did not flinch. Holly did not
move. Holly breathed just above a faint whisper.
Holly felt a curiosity and an odd compulsion to aid and bring some comfort to this very
large and obviously sorrow-filled man.
Dr. Jon, raised his hands and arms over his head. Then, he brought both arms to rest
upon the soft jelly that once was a waistline. As he did so, Jon confessed;
“My wife Annette. She was a stunning woman. We met in college. I was the star,
starting guard for the football team. She was the lead cheerleader.
“Annette was half African-American on her mama’s side, and half Korean on her dad’s
side. When the chromosomes combined, she got the best ends of those two lineage’s
tightly spooled genetic pools.
“Annette was the most beautiful and intelligent and gifted woman you can imagine.
And she was untouchable. Captains of every team tried to date her. No one got close.
You talk about a walled-off lady!
“People called her conceited. Everyone labeled her a ‘bitch’ (and mind you I went to
one of the most prestigious Christian colleges on planet earth). People said she was
aloof and condescending. Most just ignored her.
“Annette had zero friends. Then, for some strange reason, Annette decided to
befriend me. I remember the first time she spoke to me.
“The two of us were standing in a matriculation line for some third-year chemistry lab.
The class was overbooked and both of us needed to complete the unit in order to
graduate on time. Both of us were there to see about auditing the class as pass-fail
credit.
“Annette looked at me and said, ‘You’re Jon Westborough, aren’t you? I’ve seen you
around. This is a mess! I need this class to graduate. Would you like to get a coffee
after we’re done here?”
“And just like that, we two were a thing.
“Six months later, we married. I should restate that. Annette was married, and I was
the stand-in, cardboard cut out, husband figure.”
Jon looked up from the floor where his words had been primarily directed. He wanted to
see if Holly had any interest in the forlorned love concerns of an old man. Holly sat still
as a catfish at the bottom of a muddy pond. Her eyes and mind were transfixed by the
fact that this really famous preacher guy was actually speaking to her.

170
What Holly could not get her head around was that this famous preacher guy, whom her
father worshipped and man-crushed on constantly, spoke to her with a humility and
honesty that caught her quite off guard.
Normally, Holly would have halted this kind of self-disclosure and fled the scene of the
sadness. But now, where did she have to go? Back to her smelly Viva-Dome and watch
the stars melt away? Or, worse yet, hail a Nautilus Krew person to escort her back to
mom and dad’s house?
Holly reached across the great divide and did something she never did before, she
touched Jon on the forehead. She spoke gently to him…
“Jon, I don’t know you. You know a whole bunch about me. I’m here. We have no
place to go and no one who gives two shits about either of us. Take your time...breathe
deeply and let these monsters that are trapped inside of you loose.”
Jon welcomed the soft and tender touch of this most lovely lady.
Jon exhaled.
As Jon drew in the next breath he said;
“Annette was a disturbed person, Holly. Her father, Amos Sampson, I never met the
man. He was a Korean national. He met Annette’s mom, Cynthia Perkton while she
served on a missionary team that spent six months in Seoul, South Korea.
“Amos Sampson. He loved that name. He believed himself invincible. He served as a
Special Ops warrior in the ROKA (Republic of Korea Armed Forces). I have a lot that
could be said about that man.
“All I will say is that he loved Annette...in the wrong way.
“Her mom froze Amos out sexually because of his multiple infidelities. The man
philandered more than Don Juan. Amos slept on the couch, and starting on the day
Annette turned nine years old, he slept in her bed.
“ I never got the details of their sexual excursions. Nor did I ever wish to hear about
how her father plundered her purity. What I do know is that the man stopped cold on the
day Annette turned fourteen.
“Annette brought a kitchen knife to bed with her. After her father pleasured himself, and
just as he dozed off to never, never land….she castrated him.”
Holly sat motionless. Holly’s breathing almost stopped. Holly’s eyes bugged out. What
in the hell was she supposed to do with this?
Jon kept on speaking and did not give Holly a moment to think, or the chance to exit…

171
 “Annette’s mom blamed her. The military police came to rescue their wounded brother
and national hero. Annette was shipped back, and I mean pronto to the States. She
lived the rest of her life with her meemaw and never once saw her mother or father
again.
“Both of her parents died quickly thereafter. Her father’s legacy as a national hero was
stirpped from him. He died in infamy. Her mother drank herself to death.
“Annette and I lived very separate lives. We consummated our marriage vows maybe
twenty times in the twenty-six years of our time together.
“One of those highly unblissful sessions brought Adrian and Adonis into our lives.
Those two boys were the delight of my life. I think you know that I lost all three of them
in the Chicago detonation.
“I’m alone now. Old and alone. I have no one left and I could care less about all of this
and all of these stupid people who just keep arriving.
“Your mom and dad are like angels in my life. They actually care for me. I don’t know
what I would do without them and Prof Tribute and Ms. Madrid.
“I don’t know what you think of me. I do care what you think of me. I will tell you one
thing. You can count on me. I will protect and care for you the way your mama and
daddy protected and cared for me.”
After a long pause that seemed to coax the sun to breakthrough, Jon finished his
soliloquy of sadness and grief by saying;
“There. Do you still think your mama set me up to trap or trip you up?”
Holly sat and started to yawn. She knew that one day soon, the tables would turn. One
day soon, Holly would gladly tell this once jolly and very roly-poly man her life’s
misadventures.
But, it was late. Holly stood up. She got real close to Jon and snuggled her warm and
luscious body into his very large, squishy and welcoming soul. Holly felt secure and
safe. Jon felt thrilled and sparked by this encounter.

Pernicious Estrangement:

172
 Life Lived Absent True Affection: Part Two
Love is such an ebullient dynamo. Love contains so many unspeakable and compelling
elements. Love most certainly is the gushy paradise where the magic of alchemy takes
two wounded souls and blends them into one eternal unit.
Holly made time for Jon in her day-to-day life. This happened in small doses and then
grew into something of a regular pattern. Holly looked for Jon at the morning and
evening briefing meetings. Holly invented ways to intersect with Jon during his
day-to-day responsibilities.
Holly liked sitting beside Jon in briefing meetings or for a quick bite of lunch.
Holly loved hearing the sound of Jon’s voice. After so many years of hearing
Steadman’s vitriol, cursing and hatred spew like volcanic ash, listening to and absorbing
the near sound of this man’s soothing voice...well it actually made her inner parts tingle
a bit.
Holly grew fonder and fonder of this large, loving, and whale of a man.
Holly set aside extra portions of food and additional gulps of coffee for this large man.
Holly noticed that Jon ate very little and yet his weight and waistline never seemed to
diminish or shrink.
Holly secretly stored away treats and sweets and smuggled these to her new friend.
Holly caught up with Jon right as a shipment of supplies from The Ryoble’s camp
arrived. Holly brought Jon a flannel shirt that a family donated after the passing of one
of their sons. She carefully mended the tears and stitched up two gaping holes.
Holly handed the shirt to Jon and laughingly said;
“I’m no seamstress. You’ll have to forgive the stitching. I’m not sure if it will fit. I tried to
expand the arms and shoulders. But, you need some warm clothes Jon.”
Jon stood stunned that someone, especially this someone, took time to think of his own
physical needs.
“Thanks, Ms. Holly. You are the best! Want to get some coffee? I’m freezing to death.
Christmas is coming soon. Not sure how I’m supposed to handle the first holiday
season without Adrian and Adonis.”
Holly paid attention to the fact that Jon omitted mentioning anything close to missing the
presence of his former wife, Annette.

173
 “Sure, Jon. Let me finish up my shift. I’ll meet you at the back of the worship tent. The
combined young adult and children’s choirs are giving a bit of a concert. I love to hear
the children sing. Meet you there in an hour.”
Jon headed back to the storage facility. While he walked to the storage tents he ran
through the time lines…
“The choirs don’t sing till 7:30 pm. Holly usually works the supper soup line. Maybe
Bambi is covering for her. So, that would give us a couple of hours together!”
Jon smiled.
Jon caught himself smiling in the middle of his depression and deep grief. Jon began to
dream a bit. He dreamed that Holly fixed up a private meal for the two of them. In the
dream, Holly carried a picnic basket full of fixings and a thermos of piping-hot sweet
coffee.
Jon laughed out loud,
“You’re a silly old fool, Jon Westborough. You best get over this infatuation with that
beautiful young lady. You’re closing in on sixty-three years old. Some young buck is
going to chase down that young filly and scoop her up. The best you can hope for is to
help Steve with the nuptials.”
Jon asked his coworkers if he could leave a bit early. No one objected. Jon never
slacked. Jon always carried his weight and never missed a shift.
People looked to him for both leadership and inspiration. Most everyone present had
lost loved ones. Seeing Jon present and toiling and singing old hymns while he heaved
and tugged on boxes and emptied crates made all realize that ‘Going On’! was the first
requirement these days.
Jon made his way to the worship tent. The children and young people constructed a
wreath out of discarded plastic milk bottles and pruned evergreen bushes. Somehow
the children had managed to rig and fly the oversized wreath so that it suspended in
mid-air over the front portion of the tent.
Jon thought it looked holy and exuded a flair of exuberant joy. An exuberant joy that flew
directly in the face of the miseries that each and every person waddled and mucked
through these days.
Jon remembered the extravagance of his former days. His memory flooded with the
scenery and backdrops and the elegance of the staging that Shiloh Church
produced--produced and then tossed away with the coming and passing of each
Christmas season.

174
Jon chided and chastened himself for his indulgence. All at once, Holly Stone showed
up. Holly walked into the worship tent. She carried a picnic basket in one arm and a
woolen red and white plaid blanket in the other.

Pernicious Estrangement:
Life Lived Absent True Affection: Part Three
Holly took Jon’s breath away. The forty-year-old beauty had her hair held back by a
cherry red toned beret. The cherry red toned beret matched the ruddy coloration of her
cheeks.
Holly wore a red sweater with reindeer. Each of the reindeer sported merry hats
trimmed with green felt. Holly looked festive. And Jon cascaded head over heels in love.
Jon tried to reign in his emotional stallions. But alas, there was no way he could stop
himself. All his emotional restraint escaped his own personal corral. If this did not ‘work
out’, Jon knew that he might not recover. Losing Annette and Adrian and Adonis and
now this new chance in life and love...well that’s something that Jon could not
countenance.
Holly spread the woolen blanket on the canvas awning material that served as a
backstop from the frost and the mud. Holly carefully unpacked her picnic basket. One by
one, Holly took out a pot of steaming hot chicken soup, a loaf of freshly baked bread,
some coffee spiked with nutmeg and cinnamon and a cookie for each of them.
Holly bowed and asked Jon to take a seat.
Holly remembered that sitting for long periods of time caused this oversized man
extreme discomfort. Somewhere, she found two of those stadium type seat supporters.
Jon kept trying to govern his emotional attachment. Jon screamed at himself to slow
down the revving engines that raced inside of his mind and heart.
But the years of solitude and the emptiness of his days, combined with the extremity of
his losses caused him to cave. Jon surrendered. He was out of control and fully smitten.
Holly welcomed his quiet affections.
When Holly flew Steadman’s lair of insanity and emotional cruelties, she swore off men.
Holly determined never to allow or permit a man to have sway over her again.
For Holly too, suffered from a long season of permanent love impairments.

175
As the choir began arriving. As the children started humming and warming up their
voices. As oboes and violins and guitars and makeshift sets of percussion instruments
started to tune up, Holly and Jon closed the world around them.
For a few minutes, these two broken people from such different sets of circumstances
sipped their soups, munched on their warm bread, and then sat back to enjoy the
luscious elegance of a cup of steaming hot coffee and a couple of fresh baked cookies.
Holly is the one that broke the comfortable silence…
“Jon, I have to tell you some things about me. None of this is going to be easy. Your
opinion about me is probably going to change. You asked me why I stayed away so
long? You asked me why I did not answer my mom or dad’s messages? You wanted to
know what kept me away.
“I have to tell you that I loved being with Steadman, at first. Everything about his life,
the money, the parties, the beautiful people, the fragrance of real and not imagined
power, the way people--all people--kowtowed down to him, the way people treated me
because I was obviously his main squeeze...I loved every inch of it.
“The entire thing was lusty and arrogant and full of gusto.
“You have to know that being a preacher’s kid meant my life had been...routinely
restrained. And living outside of that lockdown brought zest to me.
“Every morsel and bite-sized piece of life with Steadman appealed to me.I only
wanted...more.
“Then, cocaine--that powdery white Christmas sprinkle sprinted into our lives.”
Holly’s chin ducked into the folds of her reindeer sweater. Obvious shame and sorrow
flooded her mind, and tears began dripping from her tear ducts. Jon did not say a word.
Jon knew enough about confessions to sit still and not probe.
Human beings that are about to divulge large chunks of emotional shrapnel need time
and space. Time and space and a loving and caring companion that simply walks
through the dusk and the hard-crusted encasements of personal despisement and too
much ridicule.
Holly glanced up at Jon. What she saw staring back, was a man of deep sorrows and a
man of obsessive compassion...and a man that loved her without question or condition.
Holly continued,
“Steadman at first loved me and only me. Our love, Jon...it was like a white-hot match.
The passion was unthinkable. The fiery daily and nightly encounters...they were
breathtaking.”

176
Holly blushed.
Holly began to withdraw. Holly thought she exposed one too many nerves. She feared
that she gave too much too soon. And Holly did not know how this holy man could ever
comprehend such banal, carnal, and sensuous spellbinding encounters.
Jon worked hard and refrained himself from speaking. Instead, he reached over and
took his big hand and swallowed up Holly’s tiny left hand. The physical touch gave Holly
courage and repose.
Holly swallowed hard and said,
“Harlot tricks. Jon, I became nothing more than a harlot to that man. He brought
women--and men--into our bed. Not once, not twice, but dozens of times.
“I wish I could say he forced, or at the very least, coerced me to do those atrocious
things, Jon. But you have to understand, the cocaine and the pleasure and the beautiful
people and the setting sunsets and midnight rendezvouses on exotic beaches and the
wild nights that lasted three to four days and the battalions of servants...
“I loved every second of it.
“Then one day, the cocaine made me vomit. I’d never had anything but spree and
ecstatic rushes before that morning.
“Then the blood came. I was pregnant, Jon. I killed my and Steadman’s only child.
“After that, I could not sleep with him ever again. He kept me happy and appeased me
and abused me with trinkets and bobbles and gemstones. But my heart, Jon. My heart
and my soul were already gone. Gone and searching for the nearest exit.
“I vowed to find a way back home. I knew my mom and dad--especially my
dad--would let me back into their lives. I did not know, how could I know, the damage I
did to both of them.
“Now, I’m as impure as soft, white snow drifts that a pack of dogs just peed on.
“No man will ever, or should ever, want me.”

Holly concluded her confession by saying…

“I’d love to have a baby someday, Jon. I actually think I’d be a pretty awesome mom.”

177
Jon stood up and took Holly by both hands. The two of them raised straight up together.
Jon leaned in and kissed this ravishing and broken young woman.
Jon held and tilted Holly’s chin up. She was able to see and gaze upon his immense,
physical stature.
Jon said,
“Holly, I loved you. I loved you the moment I met you in the soup line. Nothing you
have done or could ever do will quiet or stop my love. Will you marry me?”
Holly, far from stunned, but still a bit surprised replied,
“Yes. I hoped you felt the same way I do. But I had to tell you the truth about me, Jon.
There can be no secrets between us. Not now. Not ever. No secrets. You have to tell
me at all times what you’re thinking and feeling. You can be dead certain that you will
always know what’s on my mind.
“You have the right to change your mind. So think it over. It is with a grateful heart, I
swear to God that ‘yes’!, I would love to be your wife.”
Jon kissed his bride to be. With the choirs singing angelic carols and with the worship
tent beginning to fill with expectant congregants, Holly and Jon passionately kissed
each other and swayed back and forth as Christmas songs held the two of them
enraptured in each others’ arms.
Just then...Dawn and Steve walked into the worship tent.

Fractured World:
One United Family
The united and loving and finally intact family unit sat together on the second row. Dawn
and Steve and Holly and Jon. A family. A unit. A complete integer. No more roaming. No
more separation. No more disgruntled absence. No more unexplained separations.
Dawn sat next to Holly. Steve sat next to his dear friend and ministry mentor--and
personal idol--Dr. Jon.

Dawn squeezed her daughter’s hand. And as she did so whispered…

“I knew you’d come home to me. I’m proud of you baby. Jon’s a good man. Treat him
well. If you hurt him, I’ll kick your ass.”
Steve looked at Jon and said,

178
 “Welcome home,my son.”
The two of them giggled. Jon turned his head and asked…
“Can I marry your daughter? Would that be ok with you?”
Steve wrapped his arm around Jon’s big shoulder and nodded his head in a silent ‘yes’.
The family listened to Christmas carols. The family sang ‘O Holy Night’ and ‘Silent Night’
while sitting side-by-side.
Steve read the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke. Jon gave the benediction.
Afterwards, the children gave homemade presents to each person who attended their
choral offering of praise.
Afterglow…
All basked and bathed and breathed deep into, ‘The Afterglow’.
This holy sense of unction.
This deliberate quell to internal storms.
This felt experience of unabashed confidence engulfed and immersed all who were
present.
This unbiased and reverential awe deposited holy peace into each addled mind.
This unquestioned certainty that life to its fullest extent would live on enriched each
spirit.
This eternal faith hovered over the gathering like moss on an aged willow tree.
This look beyond now and into what was possible carried each man, woman and child
to the softest landing imaginable.
This combined Vision of productive and happy and elegant restoration led each person
back to their place of residence.
As the crowd thinned, as the voices receded into the darkness, God looked down from
heaven’s porch and smiled.

179
 Part Five:
Reclamation

180
 The Guild Rangers:
Steadman Erects His Monarchy

Dateline Washington, D.C.: Five Years After ‘The Second Big Bang’:
Steadman immediately instituted a ‘Zero Tolerance’ policy.
The ‘Zero Tolerance’ approach to government disagreements meant no one could even
think of a complaint, yet alone utter a criticism against “The Guild.” For make no
mistake, “The Guild” now governed the entirety of the former United States of America.
Steadman’s Zero Tolerance policy covered all realms of disgruntlement, dissent,
push-back, or even whispered accusations of alleged misconduct.
Steadman and his ‘Rangers’, for that is what and how he deemed his policy and
enforcement police, quickly earned reputations for both ruthfulness and anonymity.
Guild Rangers:
In the aftermath of ‘The Second Big Bang’, Washington, D.C. became a ghost-town.
People just fled.
Those government wonks and civilian patrol battalions, that were supposed to remain
vigilant and tied to their posts regardless of the circumstances, all fled like coyotes into
the deepening darkness.
Those political activists that believed government, in all of its forms and manifestations,
to be their saviors quickly learned that no help or aid would find them.
Those high-profile and high-ranking political and party pundits and elitists--from moment
one--headed for the exits.
The Washington, D.C. device detonated at its precise and most ideal location—near the
intersection of Sixth Street and Constitution Avenue.
The Washington, D.C. device exploded within a few hundred yards of Ford’s theater to
its west, the Capitol complex to the south and east. And, the big Bonanza of the White
House to its slightest east and tilted north compass headings.
The Washington, D.C. device reached full capacity and complete potency.

181
Steadman and his cohorts landed squarely in the middle of annihilation bliss. Block after
block of utter and pure decimation greeted the battered, bruised, and poisoned
survivors.
The device, at explosion, instantly warmed to just under 2200 degrees Fahrenheit. The
device excited the plutonium isotopes to such a rage scale, that the crater it left as a
monument tilled a full one-hundred meters to the earth’s core and measured
two-hundred cubic meters in circumference.
The device’s blast range covered twelve full blocks in all compass headings with
volcanic, irradiated ash. North, south, east and west...devastation, and toxic, mutilated
carnage ruled and ruined the days.
Men, women, and children alike were minced by the pincer from hell. Men, women, and
children were immolated by the fire that Hades unleashed on that most political of all
cities.
Buildings, cars, trains, buses, and even planes and helicopters that were trapped in
flight incinerated on the spot. The conflagration caught everyone by surprise. The
intelligence corps that were supposed to be on constant watch for this kind of ‘first
strike’ missed the obvious.
The Capitol Police who patrolled and cruised up and down the central governmental
complex and cherry tree robed colonnades ignored the dented white van and its
company of lesser support vehicles. All policing authorities were caught napping.
The FBI, the DEA, the ATF, the DHS, the CIA--all of them thought nothing of the white
van and its five other flanking vehicles that parked themselves at precisely 5:45 pm EST
at the intersection of Sixth Street and Constitution Avenue.
When one patrol car stopped and radioed in that something very suspicious looking was
happening within shouting distance of both the White House and the Capitol Complex,
the signal flag was way too weak and far too late.
Within days following the assault on the nation’s capitol and on the people’s
government, Steadman activated his shadow government.
Since the inception of the United States of America, The Medfords held a steady
presence and constant sway upon any and all who occupied both the executive and
legislative branches of government.
The Medfords, not one of them ever ran for a political office, nor held an elected
position.

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The Medfords owned the shadow government that was composed of unelected and
deeply entrenched bureaucrats, that ruled and managed the nation’s affairs without
fanfare, notice or threat of removal.
The Medfords embedded themselves and their bought and paid for vassals into the
deepest recesses of what they called, ‘functional government’. ‘Functional government’
were those hidden moles and unmovable policy makers and purse-wielding and
check-writing men and women who followed no political ambition...nor responded to any
political persuasion.
The Medfords built and carefully maintained a faithful cadre, of what they referred to as
‘intelligent caretakers’ that really ran the government.
The Medfords’ wealth historically came from long-entrenched evergreen and perpetually
immutable contracts with numerous agencies and departments of government--all of
whom paid the Medford Cartel some form of vig for its ongoing intellectual capital,
Guidant expertise, and enhanced personal standards of living.
The Medford Foundation was birthed and financed by the purchasing of politicians who
faithfully paid tributes to gain entry into the sacred and holy walls of the Washington,
D.C. superstructure.
To be a ‘friend’ and a recipient of a Medford Grant, or even a much coveted Medford
political endorsement, meant instant and certain welcome and long-term inclusion into
the Washington, D.C. culture.
The Medfords never strayed from their family’s motto: “Fealty to Us...Restraint to All.”
When, ‘The Second Big Bang’ exploded, Steadman quickly replaced the wobbly
remains of the United States of America’s former government with his Guild.
The Guild’s first order of business: declare Marshall Law.

Bathsheba Bathing:
The Guild’s Plan for Reclamation
Steadman loved the story of King David standing on his palace roof and glaring down
on the bathing Bathsheba. The part that made him zing was the conquest. David craved
after this young bathing beauty.
Steadman lusted after ownership and unchallenged control of the United States of
America’s government...and its treasure trove of assets that came as a bonus to any
interloper who could procure this ‘Pearl of Great Prize’ as personal possession.

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Like David before him, Steadman gained and seized his conquest.

Steadman laughed aloud and said…

“No one takes back what I took from them. All of them--every last one of them--now
are nothing more than Dragon Shit. I may not be their King. But they can’t take back
what I took from them.”
Steadman sat in the parlor of Mayflower II. He thought back on the last five years of his
life…
In the weeks and months that followed the ignition of, ‘The Second Big Bang’, The Guild
established Marshall Law. Marshall Law meant:
● All personal property rights were temporarily frozen.
● The Guild established its right to ‘Eminent Domain’ plus search and seizure of
any and all personal or governmental or corporate owned properties.
● The Guild’s Rangers temporarily swallowed up, or where necessary, replaced all
law enforcement and emergency response units with their ‘NPF’ (National
Protection Force).
● All transport and movement of goods, services, people, or supplies required
Guild certificates of commerce.
● The Guild reserved the right to inspect and to confiscate any and all parcels,
conveyances, or packages that might contain contraband.
● The Guild declared itself final, governing, and enforcement authority over all
portions of the United States of America.
● The Guild revoked all citizenship rights and due process.
● The Guild paused The Bill of Rights and its companion: “Habeas Corpus”.
Steadman smiled as he recalled the day his puppet, President Oswald Feek, read on
shortwave, and transmitted via any broadcast channels that yet remained, his
government’s temporary recusal and transference of all transitional powers to the
shadowy group simply called, ‘The Guild’.
President Feek let all citizens know that this transition of power and these enforcement
authorities were only temporary. He assured all that might still be alive and well that the
United States Government would once again regain its now arrested and
self-suspended strength.
President Feek’s final words on that last transmission hung in the air like asbestos dust
that lingers long after a construction project has halted:

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 “The United States of America will once again reform and then reclaim its
dominance…”
The silence that followed those non-prophetic remarks muted the justice out of a culture
that had only known due process and its confederate of personal prosperity.
With that single declaration, The United States of America ceded its governing authority
to a group that few knew anything about. Not that this mattered.
The majority of the remaining citizens of the United States of America could have cared
less if Stalin or Mao or even Fidel himself returned from their well-deserved graves.
Who got to sit in the charred remains of the White House, or rode around in armored
cars, mattered little to most post-event survivors.
What did matter to all who yet lived was how to find food and where to find safe shelter.
Those givens, and how to get their hands on one of those Nautilus Light thingys, that
made and kept so many warm and lit up so many dark places.
Steadman refused to show his face in public for the first few years. He let his henchmen
do the dirty work. He put his people in charge of emptying out the warehouses of food
and garments. He allowed his National Protection Force to patrol the streets and keep
the peace.
Steadman’s henchmen confiscated all raw materials and rationed staples.
Steadman’s henchmen made certain their families were well cared for.
Steadman loosed his emergency relief units on the imperiled and limping nation. To his
surprise and constant disappointment, the groups that scooped up supplies, distributed
blankets, bound up the wounds of the infirmed, and brought peace to the communities
where he and his tour de force induced mayhem, were the Christian churches that he
personally despised.
Steadman made a plan. He would announce his monarchy in the place where his Holly
took up residence. If he could not have Holly, he made up his mind that her child would
soon become his own. He would have his heir…

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 The Guild:
Cohorts Assemble: Part One: Doris
Doris woke up to the sound of Steadman screaming at yet another of his incompetent
sychophants.
Doing life and sharing space with Steadman did not match the fantasy that Doris longed
and hoped for.
Doris scratched the night goo from her heavy eyelids. The fact that she now occupied
the bed and the boudoir that once belonged to Holly Stone-Wildfire always irked her.
Doris cringed at the thought of being ‘second helping’ to that former slut.
As she stretched her weary body, Doris remembered the day that Steadman’s Rangers
came to rescue her..
Doris walked around The Ryoble Farm and cursed the day of her capture. Doris grew to
hate this ragtag militia of inbreds and ignoramooses that held her imprisoned. Doris
prayed to some unknown and wished for god to come and rescue her from this
madness.
The rescue of Dr. Doris D’ Artest happened swiftly and without violent interruption.
Two full turns of the calendar after, ‘The Second Big Bang’, Doris ate her meals in the
communal mess tent, attended religious services which she abhorred, witnessed men
and women of faith celebrate the ‘Afterglow’ from their religious conduct, and managed
someone else’s affairs.
Doris did all she could to bite her tongue. In past days, Dr. Doris D’ Artest simply, under
no circumstances would have tolerated such indignity. No way in hell she would ever
catch herself, ‘The Dr. Doris D’ Artest’ doing menial labor and cavorting with the likes of
hillbillies and nincompoops.
Yes. Doris was safe. But the days spent as a lowly serf here in the middle of nowhere
USA, caused raw hatred to find root and mature inside of her very haughty soul.
Doris remembered the day that one of Steadman’s drones spotted her. Doris held close
and dear to her heart the promise that she would find rescue.
The rescue happened in the pitch black of a cold January night…
Word reached The Ryoble Farm that Dawn’s daughter, Holly and Dr. Jon, had a son!
The births of all children born in these darkest of times always brought moments of
special adoration and thanksgiving to God.

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 A celebration of the birth of Jude Steven Stone-Westborough was scheduled following
the evening worship services. Attendance at all such affairs was always mandatory.
Doris refused to go to the worship service that night. That meant, as punishment she
was confined, save bathroom breaks to her humid, tiny, plastic Viva Dome.
Doris’s revulsion for her captors and all whom she referred to derisively as ‘religious
idiots’ caused her to cry out:
“Steadman! Find me! Come now, my darling! I know you love me! I can’t make it
another day in this awful place!
And as if the gods were at her beck and call, an NPF advance unit surrounded and
infiltrated the small encampment. With nightlights attached like crisscrossing spotlights
to the barrels of AR-15 assault rifles and in full camo-gear, a fearless band of NPF
breached the perimeter of The Ryoble Ranch.
Their sole mission: find and rescue Dr. Doris D’ Artest. Fire no weapons and harm no
civilians unless necessary or fired upon—those were their orders. And, find and bring
back unharmed, Dr. Doris D’ Artest.
The faithful members of The Nautilus Krew that guarded and maintained the perimeter
that night were easily subdued. Men, women, and children were corralled into the center
of the camp and kept at gunpoint by the body armor clad and face painted warriors of
The Guild’s NPF.
Fierce looking men and women moved with stealth and seasoned skill through the
camp. When Dr. Doris D’ Artest was located, the captain of the rescue squad checked
his documents to ensure that she indeed was the right and proper target.
Within minutes, the new apple of Steadman’s eye vanished into the huskiness of
darkness. The Ryoble Farm remained hushed with terror long after Doris and her
rescuers' silent departure.
Who were these marauders? Where did they come from? Would they return? Why did
they single out Doris?
The evening ended with reinforcements on the outer limits and nightmares of assault
rifle toting bandits.

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 The Guild:
Cohorts Assemble: Part Two: Quinn
Quinn lived the life of a warrior, Budhist monk. Men did not appeal to her. The thought of
canoodling with a man and then bearing a child made her retch. The idea of finding a
mate, and living something of an adult version of a life, felt oppressive to her.
Quinn settled into life on ‘Isla Ocho’ quite naturally. After all, she was an island girl.
On the day of her arrival, everyone present knew, by direct Steadman decree, that she
was Steadman’s appointed and anointed heiress.
The person most impacted by the rise of this new miniature sun was none other than Dr.
Audrey Ryft.

Quinn’s life on ‘Isla Ocho’ felt....hopeful.

The sights and sounds and vibrancy of a community of her peers kept her agile and
always ‘on point’. All of the smart workers who toiled on their segment of turf at ‘Isla
Ocho’ were one-time attendees and then graduates of ‘Isla Nueva’.
Not one of these graduates could overlook the fact that Quinn Baber won the contest.
The legendary tale and languished woes of Steadman searching for his long lost heir
were gnarled and oft-retold.
The truth is that every person on ‘Isla Ocho’, except for Dr. Audrey Ryft, thought
themselves the rightful heir or heiress to Steadman’s empires and incalculable fortune.
Quinn felt their jealousy. Quinn revelled in her now serfs’ common blatherings and
personal stretches for her approval. Quinn relished living into the pecking order in full
display.
Quinn was a conundrum. She was a woman of immense, strike that, limitless financial
and political and familial capacity. She had every material and social and intellectual
and physical attribute that anyone could wish for, hope for...or seek to attain.
And she chose to live the life of the minimalist, Buddhist, fighting warrior monk.
Quinn lived on ‘Isla Ocho’ alone. She had Steadman’s work detail construct her a
mini-house that sat alone and as a separate fiefdom on the southern and eastern most
tip of the island.
Her mini-house had no running water or shower or toilet. Quinn bathed in the ocean and
fetched her own drinking and cooking water from a freshwater well. She showered in

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the all-together outside of her tiny house by dousing herself with buckets of clear,
ice-cold water.
Quinn only ate figs, oatmeal, berries, and an occasional lobster that she caught in one
of her many traps. Quinn drank herbal teas that she personally harvested from her own
garden.
Quin’s daily routine never altered one iota:
● Rise @ 4:30 am.
● Stretching and run around the two mile track she built with her own hands.
● One hour studying and learning from the ancient masters.
● Half hour of meditation and chanting.
● One and a half hours of kata.
● Eat some breakfast of figs and berries and oatmeal.
● Quick shower.
● Head to the office.
Quinn arrived at the office at 9 am EST each and every morning. She entered into a
world of maps, strategy sessions, career climbers, and political intrigue. Men and
women, all of them vied for her attention and lusted after her preference.
Both men and women imagined themselves the lucky one that broke her personal code
of conduct and became her trusted confidant and luscious lover.
Quinn ran ‘Isla Ocho’.
From the day she arrived via Mayflower III, Quinn owned this island. To say she loved
the place would be a gross understatement. Quinn lusted over this place.
Quinn’s time at MIT was spent studying blockchain. Blockchain is the simple belief that
all fiat, or printed currency, is make-believe and something of an anachronism.
Blockchain technology is the mechanical wizardry that permits all transactions to be
immutable, unbreakable, incorruptible, and wholly controllable.
In the hands of the right person, with the right resources, and the smartest team of
eggheads, a small group of men and women could quite easily imagine and build a
currency that would cannibalize all other national currencies.
Quinn orgasmed over the fact that now, she and her team, were doing just that. And
that her adopted father created the context where such a creature from the darkest of all
lagoons could both exist and thrive.

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 MPWR:
Codex Interuptus
Quinn personally sifted through the fifty or so coders that made it through the Spartan
mud pit that was ‘Isla Nueva’, and then survived Steadman’s sweatshop that was ‘Isla
Ocho’.
To make it to ‘Isla Ocho’! That was an accomplishment. To remain on ‘Isla Ocho’. That
took a kind of personal fencing and parrying set of skills that very few possessed. To
parlay those deft personal maneuvers into the strongest of will to thrive on ‘Isla
Ocho’....that took balls of steel.
To rise above the level of drone worker and savant simpleton…that meant the
possession of a personal set of acuities that dipped into the smallest percentile of
human believability.
Quinn measured each and every coder on the island. She analyzed their every habit.
She observed and studied their social interactions. Anyone that had a ‘Type A’ persona
immediately was rejected.
In like manner, anyone that deployed and enjoyed life from her very ‘Type B’,
introverted, socially shy perspective, raised that candidate to the level of possible.
Quinn deeply distrusted extroverts and despised show-offs.
Quinn felt a unique attraction to eggheads, that were by nature—self-deprecating,
socially awkward, non-talkative, and ultimately ruthless.
Quinn’s work required excellence.
Quinn’s expectations searched for indefatigable.
Quinn’s mandate demanded post 160 + intelligence.
Quinn’s scope shunned all that even hinted at some kind of emotional neediness.
Quinn’s job description included only those who long ago either lost or stomped upon
and crushed into a million tiny pieces their moral compass.
Quinn’s mission needed killers.
Quinn sought out, located, observed, interviewed, and then huddled together her team.
Her team consisted of three other coders that had the intelligent chops and the
emotional distance to crest the mountain that she alone envisioned possible.
Quinn’s faith rested in the atomic weight and the atomic structure of the carbon
molecule.

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The carbon molecule originated from one hardened and preferential isotope that
permitted three hydrogen molecules to attach to its energy field.
This tetrahedral configuration was quite literally the building block of all natural order.
Virtually all living organisms contained and were dependent upon this eternal matter
maker and its intrinsic, basic-life-giving-cellular-architecture.
Quinn believed in following the natural order. Her three orbiting, and now permanently
affixed coders, that she hand selected, began imagining and then crafting silhouetted
and simulated models. Complex, ethereal models that were painstakingly constructing
‘ex nihilo’.
Quinn would bear an only, cyber child.
Quinn would name her cyber child: “MPWR.”
‘MPWR”, the crypto coin and universal token for value exchange would change the
world. How? By first grabbing a hold of and then ruling all nations’ currencies.
Quinn intended to rule the nations by being the molecular source of everyone’s money
supply.

MPWR:
Cryptus Canabalys:
Quinn looked at the clock. It was 10:30 pm EST. As always, no one else was stirring.
Her three companions long ago retired from their strenuous day of coding.
Quinn leaned back in her office chair, that often doubled as her vertical bed, and smiled.
She remembered the day that ‘MPWR’ was conceived.
Quinn sat in her dorm room on the basement floor of the cyber cafe. She was a grunt
back then and did not yet merit a real and official office or apartment. The advancement
ladder at MIT was tall and arduous. Everyone started as basement dwellers in this land
where excellence and stratospheric IQ’s were commonplace.
Quinn toiled away at her spreadsheets. She worked on four main screens at once. Her
calculus was still uncertain. Her thesis was far from proven. But her stubborn belief that
a single strand of code could confound and then unify all known financial universes
remained unshakable.
Quinn stared at her screen and all four of the monitors went catatonic and then blank.
Frantically, Quinn hammered on keys and pushed escape buttons and began to

191
troubleshoot. Nothing worked. She was locked out of her own hand-built operating
system.
All at once, out of nowhere, one of those random and weird ransomware tags flashed
across all four of her monitors. A loud, annoying buzzer alerted Quinn that a virulent
strain of ransomware now owned and kept her computer locked down.
All Quinn had to do to retrieve equilibrium in her cyber universe was call an 800 number
and pay a fee. The trolls at the other end of the line would accept her toll and grant her
access once more to her own, living possessions.
Quinn screamed and threw a chair through her main monitor. Quinn disentangled her
hard-drive from its neural pathways of cords and wires. Quinn smashed the hard-drive
to pieces with a coffee pot.
Quinn dug into her backpack and pulled out her wireless, always connected back-up
hard-drive. Quinn visited one of the many storage lockers in the MIT lab and resurrected
a discarded computer and cyber-suctioned the hard-drive from this giving host.
After ten minutes of coding and recalibration, Quinn was back in business. In the middle
of a cuss-fest, it hit her—ransomware.
Ransomware!
Of course! How could she have been so stupid!
In that millisecond, MPWR was conceived.
Quinn began scrawling out hand-sketched diagrams and working non-linear pathways.
Her mind was crystal clear. A single strand of code indeed could, and most certainly
would, both confound and then unify all known financial universes.
The ransomware had to be hidden and yet highly intrusive.
The ransomware had to be virulent.
The ransomware had to be untraceable.
The ransomware had to be immutable and unbreakable.
The ransomware had to originate from a solitary source.
The ransomware had to disable every line of code in its path.
The ransomware had to disarm every flimsy, personal, and/or corporate and/or
governmental firewall.
The ransomware had to scramble and encrypt all efforts to reverse engineer its
pathways.

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The ransomware had to freeze and then seize at point of contact all financial ledgers
and portfolios and balance sheets and cash deposits.
The ransomware had to ward and fend off any and all attempts to reclaim ownership
and control of the asset forfeitures.
The ransomware had to demand a toll to reclaim control and redeem assets.
The ransomware had to exact a fee for all forward-based transactions.
The ransomware had to be ruthless and blind-eyed.
The ransomware had to jettison all patriotic and provincial forms of government.
The ransomware had to store and warehouse all financial data and hold these files as
hostage against any that might attempt to usurp and gain back their prior advantages.
The ransomware had to Empower Quinn to confound and then fully unify the known
worlds of all financial universes.
The ransomware had to be a single strand of code that infected and consumed all
financial codexes that existed.
As Quinn got up from her chair and began to collect the few items that were truly hers,
she smiled. Quinn turned off the lights to her office and headed to her native hut on the
far end of ‘Isla Ocho’.
Tomorrow will be a very busy day for her and the team. Tomorrow the servers in the
datacenter were going to go live. Tomorrow will be the first test-run of ‘MPWR’.

Harvest Time:
Server Farms and Readiness
From the moment Quinn Baber set foot on ‘Isla Ocho’, she thanked her lucky stars. The
fact that all of this, every dedicated body and superior brain and evergreen resource
were hers, kept Quinn in a perpetual state of astonishment.
Quinn quickly learned that Steadman had a great deal to do with the orchestration,
financing, and then execution of, ‘The Second Big Bang’. Rather than cause her to
writhe in emotional pain and curse Steadman’s evil imagination, Quinn relished in the
fact that her adopted father had the guts and temerity, and then the wherewithal to take
on the behemoth of, “The United States of America.’
And to topple that beast.

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‘The Second Big Bang’ opened up a vortex of need. ‘The Second Big Bang’ cratered
most existing protection barriers. As Quinn’s team accumulated knowledge, they began
inserting their MPWR code into first local, and then at a glacial pace, into millions, and
then billions, and then quadrillions of global financial transactions.
Quinn woke up from the previous day’s workload @ 4:30 am EST. The sun did not greet
her at this hour. Quinn gracefully walked through the morning’s personal practices. After
showering, she headed off to the office.
Quinn began this day at the data center.
The data center was housed in one of Steadman’s 30,000 square foot outbuildings. The
building appeared non-discrete. The outer walls were painted with a grey, hex coat
thermal infrared absorbing material. If any global satellite had the notion to check in on
the facility, it, like all of the other outbuildings on ‘Isla Ocho’, would simply blend into the
backdrop of a sandy and windswept atol, and then disappear into a blot of nothingness.

Quinn demanded that the arrays, the eyes and ears of her entire operation, also be
painted in the grey hex coat coloration. Quinn’s external search bots never tired or slept.
The arrays and search antenna constantly found and glommed onto strands of
encrypted, and thought to be safe from seeing eyes and thieving minds’, financial data.
As the years progressed following ‘The Second Big Bang’, Quinn’s MPWR code pushed
deeper and deeper into the financial ether. Moment by moment and hour by hour and
day by day turned into months and then years on end.
As year five of life post the American mortem of existence under the authoritarian heel
of ‘The Guild’ gained foothold, Quinn decided her hour had now also arrived.
Quinn’s very smart bots held financial threads and critical economic data on billions of
people and held quatrillions of private and supposedly confidential data-threads.
Quinn entered the solemn and frigid world of her own server farm. Thirty thousand
square feet of sophisticated and interconnected, super intelligent machines followed
only her command...and heard and listened only to her voice.
Quinn quietly strolled amongst her peers.
The fact that her only peers were machines, that subtracted and then erased emotion
and did not comprehend caring, made Quinn feel safe. Safe and at home.
Quinn inventoried and pulled up data queues and response queries from each machine.
The fact that no human being other than Quinn was present, grabbed her a bit by the
throat. Quinn felt a twinge, a longing for someone, someone special, to share this

194
momentous moment with. Quickly Quinn took out her self-dagger and slayed that
sentimental dragon.
Quinn reminded herself that the need for others died in that tiny, filthy Philipino
bathroom nearly three decades ago. No one would ever violate her in that way again.
Quinn exited her server farm and headed to her office. She met up with the three
companions. Quinn asked the three people present, whom she had long ago named,
“Uno, Dos and Tres,” a single question:
“Are we ready?”
One by one, the three amigos shook their heads and whispered, ‘yes’.
Quinn instructed Uno, Dos and Tres to: “Push Play.”

Spiders and Wasps:

Sticky Code and Toll Roads
Quinn’s team wrote the MPWR code with the specific intent of attaching and infusing a
thin thread of venom into each and every thread of financial code that it encountered.
The design was so simple and so glorious and so malevolent.
Quinn’s MPWR code was sticky.
The MPWR code contained an electronic molasses that glommed onto any financial
transaction or transmission system that it saw or passed through. Normally, encrypted
code runs on ‘VPN’ or ‘virtual private network’ pipes. These pipes constantly searched
for and then identified and instantly zapped any threat coordinates within their known
operating system.
Quinn’s MPWR code quite literally coated its identifying hosts with its presence and
would not let go. The secret sauce of the MPWR code is that it soon coated the
electronic transmission systems with its signature code, and then tricked the operating
system into believing it had been removed.
This ability to ‘hide in plain sight’, meant that once installed, and once accepted as
friendly, that all transactions that moved along the electronic transmission system’s
pipes and network pathways became painted with MPWR.

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MPWR actually melded itself to any architecture it encountered and then, once
embedded, smeared itself like raspberry jelly on every particle and sub-particle of
financial code it met.
MPWR just sat idle. MPWR just rested on its laurels. MPWR waited for its alert code to
go live! And then to go viral.
Anytime Uno, Dos or Tres would ask Quinn what MPWR was, her answer would always
be the same;
“MPWR is a sticky paste. It’s like super-glue. Only you can’t wash it off and it will not
degrade. MPWR is like a colony of stinging wasps. You can not escape or evade its
poisonous sting.
“MPWR is like a hidden rabbit warren. It populates at a pace and with an intensity that
you cannot stop, let alone contain.
“MPWR is like a black widow or brown recluse. You may be able to inoculate against
its venom. But once bitten, you will always retain the necrosis of the bite.”

Push Play:
On the day that Quinn’s team, ‘Pushed Play’, MPWR went LIVE!
Computers all over the world started blinking and alarms started clanging. Financial
advisors and Chief Technology Officers and Chief Network Operating Officers around
the globe were called into emergency sessions.
Clients’ and firms’ and institutions’ and NGOs’ and companies’ and pension plans’ and
nonprofits' and governments’ money supplies instantly became inaccessible.
Banks and brokerage houses and financial custodians around the globe, organizations
that were trusted stewards of others’ vast or nominal resources, instantly became
frauds.
Men and women, whose careers and trading houses, whose reputations, stood on the
fact that others’ capital supplies were in their safe and stable command and who held
the title of, ‘fiduciary’ immediately stared down the awful prospect of gross negligence.
Gross negligence and ‘officer theft’.
Error messages and locked out access barriers, within hours, created a global financial
panic that caused international commerce to stall.

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The age old adage that ‘money never sleeps’ nodded off. For at this moment, Quinn
held the lone cypher. She waited to send the relief code. Quinn wanted her serfs to
squirm and to suffer. She wanted governments to quell. She wanted elites to quake.
Quinn wanted the privileged to become beggars.
Quinn wanted no pushback.
Quinn would permit zero negotiation.
Either everyone impacted pay her a release fee and then agree to her toll and
transaction tariffs on each and every financial transaction going forward, or live in abject
poverty.
When Quinn explained MPWR to her adopted father, Steadman blushed. The fact that
his daughter had this kind of brains and possessed that set of balls made him almost
shed a tear or two.
After twenty-four hours of anguish and financial distress, Quinn posted the relief
message.
The message contained just five words:
“Pay Up or Piss Off.”

Pay Up or Piss Off:

Rent Versus Ownership

The email arrived everywhere at once. Through the magic dust of the internet billions of
people received a simple message:

“Pay Up or Piss Off.”

The email messages bore the stamp and watermark of “The Guild.”

The masthead of each message that people around the globe received in their inboxes
spoke words in their own, personal language. Each message contained ‘The Guild’s’
signature ocean blue background and New Zealand Osprey.

In silver guilded lettering, the sender identified themselves as, “The Guild: Holder and
Steward of All Military and Economic Assets of the Former United States of America.”

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The message was the first public, inaugural declaration of any kind that ‘The Guild’
made. Heretofore, ‘The Guild’ spent its time shoring up its own borders and constructing
its own labyrinth of enforcement authorities.

So ‘The Guild’ went public.

The message declared itself controller over all assets and weaponry of the former
United States of America. It’s first shot over all others’ parapets contained a
not-so-veiled threat of implied force.

The edict included a few tersely worded explanations. Each explanation was followed
by a stern warning to either comply with the stated terms and offer conditional release of
their held and off-limits assets and funds...or live in squalor.

The edict stated:

“The Guild, Holder and Steward of All Military and Economic Assets of the Former
United States of America declares you pay up.

“The Guild reminds all of you that you have lived beyond your means.”

“The Guild requires recompense for your lavish lives of plenty.”

“In order to reclaim access to your former funds and assets, a suggested fee is
presented. Agree to pay the fee via a swift withdrawal remittance from your current
balances, and you will be permitted usage of your funds and partial reclamation of your
properties and holdings.”

“In order to continue to have unfettered access to your funds and financial resources,
simply agree to the submission of these reclamation fees and their attending, ongoing
and evergreen use fees.”

“Should you be foolish and choose to be stiff-necked and ignorant and refuse our
generous offer...well. We pledge not a second chance for retrieval. Your resistance
equals your agreement to permanently forfeit your funds and assets and properties and
gift them into perpetuity to, ‘The Guild.’”

The postscript thanked each recipient for permitting ‘The Guild’ to hold their assets and
to use them for ‘the greater good of all humankind.”

With that, global ownership of all assets, income, holdings, properties, and portfolios
became the undisputed claim of Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh’s ‘Guild’.

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Steadman’s mother’s prophecy had exceeded her own expectations because Quinn
Baber became her granddaughter.

Pushback.

Of course pushback rose up like wildfires on a prairie in the middle of a long, hot, dry
August night. The strongest, and least looked for pushback, resided inside of local
churches that dared to say: “Fie!”

“Phobos”

Flying Saucers and Flying Wreaths

Madrid stared at the ATM screen. She tapped on the screen. She tried to shift to a
different, maybe more reasonable, screen. Nothing.
A message popped up. The message on the bank’s external monitor simply posted a
picture of ‘The Guild’s Flag. Then, in bold letters came the stark alert: “Access Denied.”
Madrid realized that her dreams were about to come true...
Madrid and Prof Tribute stood and watched the construction move along on the Forever
Church campus. The great cathedral’s restoration was nearing completion. The fact that
it was a shadow version of its former guilded glory did not matter.
Forever Church would stand as a marker. Forever Church would stand as a model of
perseverance. Forever Church would stand as a declaration of God’s reclamation of a
nation that passed through the gates and fires of hell and came out on the other
side--alive!
Prof Tribute stood in the nave. He stood right in the spot where an ‘X’ was painted on
the floor. The original, ornate pulpit long ago had been pilfered by thieves and scrapped
and sold for kindling. He asked the wood-smyths to carve him a simple replica pulpit
that would occupy space in its absence.
The new pulpit bore the insignia of, “The Nautilus Krew.” The space vessel ‘Phobos’,
screaming through the nether-heavens with its fiery contrails pushing it ever deeper and
deeper into unknown galactic regions, became his living invocation.

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Prof Tribute asked his friends and coworkers to organize a team to build a wreath. The
wreath would be lit by thousands of tiny ‘Phobos’ lights. The wreath would be flung and
hung, suspended directly over the pulpit.
Prof Tribute decided that at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, the new Forever
Church house of worship would reopen. Up to this moment, the congregation met in
tents and homes and even on street corners, where ample space could be located.
Now! Now, the heavenly congregation would once more have an earthly home.
Prof Tribute stood gazing and admiring the handiwork of so many devoted and skilled
laborers. His mind drifted back to the first time that he returned to this place of
magnificent worship.
He remembered seeing, and then walking through, the spent carcass of the one-time
unstoppable congregation of faith. He walked amidst the humans and discarded debris.
As he did so Prof Tribute vowed:
“Someday, Dear Father...we will reclaim this as your own territory. We will once again
resurrect this place. Amidst this ruin and because of this ruination, we will once again
worship the Lord Jesus Christ in this place…
Maybe we will not restore this holy place to the splendor of its former self. But, as
Christ is my Vision and with our grandchildren as our Reason, we will rebuild and
restore your cathedral!”
Maddie spoke to her husband…
“Allen, I went to the ATM this morning. I tried to take out a few hundred dollars to pay
for some supplies like you asked me to do. I was denied access to our funds. What you
and I foresaw...what we knew would happen, has happened.
“Now, our plan and our Vision shall come to pass.”

“Fie!”

One Accord
The one institution and force for human good that Steadman could not control was the
church of Jesus Christ. The one organization that Steadman hated more than all other
groups combined was the church of Jesus Christ. The one clutch of people that
Steadman admired and wished he could emulate above all others were the preachers.

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The preachers somehow got people to do stuff.
The preachers did not threaten or coerce or in any way harm people.
The preachers spoke words of encouragement and hope and even mercies.
The preachers spouted forth some mumbo jumbo jargon and the people responded like
hummingbirds that found a flowering mulberry bush.
The preachers magically suggested people follow their instructions and the people did
so gladly.
The preachers generated this ‘afterglow’ thing that Steadman lusted after.
Steadman wanted not to be feared. Steadman wanted to be loved and even worshipped
by the masses.
The magic dust? Steadman wanted the magic dust that the preachers had in
abundance. Since he could not find the right combination of his own pixie dust, he was
determined to torch and scorch the earth, removing all churches and all of its preachers.
Long ago, Prof Tribute and his wife Maddie and the Council of the Elders made their
plans known. Long ago, the prophecy came to Maddie that some form of evil would
steal and purloin the nation’s resources.
Long ago, Maddie saw the vision of the American people (she did not see this being a
global event) being forced to pay fees to regain access to their own monies and
personal properties.
In order to break the obvious yoke that such economic bondage would usher in upon
the people of the United States, Maddie and The Council of Elders created, ‘SPYRT’.
SPYRT was a communal system of caring and sharing and joint and equal responsibility
that New Testament congregations all across America adopted, embraced, and put into
practice.
SPYRT was a strange combination of ‘prepperism’, shared wealth, equal access to
resources, common commitment to work, community support, caring for the least of
these, and most important of all--the decision that no person or child would ever go to
bed hungry or cold.
SPYRT contained elements of growing vegetables and husbanding livestock and
practicing ancient herbal medicines.
SPYRT brought all people under the caring canopy of ‘one accord’.
Maddie and Prof Tribute knew that now their mission would really be tested. For it is
one thing to speak platitudes of niceness, when tables and larders are full to the brim. It

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is quite another matter to work as a community of faith and to trust God for your daily
bread when hunger and thirst are common and visceral threats.
As the days pressed forward post MPWR being forced down the people’s throats, the
dam held firm. God’s people did not burst their own coffers.
God’s people, led by God’s preachers practiced—One Accord. Men, women, and
children found food, shelter, freshwater, and safety on a daily basis.
PHOBOS kept the people’s homes or Viva Domes lit and warm.
Hum Dingers filtered the nastiest of water and provided ample supplies of potable water.
‘SPYR’ capsules staved off illness and even began eliminating most infectious
diseases.
Expanded Nautilus Energy Packs allowed for communities to thrive and for commerce
to expand.
As Steadman and Quinn pressed for payment and extorted nations, New Testament
churches took on larger and larger quantities of broken and asset-frozen families.
Christmas Eve appeared on the calendar. Prof Tribute and Maddie planned for the
launch of Forever Church.
Steadman decided to take matters into his own hands. Christmas Eve would be the
night that he closed the last loophole that denied him national and then global
preeminence.

The Guild:
Cohorts Assemble Part Three: Audrey Ryft
Insomnia and blended scotch-whiskey were Audrey’s two best pals. Audrey sat in her
beachside bungalow alone. She stared at the clock—2:35 am. She got up to pee again.
She poured another three thimblefuls of her favorite rye-malt whiskey and added some
orange juice to spike the flavor and kill some of the burn.
Tomorrow morning, in less than five hours, Steadman and Quinn ordered all Guild
Members to be present for an emergency meeting. Some kind of special event and
happening was promised. Also some disturbing discoveries were to be discussed and
strategized.

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Audrey stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. All she noticed were crows feet and
cheeks, that once were firm and hollowed out, that now looked more like hog jowls than
a model’s perfect features.
Audrey ran her fingers through her alopecia ridden thinning hairline. She had bald
spots! Audrey touched her face and tried to rub out the sunspots and sundrenched
thinning skin tone.
Returning to her main room, she looked around and declared herself nothing but a fool
and a failure. Since Quinn’s advent and Doris’s second coming, Audrey was nothing but
a worker-bee to Steadman.
Steadman ordered her about with a deadpan monotone and emotionless set of
never-ending instructions that made her wince. Never in a million years would she have
believed this to be her fate.
She and Steadman should have been married by now. She and Steadman should have
children--lots and lots of children by now. Instead, all Audrey Ryft had was her scotch
whiskey and the memories of her own family.
Audrey thought of her mom and dad. Audrey thought of her baby sister, Wendy, whom
she loved so much. Audrey remembered Wendy’s daughter Ciera. All of them lived right
outside of Memphis, Tennessee. All of them were dead and gone.
And Audrey lived with the awful truth that she had a very large hand in murdering her
own family and bankrupting her own kin.
It was Audrey who told Steadman, in some faraway land, about The New Madrid
Corridor and its zigzagging and interconnected, crisscrossing maze of resource carrying
pipelines.
It was Audrey who produced the schematic renderings of the patchwork of life-giving
resources, that flowed through The New Madrid Corridor, for the planning teams.
It was Audrey who plotted and graphed and then pinpointed the exact place and spot on
Rex Wellex’s farm that would produce, ‘The Second Big Bang’.
It was Audrey who mapped out the directional location of The Imam’s glory-hole.
Audrey believed, that in doing so, she would forever gain the favor and permanent
affection of her lover, Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh.
Audrey spat out the words…
“You’re a fool and an utter bitch. You killed your own family! You murdered your own
mother and father!

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 “What did you get in return? This stupid little beachside bungalow and a lifetime of
misery!
“I hate you! And...you will make this right. You will get even with that bastard. If it’s the
last thing you do on earth, you will get even.”
With that, Audrey laid down on her bed. Her head spun and her stomach churned. Her
saliva dried up. Audrey took a sip of water from one of the bottles that she kept at her
bedside table. She got up again to pee.
The room spun. Her head phased in and out of consciousness. Soon she would pass
out. That was the only way that sleep came her way these days. She had to pass out.
Before heading back to bed, Audrey flipped on her handmade ham radio. She built it as
a lark out of spent bathroom tissue rolls, pieces of coiled copper wire, and a crystal she
stumbled upon one night while walking the beach alone.
She scratched and turned the handmade dial that she repurposed from a washing
machine control knob until she landed on her favorite channel.
Right before she dozed off to dreamland, Audrey heard the voice of Dawn
Wellex-Stone. Dawn said…
“Wake up weirdos and kinkies! We have to talk…”

Hangover:
Something Not Quite Right
The morning woke bright and beautiful. Way too bright, and oh too beautiful, for
Audrey’s hungover eyes.
Audrey stumbled out of bed. She looked at the clock that read 7:45 am. Uggh!
The emergency meeting of The Guild was slated to start at 9 am EST sharp! Steadman
and Quinn were sticklers about tardiness. Audrey thrashed through her catch-all drawer
next to the kitchen sink.

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She remembered hiding three aspirin in there ‘just in case’. This morning she needed
five. Her head throbbed and her mind wobbled. Audrey washed the aspirin down with a
glass of orange juice and vodka chaser.
The bitterness of the alcohol singed the nodules on her vocal cords. Audrey’s body
shook from the smelling salt effect of the alcohol, but her mind started to wake up.
Audrey gurgled five times with a breath-freshening mouthwash to clear the air of her
alcoholic stench. The last thing she needed was for Quinn, that nasty little bossy bitch,
to reprimand her again for showing up to work stinking of last night’s dive into yet
another alcoholic dreamland.
Audrey put on her best Armani red suit. She actually dug out a pair of sheer, black
pantyhose and somehow squeezed her enlarged bottom into them. Audrey packed a
pair of 3 ½ inch fire-engine red wedge heels into her matching red Armani oversized
handbag and started the half-mile walk up the beach towards The Guild HQ.
Who would be there she wondered?
Something had to be going wrong with Steadman and that sour-faced tart Quinn’s
masterplan for an ‘emergency’, ‘all hands on deck’ meeting to be called.
As Audrey entered the building, she could not help but feel the tension in the air. All of
the worker bees were chained with heads down and hands busied to their work stations.
No one flitted or walked about. No one talked. Generally the atmosphere here at Guild
HQ was cheery and borderline effervescent. Not so today.
Something was amiss.
Audrey waved her keycard that hung from the lanyard around her neck over the
electronic sentry. Automatically the two, bulletproof glass doors swung open. Audrey
was granted entrance into the central brain system that now made and kept the entire
global, financial infrastructure either stalled or moving along.
Seated at the large, mahogany conference table were her one-time allies and now
hated foes. Present and accounted for were: Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh,
Chairman and Founder of, ‘The Guild’, and seated in the chair to his right, his appointed
heir and managing partner, Quinn Baber-Medford, the First.
Also seated at the table were Dr. Doris D’ Artest and two men that Audrey had seen
only a few times, and met only once, Maurice (MJ) Jones and his sidekick, Baraq
Patrick Fitzgerald.

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 Scorched Earth:
Accusations and Ambitions
Elemental fear was something this war room had not known previously.
The Guild HQ war room had known victories, piled upon victories.
The Guild HQ war room had known strategic planning that always seemed to come to
pass.
The Guild HQ war room had known celebration and toasting and plenty of husky
self-congratulatory moments of adulation.
But elemental fear...this was something entirely new.
Audrey studied the eyes of her confederates. She noticed...distress.
Steadman stood.
Behind him, images began appearing of churches and their church parking lots that
were now converted into triage centers and warehouse depots. All of the images and
photos and even videos were all recently taken by the SLNC (Silent Lumination Night
Scan) Guild drones.
The images flashed simultaneously and showed a concerted, syncopated, and clearly
coordinated effort to subvert, thwart, maim, and derail Quinn’s marvelous MPWR
financial inclusion snare.
Snapped photos and video images confirmed that in Philadelphia and Portland, in
Dallas and Detroit, in St. Louis and St. Paul...churches were bypassing The Guild’s
swooping and human catching nets.
The photos,videos, and images also proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that men
and women, by the hundreds of thousands, in each and every local community, were
flocking and racing at light-speed to these shining cities of faith and freedom.
Quin rose from her chair and got within inches of the ceiling to floor length screen. She
studied the scenes and cataloged each and every site. As Quinn plotted and began to
graph out what would be her appropriate and stern response to such insolence,
Steadman began to address his underlings…
“We are being humiliated. We are being denied. We are being made fools of. We are
being mocked. It’s those damned preachers again. Somehow, and I do not know how
they do this...they are punching back. I aim to find out! They…
“Steal our supplies…

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 “Mezmerize and hypnotize their lunatic and fringe groupies into doing whatever they
instruct and compel them to do…
“Continue to subvert our effort to nationalize their church properties and maintain strict
controls over their borders and man their perimeters with a greedy gusto that we do not
seem to be able to match as of yet…
“Protect their cult followers and turn more and more of our people into precocious
grifters…
“Fill peoples’ minds with this silly notion of their god and his magical powers that
transmits some kind of voodoo that makes all of their cult followers dance and babble
on about heaven and earth and winning…
“Continue to build and even expand this group of outliers and outlaws into something
of a force that we have yet to be able to figure out a solution to..
“Entrap and enslave our children...into being kept against their will and against their
best life, as tawdry, little, next generation followers of their pretentious god.”
Steadman raged.
All of the people present cowed.
All of the people present bowed their heads in knowing obeisance.
Steadman vowed.
“We will not tolerate such insolence, as you have just bore witness to, any longer.
Tonight, our Guild Rangers post our demands on walls, billboards, and corridors in cities
and townships across our confederacy.
“Soon, I will head to St. Louis, Missouri. The cretins have a big celebration planned for
Christmas Eve at a shrine they intend to dedicate. We have other outcomes in store for
them.
With that each of The Guild members were escorted back to their respective places of
service to plot out their portions of the interdictions that would seemingly spontaneously
emerge on this continent.
As each Guild member exited the war room, they were handed the decree. It read:

All Guild Citizens:

The Governing Council of The Guild Hereby Decrees and Demands:
The Immediate suspension of all religious meetings, gatherings, and assemblies.

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 The immediate forfeiture and agreed upon seizure of all properties, technologies,
equipment, foodstuffs, lands, intellectual properties, and any and all personal
holdings by all religious groups to the ownership and control of The Guild.
The immediate declaration that any and all leaders, followers, and former
enslavers of children must be sought out, sought after, exposed, delivered to,
imprisoned, and forcibly detained by The Guid Rangers.
The immediate global demand that every Guild citizen denounce the antiquated
and debunked teachings of all false and fake cults and profess their love,
admiration, and service to The Guild and its Governing Leadership.
The immediate cessation and full eradication of all teaching, instruction,
proselytizing, and communication of former cult and sect teachings.
The immediate dispersion of any and every group of cult followers and sect
adherents.
The immediate search, seizure, collection, and then public immolation of all sect
and cult writings, teachings, so-called sacred writings, pamphlets, and/or
paraphernalia.
The immediate decree that all Guild citizens must from this date forward prove
their complete and unquenchable fealty solely to The Guild.

As Audrey read and processed the magnitude of this declaration, she immediately
began to envision ways for her to flee the shackles that so clearly now bound her.

Northwest Bound:
Dragnets and Occupations
Quinn stayed put on Isla Ocho. Her work as Commander in Chief was now undisputed
and unchallenged.
Quinn built out and feverishly began deploying the force multipliers under her
jurisdiction. These force multipliers, included but were not limited to, ground and air
assault forces, heavy armaments, armored and quick-strike advance divisions, and an
array of high-tech, never seen before, set of ballistics that paralyzed anyone within 300
meters.

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Quinn studied her maps. She readied her teams and forces en route all across the
former fruited plains of the American continent. Quinn asked herself the obvious
question…
“Where are my gaps? What am I missing? It’s hubris to believe our efforts are
foolproof.”
Quinn called all of her captains and lieutenants into what was now her third floor
conning tower. The view swept over all of the screens that showed Guild citizens wobbly
ambling through their now very misdirected days.
Quinn focused on her assembling troops and sent messages out reminding the boots
on the ground that nothing short of full submission was acceptable.
Doris and Steadman set sail aboard Mayflower III and headed for Key West. There,
Steadman would prepare for his trip to St. Louis. He looked at the calendar...he had
seven full days to get to St. Louis.
He aimed to make certain that his entrance was a full and total surprise, and that he
would bring Holly and their child (by another sire) back to their home roost on
Mayflower II.
There was the tricky fly in his ointment of Doris. He would figure out a suitable end to
her and decided that she would not make it back to Key West with him…
Steadman sighed…
He steadied and reminded himself,
“Sometimes messy outcomes happen to the best of all people. Doris has been a good
servant. But, her time now must come to an end...I almost pity her because I think she
truly loved me.”
Audrey found herself by some unlooked for stroke of luck, sailing towards Miami as well.
Only she was on MJ’s yacht, Peerless I.
Audrey had been given the most certain and specific instructions…
“Go to St. Louis. Blend in. Claim that you are a fugitive of justice. Tell no one of your
work with or knowledge of The Guild.
“Melt yourself into the daily lives of these people. Send us messages back. We need
to know insertion points and places where we can interdict as many of these miscreants
as possible.”
Then came the finishing blow:

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 “Wiggle your way into that church building they are about to dedicate. Send us
detailed drawings with exact dimensions.”
Steadman ended his mission command by letting Audrey know…
“I have a very different celebration and dedication in store for these trolls on that
Christmas Eve meeting.”
What Audrey did not know is that right before MJ boarded Peerless I, the two stepped
aside. Steadman whispered in his most trusted Major-General’s ear…
“See to it that Audrey does not reach the dock at Miami with you…”

Dreams and Nightmares:

Sounds and Sirens and Spoken Words
Dawn woke in the middle of a deep and troubled sleep. Christmas Eve was tomorrow.
Disturbing alerts kept sounding forth on the short-wave radio. The Nautilus Krew told
of…
● Troop movements.
● Armored personnel carriers closing ranks on populated areas.
● Rural areas seeing increased drone activity accompanied by a new larger and
more lethal appearing edition of SLNC drones.
● Steady reduction in the movement of goods and services.
● Concentration of Guild Ranger activities around churches, hospitals, schools,
and church properties.
● Roadblocks and key route closures that choked off supply chains into key
transportation lanes.
● Increased Guild messaging warning all citizens to disavow and abandon all ‘cult’
or ‘sect’ teachings and gatherings.
The clincher that convinced Dawn that something afoul was imminent is when the
short-wave squawked out that Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, was last
reported landing in the former St. Louis, Missouri.
Dawn dozed off into a fitful and restless dreamstate. In her dreamstate Dawn
witnessed…
● Steadman swooping in on the Christmas Eve celebration.
● Steadman’s goons closing all of the doors and locking everyone inside of Forever
Church’s sanctuary and worship center.

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 ● Steadman pushing aside Prof Tribute and his lovely wife Maddie and handing
them over to Guild Rangers for capture and imprisonment.
● Steadman beamed a message to all citizens from the pulpit of the newly
christened Forever Church Worship Center that he alone now was their god and
king.
Dawn woke up in a post-menopausal sweat. Her armpits, legs, inner thighs, and scalp
raged with fever.
Dawn shook her husband Steve…
“Steve! Steve! Wake up! Steadman is here. I can feel him. He is coming after all of us.
But it’s Holly and baby Jude that he lusts after. Quick! Get up! Get dressed! Head over
to Holly and Jon’s apartment.
“Wake them up. Pack what you can. All of you head pronto! And I mean pronto to
Kent and Claire’s ranch.”
Steve worked hard to process what his wife was saying. Over the next half-hour the two
of them made a plan. Steve, Holly, Dr. Jon, and baby Jude would make way
immediately for Kent and Claire’s ranch.
Dawn would organize Nautilus Krew members to escort and ferry them safely by
backroads and forgotten pathways. The main concern? The welfare and safety of Holly
and baby Jude.
Dawn assured her husband that she would soon follow along. But she had to contact
Prof Tribute and Maddie. She had to tell them about her dream….
Steve knew better than to protest. He got up. Steve dressed in the darkness. While
Dawn slipped back into a fitful and manic semi-sleep, Steve slipped out of their tiny
bungalow and made his way to Holly and Jon’s apartment that bordered the beautiful
Shaw Park.

Christmas Eve:
Advent of Consecration Part One: A Life Once Lived
Dawn slept till almost noon.
Dawn dressed, ate some breakfast, packed a thermos, some mugs, and a tin of
cinnamon rolls into her oversized purse, and made her way over to the Forever Church
campus. As always, the place swarmed with human suffering. Men, women, children,
the aged, and the infirmed cluttered the parking lots.

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The scene brought to memory Jesus at the pool of Bethesda. She wondered if any
angels were hovering that would stir some unseen waters and usher in an era of
healing. Dawn shook herself out of that dreamy impossibility and headed straitway for
the sanctuary.
Forever Church was completed in 1904. The construction on this Gothic Evangelical
Cathedral started in 1885. It took almost two full decades to create this museum of the
Christian faith.
Forever Church once boasted ornate and gilded angelic sculptures. Forever Church
once proudly displayed twelve--six on the west side of the structure and six on the east
side of the structure--18' wide and 24’ high stained-glass windows. Each of which
depicted one of the twelve stations of the Cross.
Forever Church once had a hand-painted vestibule and nave. Each which discanted
modern versions of frescos that might be found in any sixteenth century European
Cathedral. None of these survived the vandals and their spray paints.
The sanctuary was known for its altar. The altar was protected by a hewn out of a solid
slab of marble imported from Tuscany and carved onsite: Baldachin.
The Baldachin contained four pillars and a domed arch that protected the pulpit. Over
the entire structure once hung an enormous golden cross--suspended seemingly in
midair between the internally buttressed eaves that forever declared the glory of God
and his Christ.
All of these artifacts and endearments of the faith long ago had been bespoiled and
looted.
When Prof Tribute and Maddie arrived on site, the only thing that remained was a
hollowed out carcass of forgotten religious memories. Forgotten religious memories,
and loitering bums, drug addicts, and an occasional social worker or two.
When Prof Tribute and Maddie arrived on site, people referred to the building and
thrashed property as an eyesore and a place where trouble brewed.
When Prof Tribute and Maddie arrived on site, the former jewel of 20th century
Christendom more resembled a blighted business district than a residence of faith.
After five full years of toil and sweat and focused labors, Forever Church tonight was to
be re-christened!
Dawn plowed through the host of men and women and children, all of whom were busy
tidying up some area of the newly reconstructed worship center. People everywhere
were busy placing flowers, arranging row upon row of fold-up chairs, polishing surfaces,
vacuuming floors, and just soaking in the wonders of God.

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Dawn noticed…
● Men, women, and children just pausing and stretching their necks just to take in
the moment.
● Men, women, and children collapsing at the very stark altar and praying.
● Men, women, and children breaking into dance and song praising God and giving
thanks for their newly reclaimed centralized place of worship.
● Men, women, and children hauling in supplies and readying the vestibule with
floral bouquets, warmed apple ciders spiked with cinnamon and nutmeg, scented
candles, cookies and sweet treats for tonight’s opening celebration.
In the midst of such hustle and bustle, Dawn bumped into Prof Tribute and his wife
Maddie. The two saints of God were found in a bathroom plunging out a stopped toilet.
Dawn looked at the two saints of God and said,
“What a pretty picture you two love-birds make!”
All three of them smiled. Dawn asked them if they could find a private place to speak
and chat. Prof Tribute set aside his plunger and the three of them made their way to a
closed off portion of the building that still stank of mold, and would one day see the light
of day.

Christmas Eve:
Advent of Consecration Part Two: Coffee and Cinnamon Rolls
Dawn reached in her huge, oversized and doubly stuffed purse. She produced a
thermos of piping hot coffee, three mugs, and a tin filled with her own cinnamon rolls.
“Thought we could all use some cheer.”
The three Christ Followers, all hailing from differing tribes and yet all knit together from
the exact same garment of faith, sat on creaking chairs and swallowed up the moment.
Prof Tribute broke the silence…

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 “When Dr. Oxford told me that Maddie and I would be coming here, I was excited. I
wanted out of AkelDeema. I wanted a real house and home for Maddie. I wanted a real
church and a real chance to shine again. I wanted all of this for me and for us...boy was
I short-sighted and blinded by the wrong kind of ambitions.
“If you would have told me all that we would have had to go through to get here, I’m
not certain I would have accepted the offer.
“Life in AkelDeema was simple. Life in AkelDeema was relatively easy. Life in
AkelDeema was safe and predictable. Life here...it’s hard and...contested.”
Prof Tribute paused and took a deep draft of his mug of coffee. Then he said…
“Maddie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I put you through all of this. Our life here is so...scary. We
have such astonishing support, and thanks to you, Dawn and your Nautilus Krew, we
are somewhat...watched over. But everyday we are concerned for our own and others’
safety.
“Everyday people come to us with needs that are quite candidly overwhelming.
“Everyday people threaten us.
“Everyday people steal from our cupboards and rob our larders.
“Everyday people scrounge through our scappile and harvest some piece of trash and
carry it away.
“Everyday people ask us to heal them and perform miracles.
“The work is exhausting. Maddie is my rudder and strong anchor. She keeps telling
me to stay sturdy. She is the one that has kept my attention on rebuilding the temple
(that’s what she calls this restoration project).
“Now, we are finally here. The place is a shadow of its once palatial self. But we have
a place now--an indoor and out of the elements space--to worship God.
“My hope and prayer is that this work of faith becomes a beacon of God’s sustaining
and restoring Grace. And that men and women and children come from all parts of this
burnt out and bruised land to see this place and know that what God did for and through
us...that he will do this, if not more with and through and for their cause.”
Maddie and Dawn sat still as the mice that were now the only residents of this forgotten
temple of faith. Maddie is the one who spoke next…
“My husband and my heart, never apologize or feel in any way that you have fallen
short. Your love, your mind, your will, and your dedication to our God--these things are
my inspiration. You. You I will follow into the depths of hell.

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 “And as for AkelDeema, the place is cursed. The land is disturbed. My sense is that
life there has its own unique challenges.
“No, my beloved. We are here by and because of the leading of our God. I’m happy to
serve with you in this work. If this is where this life ends, then so be it. Life with you has
been and will always be my joy.
“You saved me, Alan. You rescued me. You accepted me. You loved me. I go where
you go and I serve where you serve. I promised you on that night of our wedding that
we would never part. I tell you here and now my beloved that if we die in this place, I die
defending you.
“Watching you serve the people. Watching the gentle way you care for the people.
Watching how you make water out of wine each day--it humbles me.
“There is not a day that passes that I do not close my eyes and say as a last thought,
‘how does he do it? How does he make so much happen with so few resources’?
“The answer is, I do not know. What I do know is that no one has ever gone hungry.
All who come here in need are served. Every family finds shelter. Crime and theft and
injury are held at minimums and somehow you stay...sunny!
“Sunny! Your disposition remains a delight to be around and encounter. No one ever
sees you, least of all me, and I know you the best, dismayed. No one ever catches you
in a crestfallen moment. No one ever believes that you are anything but...capable.
“No, my love, I am the one who got lucky. You said ‘yes!’ to me. Our life together is
this righteous adventure. I will have it no other way.
Maddie turned their attention towards Dawn…
“Dawn, we are forever in your debt. Your Nautilus Krew keeps us safe. Your Nautilus
Krew delivers our packages. Your Nautilus Krew makes certain that our storehouses are
always full. Your Nautilus Krew travels forgotten routes to ensure the safe passage of
our people.
“But most of all, we are grateful because you and your family brought forth baby
Jude...God has his hand on that child. I cannot yet see his outcome. But I do know that
he will take the Gospel of Grace far.
“Tell us our friend...what brings you to search us out today? As you can see we are
busy preparing for tonight’s celebration. But for you, we pause. What is it that you wish
to say to us…”
Dawn looked at her two friends and co-bond-servants and said,
“Steadman is here...Here in St. Louis.”

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 Christmas Eve:
Advent of Consecration Part Three: Wreaths and Threat Levels
Dawn’s body always looked a bit crumpled. Too many years of sitting on a three-legged
painter’s stool in a cold and dark room long ago caught up with her. Dawn always tilted
and slouched a bit to the right. And sitting too long meant that sooner than later, some
form of chronic and agonizing arthritic pain would seize up her back.
Dawn asked Prof Tribute and Maddie if they could walk a bit as they spoke.
The three of them got up and wandered through the maze of corridors, that any old
church building seems to be confused with, and wound their way back to the new
sanctuary.
Dawn loved hearing Prof Tribute tell of the glories of this resurrected place. The worship
center once could comfortably seat over fifteen-hundred parishioners. The worship
center once had both a balcony, that housed its massive pipe-organ, and a choir loft
that seated eighty singers.
The worship center now had reclaimed plywood from some burnt-out buildings, blocking
off entrance to the choir loft and the balcony.
The place now could maybe comfortably seat three to four-hundred people as the back
portions of the stadium-like seating were also cordoned off because the balcony
overhang protruded out. Prof Tribute was not certain of the structural integrity of the
balcony, so he boarded off the back seating sections.
As the three saints of God stood at the back of the dimly lit sanctuary, a group of men
and women came in carrying ropes and tall ladders.
Dawn and Prof Tribute and Maddie all watched in amazement as the men and women
began casting ropes over the high ceiling beams. Then as the ropes were dangling in
place an entire separate group of men and women began bringing in piece after piece
of a huge puzzle.
The puzzle, when completed, formed up a forty foot wide and forty foot high wreath.
Interlaced through the wooden superstructure were multiple strands of bough after
bough of evergreens. Interspersed throughout the evergreen boughs were sprigs of
holly, and dozens of Nautilus Lights, that had been removed from their plastic, outer
shells.
Dawn, Prof Tribute, and Maddie watched in wonder as men and women with no thought
or care for their personal safety hoisted ladders, arranged ladders, held ladders,
climbed ladders, and carefully flew and then rigged the grand symbol of Christmas
directly where the golden cross once held sway.

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It took a while. But after the work was completed, the men and women silently and in
single file exited the worship center. The Nautilus Lights that lit up the circular,
oversized, but perfectly proportioned Christmas wreath, warmed the room and
brightened the darkened space.
The front nave, once one of the splendors of American Christendom, seemed to regain
some of its stolen Shikinah glory.
The room, formerly sad and a bit gloomy, all at once sparkled with a heavenly delight.
With that as a backdrop, Dawn let her two dear friends know the reason she sought
them both out…
“Steadman is here in St. Louis. I fear the worst. I fear that he is coming here...to this
place. I fear that he will attempt to kill all of us. I fear most of all for you two. He hates
anyone or anything that directly challenges his self-imposed will to plunder.”
Dawn looked into the brightened by Nautilus Light eyes of her two beloved co-workers
and co-servants and said…
“I have sent Holly, Steve, Dr. Jon, and baby Jude away. I want both of you to join
them. Please do not go forth with leading tonight’s event. Please, I beg of you...leave
now!
“My Nautilus Krew will escort and protect you. Our world needs you two more now
than ever. You do not know this man, Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, as I
do…
“He is ruthless, vain, and robust in his desire to kill and dispose of any and all who
oppose him...or that he thinks might prove to be a threat to his empire.
“Go now! I beg of you. Let others lead forth with this celebration tonight if the event
must go on. Appoint a successor. Let them open up this facility. You two flee! And flee
now!”
Prof Tribute looked into the eyes of his beloved Maddie. The two of them had indeed
traveled far. He remembered the day, that day when the two of them met.
There in that weather and time beaten down fifth wheel trailer, the two of them met, fell
deeply in love, and pledged their undying and unending fealty for one-another. Now, the
two of them were older...older and stronger in their love for each other...and also in their
love for their God.
Prof Tribute, speaking for both himself and his bride, said to their lovely and caring
friend,

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 “Dawn. You, Steve, Holly, Jon, and baby Jude are our life. We have no family of our
own. You have graciously opened up the circle of your family to let us in. We love you all
with words that cannot be spoken.
“You and Steve and Jon have always stood and worked side-by-side with Maddie and
me. You and Steve were our only friends and friendly faces when we moved here
before, ‘The Second Big Bang’.
“You and Steve and Jon are our counsel and our protectors. And we simply cannot
leave this place. This is where God planted us. We will not run. We will not hide. We will
not give an inch to this Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, or any of his cohorts.
“Tonight, on this night, we will stand and declare the Gospel of Grace. And we will
open this sacred space as a testimony to our God and Savior.
“No, Ms. Dawn. We will not flee. We will stand our ground. Midnight Mass comes in
just a few hours now. Hurry on, Dawn. Hurry and find and catch up with your family. If
God makes a way, perhaps we will reunite someday soon.
“This is our home. This is our community of faith. We are the pastors of Forever
Church. No man will take from our grasp what God has given to us.”

Dawn Wellex-Stone:
POGP = Pearl of Great Price
Dawn made her way back home. Upon opening the front door, she noticed the silence.
Her world felt empty.
Steve, Holly, Jon, and baby Jude were hopefully already making their way to Claire and
Kent’s ranch.
The home of Dawn and Steve Stone felt isolated.
Dawn tried to conjure happy thoughts. But the unfinished business staring her straight in
the face would not blink.

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Dawn’s mission was to slay the dragon.
Dawn’s role was to become St. George of old.
No one could or would stand in stead for her.
None could or would take this cup of responsibility from her.
Dawn looked at the clock. Where had the day gone? The time was 6:45 pm CST.
The Midnight Christmas Eve joint celebration and dedication service was to start
precisely at the stroke of midnight. The combined children and adult choirs were slated
to christen the new cathedral of hope with an a capella version of, ‘Oh Holy Night.”
This was to be followed by a procession of men and women and children walking the
aisles. Each member of the processional was to carry a signboard. Each signboard had
hand-inscribed and beautiful, calligraphy scripted names of a small rendering of the
men, women, and children that were murdered by Steadman and his cohorts.
Each of these signboards were to be placed on the altar, wreathed with sweet smelling
incense,
The martyrs’ names were small representations of the countless thousands of men,
women, and children that Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh, slaughtered in his
pursuit of wealth, fame, and ownership of the former United States of America.
The martyrs’ names were to be offered as humble praises to the living God for those
who escaped and survived the profane and dismembering power of Steadman’s wrath.
Dawn did not dare enter into her own private sanctuary. When she walked into the
kitchen, she looked at the door that led down into the converted garage area. This area
now was her artist’s studio and the province of safety that swallowed up her life.
No. She could not go into her private sanctuary. If she did so, she might never leave
again. She had to focus all of her energy and attention on tonight’s mission.
Dawn made herself a scant last meal.
Dawn knew that the likelihood of her making it to Christmas morning was equivalent to
that of a convicted killer escaping hell’s reaper.
Dawn took her time. She prepared a simple meal of boiled eggs, calming chamomile
tea, and a toasted piece of day-old bread.
Dawn left the dishes in the sink for someone else to attend to…
Dawn got up. She went to her and Steve’s bedroom. She opened up his closet and took
out one of his soiled and unlaundered shirts. She basked in the scent of her lover and
life companion.

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Dawn took a final shower. She needed to clear her mind of any dross or lingering tinges
of hesitation.
While the waters splashed down on her face, Dawn plotted her steps…
● Find a center seat
● Wait for the right moment
● Stand tall
● Acquire the target
● Arms straight and elbows locked
● Red dot on the forehead
● Squeeze the trigger lightly
● Three and if possible four and if God permits five bullets
● Cluster the firepower directly between the eyes
As Dawn dressed she reminded herself;
“It’s like shooting quail right before Thanksgiving. Quiet as a mouse. Stay still as the
morning dew. Hide in the fog. Take the shot. Make the kill.”
Dawn made her way to the hall closet. Hidden behind the heavy and light coats, hats,
scarves, and mittens was her gun collection. Steve long ago built her a hidden cabinet
of sorts to store and keep searching eyes from finding her treasured gun collection.
Dawn, long ago, learned to appreciate the efficiency and accuracy and reliability of
Isreali weapons. Dawn immediately located her .22 calibre Mossad issued and specially
modified Beretta knock off.
Dawn’s Mossad Jaguar 22 cal. long-ago had a finely calibrated and exact laser guide
affixed to its top barrel.
Dawn tested the sighting device.
Nothing could go wrong. Nothing could go amiss.
Dawn had one chance...maybe a three to five second window…
Three to five second window to squeeze off three to five rounds...
For weeks now, Dawn felt the need to practice. She sensed the time was coming when
Steadman would snake his way back into their everyday lives. She knew that killing him
was the only option.
Dawn picked up the weapon. She studied it under the brightened intensity of a Nautilus
Light. Dawn polished the weapon. Dawn went to her ammunition tray. She pulled out a
box of hollow-point, .22 calibre, short-range, expanding head, soft-lead bullets.
Dawn hand selected nine cartridges.

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Dawn loaded one bullet in the chamber and then packed the magazine with eight
additional bullets. She steadied her mind…
“Just like shootin’ skeet at dad’s ranch. No one, not man or woman, ever bested me.
This day ain’t no different. All that’s missing is my daddy, laughing and cussing and
reminding all of them pluggers that they ain’t never had a chance.”
Dawn dug out her weathered overcoat. Rain and snow were falling. Baby Jude would
have his first White Christmas.
Dawn felt sadness creep into her mind. All at once she knew...she would never live to
see Jude fulfill his life’s dreams and help heal some of his dramas.
Dawn got up from her living room chair. She exited her house and left the front door
swinging wide open.
As Dawn exited, her four, personal and ever-present bodyguards assumed their
positions. Dawn was, “POGP.” “POGP” of course meant, ‘Pearl of Great Price’.
That meant the irreplaceable pearl was always dead center in the formation and the four
protectors formed up into her walking, protective clamshell.

Accelerators:
Dreams and Visions Collide

Steadman’s St. Louis HQ:

Steadman looked at his watch. The time read 10:30 pm CST. Almost here. Almost his
moment. Steadman literally had worked a lifetime and invented, and when necessary,
rearranged many dominoes to see this night, his night arrived.
He went over the finer points of his speech. He envisioned the pieces falling into
place…
● Him under escort of his elite platoon of Guild Rangers storming the premises of
Forever Church campus.

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 ● Him ordering his Guild Rangers to secure all perimeters and lockdown all points
of ingress and egress.
● Him commanding his elite troops to seal off the church building.
● Him sending in the advance units to disrupt the holiday festivities.
● Him triumpffally entering his first--of what would become hundreds of
thousands--of personal worship centers.
● Him standing and declaring total victory over any and all weak and syphallic
forces that would ever even think they could oppose his might, force, and
established empire.
● Him surrounded by his personal bevy of photographers and videographers to
capture and enshrine each delicious, historical moment.
Steadman steadied himself.
Steadman smiled.
His mother’s prophecy now was fully matured.
The final thought on Steadman’s mind was a quick reminder...to tell his commandant to
hand-pick two or three top field agents to find Holly and his son…
Forever Church Campus:
Dawn hated crowds. Loud noises and the crush of humans made her cringe and
triggered a worst case of claustrophobia combined with agoraphobia.
Dawn endured.
She stood in the vise grip of this winepress of people. She closed her eyes and took
deep breaths. She focused on the mission.
The two industrial doors, that were the only entrance to and exit from Forever Church,
felt a knotted and gnarled mass of humanity all eager to be first in line and first to enter
the new worship center.
A Fire Marshall of old would never have allowed so many people to rush and compress
themselves into such a small and enclosed space. But this was life, post, ‘The Second
Big Bang’. Fire Marshals no longer existed.
What did exist were men and women and children who hunger and thirst after
righteousness. What did exist were men and women and children who long had lived in
the desert of hollowed out religious fervors.
What did exist were men and women who anticipated reliving a long ago stolen and
now once again present: encounter with their God.

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Dawn strategically placed a half-dozen Nautilus Kew members at the very front of the
pile of humanity. Saving seats had been expressly forbidden. Dawn needed a center
row seat.
Dawn needed to be less than fifty paces away from Steadman. Dawn needed an
unobstructed shot. Dawn needed wingmen and wing-women to guard her flanks...and
probably take a bullet or two.
Dawn needed three to five seconds…
Dawn ran through her pre-shot process…
● She reached into her oversized purse and fondled the Israeli issued Jaguar
pistol.
● She formed her right hand around the weapon and lightly and loosely gripped the
raised, matte handle.
● She inched her index finger to find the safety switch.
● She disengaged the safety switch.
● She knowingly inched her index finger to the toggle that determined single shot
or automatic fire.
● She clicked the toggle and engaged automatic fire.
At precisely 11:35 pm CST, the two, industrial metal doors, that were harvested from a
meat packing plant that blew to smithereens in the aftermath of, ‘The Second Big Bang’,
swung wide open.
The compressed swarm of humanity surged forward and Dawn moved into the building
without any capacity to control her own movement.
Dawn searched out her Nautilus Krew. They were easy to see. All of them, each and
every one of her bodyguards and support system, were outfitted with red berets to both
capture the celebratory moment...and to conceal her presence.

Merry Christmas Eve:

Prof Tribute’s Brief Shining Moment
The singing was...angelic.
The aroma of the afterglow was...infectious.
The sensation proved to be vaporous and short-lived.
Prof Tribute stood tall. He stood below the 40’ adorned Christmas wreath that flew
where the golden cross once proudly hung and pronounced the elevated love of God.

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Prof Tribute stood emboldened. He stood like a living statue of emblematic hope in front
of his people and inhaled this moment.
Prof Tribute stood awestruck. He stood and swaddled himself in the adulation of a
people that he and his loving wife Maddie literally raised from dead places. Dead places
and catacombs.
Prof Tribute stood as professor and confessor. He stood erect! He stood behind the
hand-carved pulpit that had been whittled from a block of walnut that once memorialized
the face of a forgotten saint of old.
Prof Tribute waited. He stood silently and looked at and shared this moment and this
conjoined experience with his people.
The people lapped up the moment. All waited with exuberant spirits to hear from their
Pastor. His name was Dr. Alan Gnown. He went by the common name, ‘Prof Tribute’.
Prof Tribute began his early Christmas morning homily by pointing out the obvious…
“My beloved. My friends. My coworkers. My co-sufferers. My brothers and sisters in
Christ. It’s Christmas Day!
“Our God and our Savior made a way for each of us to make it to this day. Our God
and Savior made a way for each of us to be in this place on this day.
“Our great gift on this Christmas morning is Life! We celebrate Life!”
Prof Tribute paused. He swept his hands over his head and the entire gathered throng
mimicked his every gesture and move. Men, women, and children swayed and swung
their arms and hands over their heads in a joyous and rhythmic chorus.
Moms and dads lifted their babies in the air and pointed their childrens’ young faces to
the burnt out ceiling.
Prof Tribute picked up a thurible that was sitting on the altar and began waving the clay
goblet over his head. The sweet smelling incense and the heavenly fog of, ‘divinity
almost reached’, swelled into each nostril.
Men and women who were present, that lived to tell about this moment, swore at that
precise second that they saw the very person of Jesus.
Prof Tribute nearly swooned and momentarily lost his composure. He felt like the
apostle John of old. Prof Tribute was quite certain that he was being taken up by the
spirit of God into heavenly places.
Prof Tribute regained his sense of spiritual and personal equilibrium. He looked at his
wife, Maddie. The beauty of his life sat on the front row in the first seat on his right just
beneath the raised dais.

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 “My beloved. Oh my…”
Prof Tribute had to quench his tears and dam his emotions. No way he could proceed if
he permitted the power of his feelings to rule this moment.
“My beloved. You found me. You came to me in the most desperate of moments. That
moment, so long ago…
“I had spent the first night in that tiny, fifth-wheel trailer. I was alone and washed up
and forgot. I had not showered or shaved. You knocked on my door. You rattled my
world.
“You did not ask, you told me we were getting married. Why me? Why would a woman
of such intelligence and marvels want a raggamuffin like me?”
Maddie began to sob. She remembered those days in AkelDeema. She recalled the day
so long ago when she knocked on that tiny, travel-trailer aluminum door. She blew her
husband a kiss. For he too had properly rattled her own world.
Prof Tribute looked out on his congregation.
As the burning incense brought a tangy fragrance that filtered a golden-hued permafrost
in the room, the candelabras glowed with robed flickering flames. As the flickering
flames calmed and soothed wounded souls, the Christmas Wreath that flew like present
angels lit the entire space with the afterglow that PHOBOS was meant to bring forth.
The corona of love, the gloriole of angels, and the smooth presence of the afterglow
sucked all evil out of the reborne cathedral.
Prof Tribute searched for Dawn Wellex-Stone.
There she sat, adorned with her own red beret and absorbed into a living canvas of a
dozen or more of her Nautilus Krew members who also wore their own red berets!
Prof Tribute called out…
“Dawn...Prairie Dawn. Where are you?” Fingers and hands around the room pointed
to the very present one who preferred to stay and remain anonymous.
“Stand my friend...please stand…”
Timidly and almost ashamedly, Dawn Wellex-Stone stood. All present stood and
thunderously applauded this silent stalwart and energetic beacon of hope. Every single
soul knew of her work. Few had ever seen her in public. All knew her voice.
Every single person present had been aided, and in many cases rescued, by one or
many of her Nautilus Krew.

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Dawn could only withstand the shine of the moment for a few seconds. She quickly sat
back down, pulled her red beret over her eyes and hid behind the wall of present
Nautilus Krew members.
Prof Tribute allowed the moment to grow and then subside…
“You, my friend. You are my co-laborer. You are my best friend’s wife...without you, not
one of us would have made it to this day.
“Because of you my friend, each of us has had the privilege to travel this far.
“You, we honor. You, we heap praise upon. You, we celebrate.”
Prof Tribute was cautious not to mention The Nautilus Krew or acknowledge their
existence in a public discourse…
Next Prof Tribute addressed his life…
“For those of you who do not know. I am one of you. I too am a member of, ‘the fallen
chosen’. I too fell from grace.
“For those of you who do not know...I went to prison. I spent time incarcerated. My life
imploded.
“For those of you who are experiencing life absent from pufferies and plumping
comforts, I let you know that I too live this life.
“Maddie and I live in a small, efficient Viva Dome on property here. The apartment
that was given to us by caring minds when we first arrived here in St. Louis, this we
gladly gave to someone of much greater need.”
Prof Tribute worked hard to swallow. He slowed down the moment. He did not wish to
speed this night along. He wanted all present to savor the presence and the present
might of their God.
“AkelDeema. I have to let each of you here, and those that listen by short-wave and
other means,know that AkelDeema is a place. AkelDeema is a weathered treasure.
AkelDeema is both my personal torture chamber...and the place where God made all
things clear for me.
“AkelDeema is where God touched the earth. I have visited this place. I lived and
resided in that place. I met and married my wife in that place. Many of you think
AkelDeema and ‘The Rocks that Glow’ to be legends or fairy tales.
“Trust me. Both AkelDeema and ‘The Rocks that Glow’ are real.
“Many of us have seen, fondled, and held with wonder, ‘The Rocks that Glow’.

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 “AkelDeema is a place that must be protected and guarded and kept out of harm’s
reach.
“Some of you here might be called upon one day to go to that remote place. Some of
you here might be recruited and conscripted to go there. If you are young and seek
adventure...if you are old and seek God’s true path. Consider taking on the deep and
sincere burden of assuming the life of a modern day version of, ‘Knights Templar’.
“If you are made of such stern stuff...come and find me. The crowd will thin. The herd
will disperse. The cry of AkelDeema and the holiness of, ‘The Rocks that Glow’ will not
recede.”
Prof Tribute noticed the puzzlement on his congregants’ collective faces. Few knew of
AkelDeema. Fewer still would seize the offer and respond to the clarion call to honor
God at the cost of their own personal safety.
Prof Tribute took a deep breath. Now, came the crescendo of his entire life! Now, came
the moment when he would forecast the future for this generation of survivors. Survivors
that would soon replace him and carry the torches that he and Maddie invented,
manufactured, lit, and dispersed to a nation that teetered once on the very brink of
extinction.
An extinction that no longer threatened with the hammer impact with which it once rang
forth the knell and pall of death.
“Now, my beloved. My hour passes. Maddie and I will decrease. Younger, stronger
and more vibrant minds come of age. We gladly hand over our learning, our earnings,
and our life wages to you.
“I call upon the young, the vibrant, the gifted, the clear-headed, and the ardent Christ
Followers to migrate to the head of the line.
“Some of you will be called upon. Those of us in positions of leadership have been
watching. We have noticed you. Your devotion and your fealty to the cause of our Savior
has been well-recorded.
“Soon, as early as the break of dawn on this Christmas Day, the first taps on young
and able shoulders will take place. Look for these taps!
“For those of you who think you labor in obscurity, take heart! Each seedling that
grows to maturity, each hand shaped vessel that makes its way successfully in and out
of our pottery kilns, each morsel of food that is prepared and consumed, each PHOBOS
unit or Hum Dinger or SPYRE tablet that finds its way to a family, provides sustenance
and value.

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 “For those of you who have moved at snails’ paces through or danced between the
fiery darts of hell, we honor you. And we remind you that your safe arrival did not
happen by chance.
“Look around you! You and your kin made it to today because caring minds and
diligent, stout, calloused hands hacked pathways for you. Perhaps, until this very hour,
you thought--and naively so--that you survived because of your own personal luck or
pluckiness.
“Think those foolish thoughts no more!
“You made it to this day because caring men and intelligent women sacrificed large
swaths of their own safety and abandoned their own creature comforts so that you
might live!”
Prof Tribute now pointed his and all who were present’s attention towards the dozens of
placards that filled the altar. Each placard had been inscribed with names of but a few of
those who did not escape the belching fires of this season.
“Look at these signboards. When our service concludes, each of you bring yourself
and your children up. Touch and shadow the names. Inscribe and then etch one or more
of these martyr’s names on the narthex of your hearts.
“Remind your family as you leave that these men and women that died, took your
places. These men, women and children who perished protected you and kept harm
from entering your front gate.”
A somber tone settled upon the gathering. A solemn vow could be noticed growing
within each surviving soul. But Prof Tribute did not wish for this night to end with a sober
tone. Prof Tribute lifted all eyes to the Christmas Wreath that swung overhead the
reformed pulpit.
“Lift your eyes and hearts my beloved. See the handiwork of our people. Notice the
living poetry of a Christmas Wreath that is interlaced with boughs of evergreen and
sprigs of holly.
“Feel the warmth and the bask in the precious afterglow that only can only come from
the pulsar of a PHOBOS! Why? Because PHOBOS is mined from tiny granules that
have been carefully milled and extracted from, ‘Rocks that Glow’.
‘Rocks that Glow’ are the God particles that now sprinkle hope and douse the
aftereffects of evil that all of us have lived and passed through.
“Bask my beloved in the...afterglow!
“Sing with your hearts a new song!

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 “For our God and our Savior made a way for all of us to preserve life!
“Our God and Savior made a way for us to sustain our faith!
“Rejoice! And be exceedingly glad. Join the chorus of angels…”
Just as Prof Tribute was about to lead this congregation in the age old Christmas hymn,
‘Silent Night’...a commotion outside of the newborn cathedral could be heard...a
commotion so loud and so frightening, that it caused heads to swivel and hopes to
shrivel.

Abomination of Desolation
Rise and Fall of Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh
The clear report and unmistakable sounds and crackles of automatic weaponry filled the
silent night.
The muzzles of semi-automatic weapons blazed with fire.
Smoke whispered out of the tips of warmed weapons’ barrels.
11:30 pm CST = 23:30 Military Time:
Steadman hand-selected forty of his most deft and loyal soldiers. These men and
women were clad in their all-black, military fatigues.
The forty member brigade began taking their positions at precisely 10 pm CST.
Steadman instructed his captains to surround the acre and a half property of Forever
Church.
Steadman’s orders were blunt and crystal clear:
“No noise. No disruptions. No screw ups. Silent and stealthy and silky. I want to
surprise these cretins.
“Have all of your people in position by 11:30 pm CST. Then, wait for my signal. We will
look to pounce and close around 12:30 am to 1 am.
“Wait for my command. Do not fail me.”
The forty members of The Guild’s most elite fighting unit crawled into their positions.
The night was cold and foggy. The collecting dew would convert to frost way before
morning arrived.

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With the perimeter secured and the conditions providing perfect cover, Steadman
assembled his mechanized cavalry a few blocks north, south, east, and west of the
property. No one would be permitted to escape.
All of these brigands--all of them--would be captured on sight. In the morning, the men
and women would be summarily executed. Steadman made up his mind long ago to be
the chief executioner.
Forever Church:
The celebration could not have been sweeter. The victorious envelope could not have
been more tightly sealed.
Men, women, and children packed into the renovated and newly christened cathedral.
The aisles, and even the spaces between the chairs, were packed with people. The
density of humanity caused all to feel...safe.
Outside of the Forever Church worship center, men, women, and children pressed into
outbuildings and huddled near as they could to the two entry doors.
If you were planning an ambush, a more exposed and vulnerable and slumbering
setting could not have ever been conceived.
12:45 am CST:
Steadman gave the ‘go’ order at precisely 12:45 am CST. His forty member elite squad
of thugs, in full assault gear, flipped on their night-vision-goggles and surged forward.
Guns blazed. Shots were fired into the air.
Orders were specific. Shoot and kill only if directly threatened. Otherwise, corral these
mobsters and make way for Director Steadman.
Steadman’s cavalcade drove onto the property at 12:50 am CST. What he saw, what
confronted him were tired, poorly clad, obviously hungry, scared men, women, and their
children.
Steadman’s henchmen were busy handcuffing all of the men and women. The children
were screaming as they each were forcibly separated from their parents. Steadman’s
chief lieutenant pointed to the two metal doors.
Steadman reached behind his back. There, he unsnapped the holster that held his 9
mm. Beretta Storm. He grabbed the matte-black pistol grip and silently signalled to his
underlings to open the metal doors.
Four of his elite guard members led the charge. What they encountered was a vestibule
packed with very frightened people and lots of party favors.

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The four elite guard members cleared a path and kicked over tubs filled with warming
apple ciders, platters full of cookies, and presents for those that were the most infirmed.
The four elite guard members pushed into the aisle to the left side of the podium.
Roughly, and with zero regard to the safety or well-being of the people who occupied
the space, the four elite guard members cleared a path for Director Steadman.
Steadman made his grand entrance…
He wore a fire-engine red blazer. On the left lapel pocket, all could see the emblem of
The Guild flag. The Guild flag had the oceans blue background adorned with the New
Zealand Osprey in its center.
Steadman walked in. Guard members leaped over the men and women and children
and took their protective positions. Sharpshooters climbed into the boarded off balcony.
Marksmen filled up the empty and cordoned off choir loft.
The altar--the sacred altar that had the placards with the martyrs’ names and the
burning incense, were quickly trashed, crumpled, and tossed aside. Replacing these
sacred artifacts were mean and ill-tempered men and women who each pointed the
barrels of their cocked and ready to fire if provoked automatic assault weapons.
Once Steadman’s honor guard was inplace, with weapons drawn...he approached the
podium.
Prof Tribute stood tall.
Prof Tribute began to form up his protest. As he spoke...Steadman raised his sidearm
and fired.
Steadman placed three bullets in cluster formation into the heart of Prof Tribute.
Maddie, his wife leaped up and lunged forward. Three marksmen--two from the altar
and one from the balcony shot her in mid-stride.
Two of Steadman’s honor guards dragged the bodies of Prof Tribute and his wife to the
side of the building. Gasps. Cries. Moans. Seething rage. A palpable sense of urgency
to do something gripped the frightened and packed in throngs of people.
Steadman stood behind the pulpit not of his making.
Steadman stared up at the strange looking, oversized Christmas wreath. He noticed the
warmth and the afterglow that the strange embedded lights cast off. He heard
something of, ‘Rocks that Glow’.
He had some inkling of these Nautilus shaped ‘PHOBOS’ lights. He thought them to be
imaginary and foolish yarns. He made up his mind after the night was over to bring

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down that contraption and get his experts to dissect and reverse-engineer those strange
lights.
But this was his moment!
Steadman waited till his camera crews and photographers were in place and ready. He
wanted to capture, and more importantly--not miss--a single moment of his bliss.
When the director signaled ‘go’...when the red lights atop the cameras went,
‘Live!’...Steadman started to speak…
“You. Each and every one of you...have stolen from me. You have given hope and
provided cover for criminals all over this nation. Tonight, on this day, we end your
charade.
“All of you...men and women...tomorrow face the executioner’s sword. I will personally
oversee the end to your so-called opposition.
“Your children, because of your insolence and direct insubordination, will be enslaved.
None of them--not one of your progeny will ever live a free moment.”
As Steadman was relishing in his position of usurper and king...Dawn Wellex-Stone
slunk down into an indistinguishable blob.
Surrounded and protected in a sea of red berets, Dawn gingerly pulled out her Isreali
issued Jaguar, a 22 caliber handgun.
Dawn, using the backdrop of her own personal, elite guard as cover, carefully and
slowly raised her pistol.

While Steadman glowered...as Steadman swooned in his own accomplishment...Dawn

located her target with the laser-finder.
She slowly and methodically squeezed off three rounds. Her three rounds clustered
right above the bridge of Steadman Achilles Medford, the Seventh’s, nose.
Right as Dawn was about to squeeze off round number four...two marksmen from the
choir loft found her and put six rounds each into her skull.
Dawn filled the three seconds given to her with artistic beauty. In doing so, she fulfilled
her life ambition.

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 Epilogue:
Dawn Wellex-Stone died in glory.
Prof Tribute and his wife Maddie gave their lives as living sacrifice to those
men and women and their children that surely would have perished had
they not lived lives of full devotion and honor to their God.
Steve Stone, his daughter Holly, her husband Dr. Jon Westborough, and
their sweet baby Jude were last seen riding ATV’s and heading south in the
dark and cold Christmas Morning night.
An era passed…
Dawn, Prof Tribute, Maddie, and Steve kept evil at bay.
After their era ended..chaos and ungodliness ruled.

The End.

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