A Wonderful Small Town Short Story

kiss pregnant belly

By Loreto Eibhllann

Just like you sometimes forgot things you thought, like when you were little and all you nearly wanted was just to own a nice horse, just as your grandmother thought those perfect thoughts for you, as a way of thinking of things other than the horror of a barren womb, and how you unbecame a mother.  The childless baby of your very own self preceded only by the witchcraft of a crusading tower of babble long ago unravelled about those from the Planet of Manure, whose stunk-up factories reap until this very day a smell and the scent of a sewer so repugnant that the small cult of beings from that place had to relocate to a poor mountain on the edge of nowhere. Busy enough within a world who said, “No babies. Fine.” Sarah moved through the downtown New York, N.Y. crowd at lunch time and as her red coat whipped around at her, it was as if she plowed through people as a ship who parted waters. But the dream was always the same. Thousands and thousands of women pushing red lacquer baby strollers went right through her. They came at her with every kind of baby possible. Japanese. Chinese. Russian. Black. Cute. Ugly. Big. Small. There was only one thing about these babies. They were all calm.

One more thing each of the babies all had in common meant one more factor. Mothers. And sometimes, she found herself in a room with them. It was a birthday party. A child’s birthday party. Suddenly, a woman with a heart as black as pitch flew forward. Extending one thin finger, she pointed at Sarah’s barren belly. “You! Bitch!” Said the woman who only thought she was a tough little bitch. “You can’t come to this….to my child’s birthday party!” She said. Another woman smacked the dark hearted bitch across the face. “Leave her alone!” Shouted a woman who seemed possibly and perhaps only lovely and inquisitive. The possible heartful woman looked at the mayhem bitch whose home, and despite filled to the brim with lovely children, only wanted to drown herself with booze and hatred. The barren woman glanced out the window and glimpsed a homeless man, head hunched and he dredged alongside the home of the baby woman. Taking a shortcut, Sarah guessed, through backyards. The thought occurred to Sarah that this man had once been a baby son of some woman at one time.

The small and very unappreciative, and not to mention ungrateful dark hearted bitch was speaking to a group of mothers who standing by the cupcake table all clutched newborn babies. Strange, thought Sarah. You would think that a newborn baby should be held soft and cradled more than cuddled. “I want the world to revolve around me sun-up, and sundown,” said the selfish woman. “Everyone must think about how to love me and help me, and me alone all of the days of my life,” she remarked. “More or less drown in the stenched sea of your rotting pussie?” Queried one of the newborn babies, directing the comment to the dark hearted woman. Sarah raised her eyebrows. Suddenly the scene became more interesting to her. Boredom flew right out the window. So, it was true.  The babies had more heart than the most of the mothers, and they and they alone refused to be silenced.  Insisted on speaking their peace. Dark bitch became silent. Her jaw sagged open. And it was at this time that Sarah knew she knew one thing, and one thing only. Nothing had grown in hers for more than five years. Sarah thought of the farm she had lived on. The stolen farm. She was running through the wheat fields and smiling though she could not speak. Her heart-felt God anyway. And she saw herself huge and pregnant, even as her paisley dress with tiny flowers covered her soul, her hair a sweet summer horse mane.

Also wrapped around her soul, she refused to stop running. She awoke from her daydream though and also realized that she stood smack dab at the center of a room with a whole lot of mothers who had babies with them. She began to make her way to the cupcake table while the same dark hearted woman hollered out, “Hey bitch!” Another woman with a baby crammed into her side hip said, “Why don’t you leave her alone?” referring to the dark bitch about Sarah. “Fuck you,” said the dark bitch. “Get the fuck out-of-the-way!” She glared at Sarah. “You know the rules. Mothers with children present and fertile women get to eat the cupcakes first. Babies and small children go next. Barren women last.” Sarah quaked slightly. She wondered as scientists once did, which came first. The chicken or the egg. Pass out or upchuck.

Sarah pulled a candy bar out instead and placed her lips around the edge. The chocolate began to melt and as she soothed a layer of dark upon her tongue, she thought again. “We got us some god damn big fuckin’ wild plans for the weekend.” All of the mothers with babes on a hip stood around and a circle formed as a simultaneous rapture of head nodding began. The thing had more unity and agreement than a Pentecostal church prayer circle on Sunday go to meeting time. Sarah felt strangely left out. On her mind, the even more strange planet she had come from. A planet of real unity, maturity, love and acceptance, as she felt, and she knew she was right, that she had never dealt with so many immature people at one group party all of the days of her life. She also found another fact about earth strange. A planet where God would give children to mothers who cussed liked sailors and ran the night club circuit, and laid like rats on a hot tin bed at night for one night stands. And took away all of her children, and gave Sarah no more babies.

The candy bar now soaked away and gone, Sarah began to try to edge toward the cupcake table again. By now, most of the babies and children had smashed a great deal of them onto the floor and all over the carpet. The mayhem bitches just looked on. One of them finally spoke up. “Carl,” she spoke to her little baby boy. “Let Callie smear cake against the warm, rich carpet too.” The baby daughter of one of the other women with big wide eyes looked up from iced cupcake hands. Grinded pink on white cake iced souffle’ onto the top tufts of the hot, red, fertile carpet. A baby mother who took on something as like a party supervisor said, “Respect, that’s what it’s all about.” Her armband had a swastika slapped upon a felt design of a tiny child within a bassinet on top of that. “Only a woman who has hopped on pop and rocked more than rolled, greater than Robert Plant,and mightier than Led Zeppelin, soothed out the honey lump gets our respect.”

Sarah looked down at her toes and sighed as she thought about how much she needed to paint them. The women began to look like dog women to Sarah. Bitches. She hoped that they would not vote and decide to begin to pee on anything to mark some territory or another. Boned she thought, and also the fact that these women represented a very possible air-headed waster and excuse of a God formation of female tissue. Sarah very bored by now, began to wonder what about the party meant intellectual or interesting. Sarah took leave of a quiet chuckle. Several children helped by a few babies began to pin a tail on the donkey. Unfortunately, the donkey was one of the baby mammas who yelped after a huge hat pin stuck her swelled post-childbirth bottom.

A few of the other uncouth and classless baby mammas began to whisper about all of the one night stands they got. A cloud of laughter rose after dark bitch bragged about how she had made her baby daddy commit suicide. She had told him the night he did it the words that made him do it. “I’ll make sure you never get to see this baby,” she had told him the night he did himself in. She jutted out her huge belly right now, and as a memory reminder more to herself than the others, she then grinned big. Real big. The action which nearly knocked over the cupcake table, only made Sarah think of some time she had spent at the theater of the childbirth simulator. How much fun she had had. The workers who had strapped her in felt the reality of the fantasial, and imaginary evening of childbirth with such strength, she thought for sure they had bought her balloons that said, a baby boy. “Congratulations.” It was so much fun she had even felt like she had slapped her husband hard at the painful part.  She looked down at the eyes of her newborn son and said, “Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful boy.”



By Loreto Eibhllann

“The Jodi Trial live, about an act of the great emotional and mental and even physical self-defense of one child-woman ~ An act of rational survival and based not at all on the rifts of passion that the expert puppeteer used to raise and fall her frail temperament. Today’s decision to find our innocent girl-victim guilty of any murder whatsoever fails to fully address the very real and the very true problem of ‘Battered Female Syndrome’ and a very real international precedence of a problem created by this bad and heinous decision done by a jury likely so numb from 60’s pot due to the era that they grew up in, that the mismatched panel who hardly any judge in his right mind might even begin to label a crew, let alone a team, does not even realize yet that they made a decision based only on selfish human emotion and set a precedent based on the unexplained hatred of many female feminists for her. The young girl, no match at all, and an infant regarding and compared to a man who against our country of the U.S.A. blew up a lot of innocent Americans during a sporting event and got treated like a royal ~ And yet a girl inside of a woman’s body, completely brain-washed, and an emotionally and now mentally and even sexually immature and dysfunctional and therefore physically abused child who only hungry for the love of God, the sick American media forced the poor girl to play second fiddle to a so-called Mormon man, who now dead had exploited and verbally abused his very loving girlfriend, the precious-hearted Jodi Arias, whose shade of deep and virgin-pink mourned her last and only hope to marry him, he dashed to the ground with four fatal words. “I will kill you.” A cruel blow considering the extremely submissive Proverbs 31 woman child obeyed his every command, only committed the crime of living to love and daily dying to self to please his every whim. However, it seemed that this man, whose lust and hunger for adverse and strange and unholy and unrestrained out of marriage sex, despite the testimony of a woman, a prior girlfriend who the man obviously left, and was not with at the time of his prostitution of Jodi, a battered woman who snapped suddenly under the minute revelation of the usury of a man named Travis, her long period of waiting for him to propose holy matrimony to her and commit the final act of healing love upon her soul, that of the hope deferred of the Secret Wedding obviously drove her right over the edge of sanity to a land whose schizophrenic sunset she soon even unknowingly began to daily embrace.” Who other than Travis, merely only a byword for the symbol every battered and abused woman knows as just another name for the batterer? Every picture paints a story doesn’t it? Every single last picture of Jodi with this man, even if no one ever gave another moment of testimony, knows that Jodi saw him as her savior, she worshipped the ground he walked on, and he as demented savior of only his own private world damped with the sweat of a more pornographic physical satiation alone, he as the thousand shades of a cold dark night, cared nothing for her the way she did for him. His greatest mistake was assuming he could go on using the poor child, whose mind she clearly had, and even her unloving and clueless parents said so, forever. What law the battered women of California changed to protect abused women from being murdered upon threat by their abusive husbands first, Arizona now needs to follow suit. After all, a small band of national newsmen today bantered on the brink of sobbing that men who murder their wives ruinously, might even face jail time after today because of the new precedent.” Newscaster, Miss Sally Fullofmoregrace laid her telecast papers on the desk of the newsroom and staring straight ahead, smiled into the camera of the Christian news broadcast camera, and like she had done all of the rest of the years she had worked here volunteering her time for free, straightened her skirt with two hands, and placed her two hands then on either side of each cheek and made sure her make-up was still there. You see there had been a time when Sally did not even own a blush pot let alone a pair of shoes. Sally who had once lived on an isolated farm as a very abused woman, had finally escaped after some years of a more horrifying hell, and within barely an inch of losing her own life at the hands of a man who did not care well knew Jodi’s sheer panic and her full concern over a loveless man.

Sally also knew that if someone, even the jury did not do something and fast to turn something over or change their minds sometime soon, that battered and abused women everywhere would feel sheer terror at exercising the unalienable human right to self-defense and self-protection. After all, she thought to herself leaving the news desk and heading for her locker to grab an apple and some aspirin, the feminists fighting to break the prior precedent that had been set to protect abused women seemed insane enough. But the men? Did they not realize that the law worked in reverse order for either gender? In short, everyone saw what was really going on all wrong. The feminists knew exactly what they were up to, she reasoned.  Women like Nancy Shoelace and the other female news casters of the secular world saw what she saw too. The new precedent actually said that any man who killed a woman who actually really did stalk him, unlike the innocent Jodi Arias, would find himself facing the death penalty if he actually did turn and kill her in self-defense. Now it would not matter if the other party held a large sabre or a butcher knife or a ghetto gun. The man would be imprisoned immediately, and just as Jodi had been when she used self-defense to protect herself from the attack of an abusive man, falsely accused.

Fallen, fallen, fallen is Babylon the great. And with no real fair judicial recourse, and with puppet witnesses come to reiterate only book memorized testimony, the man’s trial likely would be very similar to this one. But here is the real secret, secretly. Most feminists do not like men. Secretly. And the reason Jodi remains unliked, and this is putting it nicely if not albeit absolutely weakly thought Sally Fullofgrace, is that she is feminine, but not feminist. “It is really too bad, and so very sad that your dead husband died of the crime of wife abuse under the judgment and ardently of the filial venture sentence of God ~ And his coming passing never, ever, ever, ever reputed even a symbolized need to apologize to you for trying to murder you,” muttered her colleague into his daily stock report on the elevator going up to the 7’s for lunch. “Indeed, not understanding that sex is not love, a theory even the dumbstruck witnesses seemed to fail to comprehend, marked Jodi’s downfall too.” She stared at him. But as was her custom denied him that other filial luxury of looking straight at her eyes. She pulled up her large Yoko Ono shades and with red lipstick, ten years behind the times, or light years ahead, knew it was sometimes like this in this brave new world of today. She had been suddenly thrust into the future of, whatever you sometimes thought, and often nothing at all like what others just said ever meant a single thing.

Earlier the past week, while decoding tapes for the television screen, she had leaned back and with no one in there except her, she put her feet up on the desk. Sometimes her feet still hurt so from all of that walking. But she knew the secret to that too. That only prayer would work. She kneaded her thumbs into the base of her heels. This was difficult to do, and almost required the precision of an expert Chinese acupuncture, as her feet were small, and the bones equally too, it seemed as if God himself had made her for those other sufferings.  With size 5 shoes, she made a mental note to throw the American high-heel spikes in the trash can on the way out and put on instead the tennis-shoes of which she had a pair to match every suit. “What nice feet you have,” she imagined the mugger saying. “All the better to…” she began to reply. And then quickly changed her mind from dancing the high kick to just the dance. Suddenly the man who she imagined came from the new office. No, around the corner. No. No. No. Out of the paper towel rack. Too phony. Through the window for an interview. Why? Would a secret wedding which had taken place earlier between Jodi and Travis, brought the two closer together as long as all of her exploits with the man had remained a secret? Or would Travis had only proceeded to use the marriage bond even more to control the relationship, and capitalize on the fact he knew, which the prosecutor of the trial also knew and accidentally brought out the facts about, which is that a lot of abused women often due to the trauma do not speak up well in court.

It was the love of her life and they were on top of the Four Seasons overlooking the arch and with the mini-pool and hot tub nearby he said, “I’m exhausted, I’ve worked all day.” And jumped into the hot tub and fell asleep fast. Or he said, and dipped his hand and self way down low and bowed like King Louie the fifth and said something delightful in German and she fell asleep, as this was just too fake and not quite right. Next, she wore a simple Satin gown and pearls and with bare feet, for this felt so good and as she toed and made ballet feet, she knew that she wished she could dance across the night sky on air, just like people do when they fall asleep and fly. She had started this after her stepson’s murder, this fantasy. She knew she had left reality. She watched herself alive below, while she lived unknowing and dead as well, a sheer spirit and wisp for the months of grief that followed. And that was when she secretly on pieces of frazzled napkins from fancy dinner tables where she sat and graced, but never ate, she smiled as if making lists, for her husband forbade her to do this, to write in a creative way and while she wrote the play, she began to sing the song in her head that went with it, and her stepson was the star, and it was that way. That although she watched as the two arch angels carried his bending frame with smiling ocean eyes and pale hair flowing up to heaven, for his spirit and his voice, he lived before her here.

The sacrilegious act, so-called, of writing a play, this criminal charge confused her she supposed just nearly, if not exactly as much as Jodi’s charges against her confused her. Add one more woman to those who had both been abused, for as the trinity which also included the now newscaster, the other once-abused and battered woman of a very commanding man once noted that you do not care or pray at all about the horrors behind the closed doors of others, until a woman, a sister or a mother close to you must kill in order to survive, or is murdered by a battering man. Even though he also did not ever permit her to as Jodi to move about freely, or even read, she read a lot of books now. The most recent, He Promised He’d Stop by once Senior Probation Officer, Michael Groetsch, a man who won awards working with the U.S. Department of Justice and the Attorney General’s Office of Louisiana to literally burn a huge rip-tide for the care of as opposed to the rejection and shunning of battered women. His writing and his defining the truth about serial batterers, the eternally untreatable psychotics who destined only to kill their mates, sound much like the original plan perpetrated by Travis against Jodi, Groetsch emphasized on the subject of men who love to oppress or beat on women. No limiting tsunami of true information on the assessment of female abuse, Assessing The Danger, a training film used for the education of professional advocates and law enforcement with a serious heart bent for abused women, the film won a Silver Screen Award at the 1997 U.S. International Film and Video Festival. Another book, the spousal abuse expert penned, spoke from a scholarly and clearly researched, yet a drawing social expose’ about men who promise themselves and even you that when he wakes up the next morn, that he has found redemption from battering and that such verbal or physical evil is over. The Battering Syndrome: Why Men Beat Women And The Professional’s Guide to Intervention, highlights how really the abuse or the buck ends there, according to his other golden gem. Only some men, and very rare at that white-knuckle such a thing without eventually and suddenly, turning into a inevitable MV-22 Osprey capable of exploding at a magnificent and unpredictable rate of sheer miscalculation and of course an always, accidentally. In short, this type of man really does feel things, such as, “I am so sorry I did that. Did what I really did.” The man feels remorse. The book rates this kind of an abuser as a Level II. Abuser, capable of possible reconciliation, and yet most definitely a candidate for consideration as a possible rehabilitation major.

A man who has left Levels III., IV. or even V. is way out of the major league, and the only possibility of rehabilitation is none. His only hope, that once farmed out, they lead him to a gentler pasture, for the padding much-needed to still his lifelong and obviously still burning anger, and as every wise and discerning caretaker soon finds out, or not, it is the man who targets the victim, and the victim considered often and only a mere object, often has nothing whatsoever to do with that act. Well by now, Fullofgrace considered she had been trapped inside of her own head, as she had the very moment she had begun the honeymoon, a night filled with more full than gentle moon, and of her late, great, and very abusive and very frightening nightmare marriage. The marriage over and the man now for more than two years since dead, still she still lost herself, and remembering some of the concept of The Valley of The Dolls, even with or without medication and without even a tiny glass of wine to drink, which after her cousin jumped all over her she did realize that in her state of mind, he was right, this was something someone like her most of all should never, ever, ever do again.

And so she left the roof top she so loved. For if no man was looking, she did put her palms out to fly. And she could hear things no man could hear, and could see things no normal god of deity would ever even begin to hope to understand. She pushed up on her toes, and understanding that people stood all around with clinking cocktail glasses and mission duties to make last-minute business deals, wondered why people wasted such air and such time as this with such when they could be doing better things, things they were truly created to do, such as this. She bowed her arms and began to pull her toe out and as she looked down, she bent her head sideways and thought of this gentle breeze. “No stop.” A man had come over and put his hand on hers and gently pulled her leg down. Secretly, she realized that he thought she might think to dance through the glass and go many stories down below. She looked at him and perplexed, stared into his eyes, for she wondered about his soul. He had no idea of her desire. Her real desire was to walk to the glass sheer hallway and touch either side and feel either warm or of cold according to the season and close her eyes and go down the stairway this way. She had done this for hours in the place and heard for hours. But she would not tell him even with her eyes the other secret about this. She wondered if he spoke with his eyes. For she remembered also shallow eyes. A homeless man who after she washed his hair and shaved his ugly, matted beard, she told him with great wonder. “You look like this movie star I saw in, I saw in.” And then she could not remember. That happened too sometimes. He was not Richard Gere. He was not Brad Pit. But she told him, “What will you be? One day she picked up a video at the store and saw the man she meant. Now again, she could not remember his name. But always his face. What will you be someday in this life?” She asked him. She was not one to give in. She demanded an answer. She would stand there and not leave, and with love and without abuse force him to make a commitment to his own life. It would have to be, and just as surely as Jodi must become something beautiful still yet in this life, she would wonder for hours, and as she as an artist removed brushes and put their very cheeks on named colors of paints, she admired as Michelangelo once did the grace of the curve of a design here, and a lovely and more useful flaw there.

“I just snapped. I wished I’d never done it.” And while feminist fat-heads with no grace for the girl, looked on, and standing outside the courthouse with Satanic venom dripping from lips who like the black snake she remembered and through misfortune and fate forced herself to find a way to live side-by-side in some uncertain modicum of, but of a gentler and for her sake relative peace, she blew a first kiss of the day to her dead lover as well. A relationship one part wonder, one often wonders how wonderous crimes of passion come about. But when self-protection comes to a woman with a child’s mind, the poor innocent considers not the act of jading herself forever. A pre-calculated and thorough or planned Charlie Manson she is most definitely not. The crushed lamb, her soul a smash-box of steady fear knows what she fears most, that truth that she knows all along. The minute she lifts one hand of self-defense to her abuser, let alone kills him as a normal and reasonable man would likely have done in the case of Jodi or others a long-time prior hence ~ Once the battered woman, and she knows innately about the judgment of the world, even lays one hand on her bondage-maker, despite all of the psychological and physical beatings and sexual demeaning, she feels trapped by through him, only some women believe that God will deliver them from out of this. A woman who clearly of tears and of sorrow and of fear and greatly repentant, a truly battered woman always fears the lopsided judgment of the societal lion den who she knows hungers for her very body to assuage the same uncontrollable rage as the angry man, and as the man lust with a sick and throbbing womb to target the bloody woman with legal plague. Wanting to protect herself, the beaten down woman knows she must speak. At the same time, a sweat that lasts all through a one night of trepidation of her facing people, of telling them anything, she knows wraps around the coming trap of his uncontrollable rage for her. What she wants to tell you is that which she cannot. The truth of the matter is that she lives with the constant fear that she may during a moment of his violent and evil turmoil directed mercilessly against her, snap and of that dispensation kill him, her strong abuser, and end up as the criminal instead.

A female constable of a mad Hunger Game, even Nicholson might fear to play the part of the male abuser opposite to the angel of a better light. And even the script was hot off the press when the trial did first start, this martyr pledge begged for forgiveness not just two times, and not just three times. But many times. Expressed her great and endearing sorrow for what she had done. And as she described her behavior, whose court felt fit as many do these days, to fit it all inside of a puzzle mass of psychology. And then interconnecting the pieces, but how can they when the person is not yet whole? This is seeming to become less law, and a whole lot more just like the godless ramblings of some mental institute matrons and fawning deans whose fraudulent, I mean Freudian slips, and brute force, I mean requests for complete cooperation, who as the media seem only to care how best to ready themselves and like a more mentally ill, but psychotic cat to show Jodi what the rooster, I mean chickens do to the odd one out. And by that, I do mean peck with a capital “P” and with all meanings congruent to the left, and this does not mean polite or to the right. It means only peck to death.

“It is a true surprise that the smell of that fresh female blood does not arouse, if a man arise, sorry again, mate.” Said one man to another as she drifted or rather floated through one eating place of the large hotel listening as she went by, and as often hearing many conversations at once, had to focus to hear each one at a time. Here, others talked about the trial as well. The professional meeting place about the hearings of the nations, today most people only wanted to know about this one. “I’m trying to wake up.” Replied the one partner to the other. Voices fell light vibration on a pillow. “But morning comes early even for a long dead, of hours shark boy corpse, who even one woman’s ex-dead husband barely made a claim to heaven ~ He also died from celebrating getting away with all the evil he had done too much. Disloyal feminists. Every time a weaker woman messes up, they want her shot. Murdered. Sent to the grave.” The other man, and older one with grey hair nodded. The younger man already knew, for he too had studied psychology with this man in law school. He had even memorized the malady with rote precision. Referring to the defunct boyfriend of Jodi, who he indicated to the man across with him, who by now pulling his own corn beef out sheet by sheet watched as one green olive popped out, and flowed down the length of the table. “Escapes detection.” He perfectly quoted. Completing the recital, still his dictionary description of Travis continued. “Often, this kind of batterer becomes highly educated. It’s not that he’s more intelligent than other serial batterers; it’s that his life-unlike the chaos-filled lives of antisocial, narcissistic, or histrionic batterers is organized and strictly focused, and he knows how to follow the rules.” The man who pulled on the corn beef raised his eyebrows, only slightly. The partner went on reciting. “He tends to seek a career in the military, law, law enforcement, or politics, and a diploma gives him access to high-status jobs of power and control.” The man with the corn beef began to choke, along with several lawyers parked at perfect white-linen tables all around him.

The two men spent over five hours filtering out the differences between men who used this power who incessantly unemployed, an enigma too difficult for most normal people to even begin to understand, and the men who had positions of power and used them to shut abused women and the cries of them, and even the decisions made about the children out. This unemotional, and what most psychologists even consider as infantile behavior, as the shutting off of the motions is the demonstration of immaturity as opposed to maturity. Even the mother figure witness brought up starboard to speak about herself and her logical relationship with Travis prior to his meeting who he initially referred to as the love of his whole life, Jodi. The sick and evil Mormon boy apparently only needed a temporary mother figure with whom to bond and find his way. “But by description of the actual speech and activity of Travis,” said the other partner lawyer who staring at his holy spirit insignia ring from Brigham Young University said to the other one, “I remember the day of my own Baptism. And even as I contemplate that day and that time, I think it safe to say that even if he [Travis] had gone up to the temple for a white wedding day, the ornate lions alone would have spewed him out, especially because of all of the activity that he had secretly initiated with Jodi. Reading over the boy’s transcripts,” said the Utah based partner of the firm, “I don’t know who of the two seemed more mentally ill.” “Or did the chicken come before the egg?” Inquired the other man. “How can people be so stupid,” said Attorney Biff. Even Associate Partner Buff agreed that the boy should have been locked up and put on salt-peter a real long time ago. What with his borderline pedafile dementia, exhibited by the clear evidence of his constant references to his preferences for twelve-year old little girls. In addition, the Stage II. Abuser reinvented himself as the more uncensored Travis, whose secondary personality split, predictive of his later death threat of Jodi at the murder scene, then coupled with unsanitary exploits like no other Mormon boy, and especially the self-only satisfaction, ever possibly on record in the history of America. Even the prophets of the multiple marriage radicals did not see such a demented array of such a great extent of his strange and dark variety. Travis did not just prefer shades of grey. Travis deep-danced in the dark and seemed to welcome, if not outright make invitation to the final freeze-play of a more complex bondage, which ultimately led to his own grave. “But, the very fact that Travis on the verge of a more Stage III. pedafile advance, it seemed, Miss Jodi did our society a great favor, a prolific vigilante’ piece of a great work of art, and through her classic removal of a predator, saved a lot of boys and girls from a life of misery, sadness, self-loathing, uncontrollable promiscuity, therapy, suicidal tendencies and worst of all, the inability to walk down the aisle and make a vow of marriage.”

She who had never known any man, knew Travis only as a mate. And he knew how and had explicitly captured, and staging groomed Jodi and trained Jodi as a sexual slave of his own overdrive of personal need. “And, well,” said Mr. Buff, “If the victims were going to be your little girl or boy, you would almost want to hand little Jodi her hard-earned police woman check.” Her hours and hours and hours of court room time alone while keeping placid amidst under the throe of a great oppression seemed to merit even this. And why the audience of this particular Hunger Game seemed to enjoy the thrill of the already captured hunt, this too should frighten other audiences everywhere as Jodi may not always be the only target of the sick hunt. What is more, Travis easily tripped up and on over to the wrong side of the tracks of a negative circuit continuum of behavior. Classified as a hopeless batterer, even his future marriage to someone other than Jodie, his behavior he would have improved to worsen, and learned how to become essentially much more hidden about his perversions than ever before.  So, with a schedule of perverted sex concluded Lawyer Biff, and his head filled with a chic-filet of ideas for more perverted sex, the man Travis knew how to work the little girl inside of Jodi enough to know he was wrapping her around his mind, while everyone failed to see that she had become one with his soul and with his heart, a wife, and encouraging her to fall so deeply in love with him, that he hoped secretly that she would always love him, and despite his acclimation to escape, that he wanted to stay with her forever. He gave proof of his calculating and many violations of her of the union during court proceedings. Drawing and depicting her as a mentally-ill whore, even her own parents shamefully and wrongfully rejected her as well as refused to provide Jodi with the much needed affirmation of an acupuncture of basic human support and love. Travis on the other hand enjoyed as a part of his false act drawing in and then that which, all categories of an abuser includes the lack of remorse, an inability to love and bond, and a complete absence of empathy, which even at the time of death, it is perfectly clear that Travis had all three of the above. “Heh,” Said Buff before that.

An unrestrained jackal even at his very worst knows that his victim is not invincible. “Travis capitalized on the insecurity and on the character faults of Jodi. Just as it was easy for him to draw a young, innocent Jodi in, based on first-hand experiences of other female observers, Travis also drew on his obvious psychiatric ability and knowledge to entrap Jodi for as long as he did. In short, Travis rode the goat. And then again he felt, it is clear to see, what every abusive man assumes, which is that the girl is his and his alone to own as a chattel. A tart fact this, since most worthy psychologists who study the books know that this is the first, foremost and most predominate identifying trait of a male abuser.”

Fullofgrace sat in the court room pouring over a three-to-five inch stack of online magazine articles about abused women. One article she read really piqued her interest. This article discussed the fact that much like the real Jodi here in the court-room today, that Travis likely looked upon his prior girlfriend before Jodi as the mother figure he never had.” A woman who held him at a certain modicum of relational closeness. But his twisted sense of a younger, a more beautiful and a more attractive female young lady, Travis really should be held completely accountable for ruining and especially as a proclaimed Mormon person for mistreating, misdirecting, and polluting the innocent mind of a precious and tender being, an impressionable young soul, a human being, a life and not a sex toy ~ A beautiful, beautiful beautiful child of God worthy of saving, and even more worthy for months of a mental institution for help and rest and somewhere to get her mind straight of all of the confusion of what one very sick man did to inflict such a great program of sexual brainwash within the dear one’s soul. A two-year old child trapped in a teenage female body, this woman has not much recourse except to give all of her faith to Jesus Christ, as we all kneel in prayer and ask for God and his lovely angels to carry and escort her through.

“The death sentence. Really,” remarked one attendant to the court room. An old friend of Jodi. “Before you lose your lunch,” said the other elderly woman responding to her friend Agnes. The two women pictured poor Jodi laid out on a death metal bed pale and lifeless after the injection, her frail frame filled with the spirit of God and while tightly clutching her small, tiny tattered bible.  And instantly they knew that the two must pray and get this Natzi Death Camp sentence stopped and reversed before it began. A male broadcaster reiterated during court room half-time and piped through the court room radio speakers a talk show discussed earlier in the story. He spoke in a high voltage voice, worried and upset that men everywhere who abused or tried to murder or actually did murder their wives or children might actually have to serve some jail time. The weeping willow of a man, began to cry and sob vehemently at even the very thought of this. A woman came on, actually speaking up for Jodi and for the first time in months since even one person ever did or perhaps her whole life, this made Jodi sob as well. It had felt so alone. In fact, never had a woman been so alone. The elder woman named Esther who speaking so thus avoiding just droning on some Christian radio talk show or another went on. “Such a sweet and pretty woman, that little Jodi,” she said. “I pray God shows the little lamb how much Jesus loves her.”  Everyone in her prayer room put praying for Jodi’s favor and belief and safety and salvation first. “Why anyone in her shoes might as well pray for themselves. For, as it is, I pray that every last single one of you who did wrongfully judge this situation right, ends up exactly in the very shoes of Jodi. And we will see then who was wrong and who was right. After all, what if the man or woman you loved all of your life looked you right in the face and said it was over. After you did every thing short of sell your body in the streets for the love of that man. Gave him everything and your whole life as the lamb of sacrifice. Were willing to die for him, then should he not be willing to die for you as well? Sure and with that amount of timing on it to make a viable, wise and worthy decision. How would you react? He is all you ever lived and hoped for all of your life, and after you submitted as a sheep going to the slaughter house everything you’ve ever known as you, he just suddenly in one momentary snap decision of unrealized stupidity, tells you that the marriage of a joining with what he taught you as the only oneness and unity with a man you ever knew is now forever over. And he is off to seek a new wife. Everyone in Esther’s radio station prayer room sobbed and weeped profusely under the power of the holy ghost. ” The radio show closed with the song, “Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled the waters. Take a look at yourself so that you can look at others differently.”

[Robert Plant: The Sea of Love]

Short Version: The Swamps Have Eyes
Dedicated To: Chief Running Away From The Real Truth
By Princess Maranatha [Little Sunshine]

“I know what you lied about to cover up the secret evil telephone conversation that filled your head with the outright lies of the enemy.” Said the Big Prophet Town Ogre, actually a beautiful woman trapped by a charismatic witchcraft spell who now lived inside of the body of the Irish troll, under a bloodied highway bridge. She as he sighed so hard. “God, I tried to go into the church and help and do what you told me to do. But, my enemies stepped in and did what they set out to do, and prayed charismatic witchcraft against me and at a moment when I least expected it, tripped me up. I meant everything I wrote. And those whose hearts and heads they tricked, as usual, they still have not repented for their wrong response. They were never even sad. Just proud. I was not in sin. I was under the inspiration of the holy ghost. I was pure and had been for years. I was not impure in anything I said. Or did. The thoughts that they thought for me, never crossed my mind. After all, the one issue only ever so barely brought up seems something that has exactly been the baggage that has troubled their sick minds all of this time, since the incident. “Wasn’t that what I sent you to fix?” Murmured the large sun hovering over her in the sky and with an English teabag hanging halfway out of his mouth half gumming and then half knawing on the thing, nearly half to death.  Ogre squinted at him, at the sunshine sideways, and looked at him queerly. And then proceeded to continue explaining herself. “I tried everything I knew to ease into the subject. To introduce the coming application of the point-of-contact God healing. But they seemed blinded. And worse, yet. Clueless.” Said Ogre. “Did you not try to invite them out to dinner to introduce the subject?” Said Sunshine.  “I did and I had enough money in my purse to give one of them to cover a trip around the globe and back.” “And?” Inquired sunshine. “They threw the letter in the trashcan,” and went on another trip. “Whatever kind of a trip would such a stupid person go on, breezing by such a fortune just like that as if it were a squash able fake gold ring from a bubble gum machine?” “Yes,” said Ogre. “It was almost worse than the time when the earl from the Piney Woods thought that the gold bar shaped like a deer we gave him was made of granite dipped in gold paint.” Said Ogre.  “So give me the report results gathered.” Demanded Sunshine squinting up his own eyes now, as it was apparent that the English tea was making him very, very sick. “Yet they tried to force the ideals of their hidden innermost thoughts of the lowest and the worst, something never even imagined by me, on me.”  Said Ogre.  “I have wondered about the contents of one hard drive in particular ever since. ” She said.  Now bending softly and weeping so sad and humble and quiet, the group of other forest creatures had to soften their pliable necks and bend hard just to hear her. “All of this, after fighting the barrage of demons which the troupe of the charismatic church dispatched 24-7, for a resulting lack of peace, kindness, rest, sleep, or happiness or security upon my whole entire household for close to going on fifteen years now. They pray for the peace of those they are trying to use charismatic witchcraft wit to turn into my enemy, people who I prayed for without God revealing who I was praying for, for almost seven years straight ~ And then since it has been another seven years since and added onto that. You would think there would be some compassion or love on their part coming to the surface for me after all of this, and after all of this time.” Ogre gently implied here. “Unless they are just a hard-hearted and a stiff-necked people,” added the Tiny White Rabbit with a bloodshot heart in complete exasperation. At this point, Wounded Bear straightened out his bright orange Christian Dior zipper-jacket, and cried out to Sunshine, “Whatever on earth are you doing?  Knawing and chomping and guffering on your curds like that? Ogre would have been sent away from the dinner table at the raw, young age of three for such behavior!” At first, Sunshine only guffawed more.  And then ugly and disgusting oodles and doodles of thousands of molecules of nasty chewed up tea-spittle, exactly just like that, like chew, began flowing out of the side of Sunshine’s mouth.  “Sorry,” murmured Sunshine.  “Nasty toothache.”  “Good God, man,” said the good White Irish Rabbit.  “Have we not to told you to stay away from that English tea. “Ye should be drinking’ the Irish jewel, and none of this ever would have happened.  Look at your countenance, man!” Rabbit lectured.  “Have ye never taken a look at the mugs on those English? Long. Drawn out. Sad. And they ‘ave every right to be, eh mate.  Look at all the bad things they done to us Irish.  It’s enough to leave them in repentance at the monastery for a thousand years.  Praying on them love beads for God to just give them some kind of a ‘art like the Tin Man.” “Ogre had to have all of his new teeth put in because of drinking English tea,”said Wounded Bear. “Naw,” chimed in the pink pelican who lived in the creek. “It’s not like that at all mates. Her mate broke her teeth out. It had nothing to do with tea.” Little Leprechaun preacher grew very angry at this point, standing up for Ogre. “Her mate knocked them out as she kindly asked him to let her stay in her own home. She never said a word. Just picked herself up and went. She knew her enemies already had it in their minds to make for the one she loved so much another plan. She fought the good fight.” Suddenly many holy angels flew close to study the beautiful aura around all of them.  Let us also leave the poor, old Sunshine alone. If it wasn’t for Irish coffee, both Ogre and Sunshine would have likely have no teeth at all. It is a proven fact that those who drink tea end up having to get their teeth whitened five times more a year than those who drink Irish coffee. Besides, everybody knows that a good cup of Irish coffee is the cream dream of every man who ever made it to heaven.  For truly, God created the java bean.  And God held the java bean in the palm of his hand.  He made the sign of  the cross on it.  And then he marched straight to Bogotá, Columbia and for seven days and seven nights, he tilled and planted the precious thing.  The next day, all of the Latinos in the town woke up.  And we’ve had beautiful, frothy tasty coffee ever since.”  The sound of snoring stopped Ogre’s sweet little tale. Actually a Kingdom Bayou legend, creatures as far as worldwide ports paid top dollar for the stuff.  And there was not a creature on the earth alive today who did not remember how angry the Pilgrim Sheep had gotten with the band of English Goat Soldiers who brought them shiploads of Black Pekoe Tea and announced the fiasco as an elite Boston Tea Party that they had wanted to throw for them. “Poppycock! Cheapskates!” Had remarked President Peacock to say the least.  Her people worked hard, and at the very least she would find a way whatever it took to throw them a high fashion gala ball complete with fancy devours and all sorts of other fine and desired and panted after drinks and treats.  So, immediately she  threw all of the nasty stuff overboard which started an American Eagle civil war.  And the next thing you know, The Lady President of America began immigrating Emu from Argentina to grow, farm and produce the stuff. Even the English king father had said to the prince, I am seriously considering crowning Lady Peacock as the proceeding queen of all of my conglomeration, and dethroning you for good.”  “Upon what charges?” The prince wailed louder than a newborn baby.  It was really quite disgusting actually.  “Treason upon high buffoonery!” Shouted the father.  “And besides, your cousin is Irish. And although I cannot exactly recall which country we borrowed you from, that you may be English.  At least she is real family blood. You, we were never really sure of.  Your pedigree papers came from a tsar who lived in a cave and was writing some kind of a book that had something to do with strange gods with eight arms.  I knew we should have checked into it more. What we really should have done is we should have given you back after the specified two rental weeks, and purchased the Swedish baby instead. Now see.  At least he had a musical ability.  The king wiped a tear from his eye as he had a brief imaginary dream, his head dreaming of walking the hills of Switzerland and measuring out the notes for the song, “Good King Ensiles” together out in The Fields of Christmas.  The king walked away, unusually sulky and ever murmuring and even more determined to contact a psychiatrist about his highly dysfunctional son. The only reason he did not, is because every time he tried to sign him into the facility, the other patients threw up arms and rebelled by throwing filled-to-the-brim coffee cans at him.  They would have no English tea drinking bloke at the establishment.  But still, as relative physics would have it, the cans of English coffee hurt just as much as the ones from Ireland. Even the sign on the front door of the facility read, “As for me and my house, we will only drink Irish.  Occasionally Columbian. But seldom anything from England even if it is Vanilla flavored.” After all of the drama and the uproar, a peaceful and a quiet atmosphere consumed the kingdom for months thereafter. But it was only because the prince  drank English tea instead of coffee.  If  he had known the truth, the truth would have set him free.  And he would have drank coffee, been able to get out of bed, and even if just for one day out of the year,  got some kind of a job done.  Perhaps some ironing. Maybe put on a coffee-pot of tea water. But some kind of a job.  Somewhere.

The Tiny White Rabbit with the bleeding heart, thought a moment, as blood began to seep against his perfect and beautiful white coat. Finally, he said “Remember when you were the first one to insist to take your prior, and your now dead mate, to forgive Astor Slick and his, ‘I am the pastor’s, I am not your friend, let them eat cake Marie Antoinette wife,’ and you were the first one to initiate, when it should have been them doing that all along?” Said the ogre. “Yes I remember. And now I know it was all wrong. I never should have gone. If we had stayed away from them, I would still have my marriage, my children and my farm. But once they saw us coming, they knew we had take us suckers down written all over our foreheads. They wasted no time telling the other party, who got to work immediately praying only the boldest and most cruel and heinous of charismatic witchcraft to take our farm and our marriage and everything else we had away. ‘We’ll get them now, they thought. And they sure did. They got even. They’re still trying to get even with people who had nothing against them other than wanting the same things they wanted out of life. A happy marriage. A private life. To serve the Lord in quietness and in peace. And most of all, to be left alone.”

The ogre’s eyes filled with tears that seemed
to spill over, and poured out upon the lake of eternity.

“The process halted, and as the rude engines of the preposterous blasted, boomed, and exploded round-the-clock, and the cruel, damaging, loud, and intrusive blast of the unceasing motors of the morning, noon and night witchcraft gave none of us any rest or peace ever. The others did not get what they needed either.” Ogre narrated. Despite living under the fallacy that they were perfect the whole entire time, my intent and my motive was never imperfect, as I was only obeying what the father told me to do. So then they began to believe my enemies. And received that wrong spirit, which I had thoroughly warned them against for months. I have been fighting that spirit and hanging onto the holy spirit all of this time. I am already well familiar with that spirit and the way they use it. They used it purposely to seek to destroy my faith, and you gladly and fully participated with them. Now then, certainly that means, even as they are still up to their same old tricks and ways, and not only have not changed. But have actually grown worse.” “So, how do ye like yer big new church? It looks like now you sure don’t need me anymore,” surmised the ogre. “You’re like the song. You’ve got it all.” “And did she, the girl finally get herself out of ad hoc?” Asked White Rabbit. “Eh, so, she did with God alone on ‘er side,” said the stupid little wet-behind-the-ears leprechaun preacher man. “Of course, ye know they only give big gifts to those of them who they want to do their enemies harm. White Rabbit nodded slowly. “And ye know the only reason they have enemies?” Asked the ogre. “Yea, and so do I,” said the stupid little leprechaun man. “Is it because they are the meanest, and the most flesh-filled, self-centered, selfish and greediest people this side of the river with the arch?” Asked a nearby skunk, whose perfume better than the rest of all her enemies sum total wafted and drifted like so much necessary White Shoulders throughout the little meeting place.

Skunk readied herself, and preened and licked her fine, sharp crown thorns. She would soon distribute the thorns to those who Sunshine felt needed them for their growth and development the most.  And although at times, she felt sure she was living a waking nightmare, she knew that her enemies would not get away with this forever. “Sure, and yea they are,” sounded out  the goodly ogre suddenly. “And don’t you believe all of their lies. They’d say anything to get life their way. Rob and steal and kill, and then go three states over to try to prove they never did it all with money.” “Yea,”  said Ogre. “Now yer gettin it straight. So what’ve we got to do with all of that dirty money ye got the church built with? And by the way son, ye should-be waited on the money come from the angels. It wouldn’t ‘ave been defiled like this lot is. If someone is willing to do anything it takes to rob the poor and crush down the oppressed just to get what they want, no matter what it might be, that aint’ no mission, nor no people dispatched by God. And then Lording it over poor people, while taking their every dime, and telling them that they’re  evil and bad for doing whatever they had to do just to eat and survive, and avoid sleeping on concrete picnic tables, while they sleep on velvet feather beds and eat nothing but the best of delicacies. All of these years, God has done his best to talk to them about what was the real heart of the problem, and they still aven’t changed. They still can’t hear God. And then the enemies got in the way, and did as they always do. Stopped the process, which is really only now delayed and not stopped, and just in order to temporarily satisfy themselves. Now they have got the overgrown students back to square one with that false and only temporary lasting spirit they prayed.  It is still everybody else who needs to repent and come to them, and never the other way around, as it really should be. It is still the same Ole socio-politico sport of religion cow dung. And then they go and make fun of the real prophets just because they don’t want to do the very first thing they been told to do all along.  And such an easy thing it is, my precious little blokes. Tummy chum up. Admit they’re wrong. Say they’re sorry. And repent. And reach out and love first like Jesus did.  Instead of always taking the lazy way out and telling the other one to forgive. Forgive? Whoever did not forgive to begin with? It was never a matter of forgiveness. It was a matter of, when are you gonna stop praying charismatic witchcraft against us so we can cook a meal and put some food on the table for our daughters? When are you gonna stop praying charismatic witchcraft against us so that we can have a few peaceful hours to pray and think straight. When are you gonna stop using charismatic witchcraft against us so that we can take the time to create some useful shelter for our children too? When are you going to stop praying charismatic witchcraft against us out of your own sick need for revenge, we never earned? When are you gonna just leave us alone, and let us have some peace?” That is all it was ever all about. “Well, the devil will never leave you alone,” you say. “Well, are you the devil?” “It is beginning to seem to me like the enemies only found a way to pull another fast one.  Same technique.  Next scene. Different title.”  Surmised the big and soft, gentle ogre as she rubbed her chin that there is no issue of forgiveness at all.  But rather, that the issue is, using the ploy of a false and non-existing icon of forgiveness as a tool for those out of the will of God to continually try to just insert themselves into places and people where they don’t belong. The work they have chosen is not what they really want to do.  And so, they just try to enjoin and go to all these different people and places in order to try to get them to carry the load for them.” Third scene.  Same old stanza. “Why don’t they just drive home, to their home, and quietly go about their own work, and mind their own business?” Asked the leprechaun.

“I have some advice for them,” said the extremely wise and prophetic ogre. “May I try out my speech for them on all of you?” All nodded in complete and concurrent ascension.  “Why don’t you go forward? And why don’t you refuse to commit the same sin against me again. Unless of course you are too lazy to pick up your own two feet and walk now from now on in, in the right instead of the wrong way? Or do you just want and crave so to be as my enemies and sitting in their lovely little ‘omes and ‘ave everybody else do for them, while the lazy sots scream out, “Forgive! Forgive us everybody!” “At whim.” “With no repentance. No shame whatsoever. No real heartsob. No, ‘I am sorry for my evil part of what I did, for what I even in secret done,’ with em. As if to say, ‘I did nothing. I am perfect. I am clean.'” Ogre prophet shook his head. “Well, I suppose I was just bored one day. ‘Aving such a good life and all.  Said I, Well I think I will do myself in. Life is just too perfect. Too lovely. Why I think I’ll pray some charismatic witchcraft against myself. You know, make my mate jump up from the couch, and come over here and hit me, you know just haul off and assault me with that double barrel sawed-off shotgun hanging over the door that the investigators were too dumb to confiscate from him when they came, as  I read from my good book.” White Rabbit, whose blood by now practically covered his whole entire fur of a white body now, added, “And like it was not enough to add your own mate to the mix. It hurt so when he shot me in that backyard. Anyway, every private investigator knows that all country Hoosiers nail their shotgun over the inner doorway of their double-wide. And they had no reason to hate you so. You had never done a bad thing one day in your life to them.” “Prayed for them, I did,” said Ogre. “Loved them even.” “Made my mate give them money. Lots of money.” “Healed their sick. Prayed for their poor. Taught them about the holy spirit, and you know, it was not like the person of his holiness liked being used that way either. I am beginning to suspect that it is these people who are lazy, and not everybody else like they are accusing. I believe they have grown lax in their ways, and now they just want everybody else to do for them. They don’t realize that they have been resting their whole lives, and while they want everybody else to go out and do more, that these are the same exact ones who have done for them all of their lives, and that now it is my time to deserve a rest. Besides, I lived in a single-wide.” Stated the kindly she ogre. “Aye,” agreed the bonnie White Rabbit. “That was definitely what threw em’ off about the location of the shotgun he shot me with. It was hanging over the inner doorway as you walk in.  And they would have seen it perfectly and clearly on the walk on the way out.”

“And then we got the lies.” Said he. “Yes, I know,” said the Witty bitty little shrinking with age and time leprechaun preacher man, who actually shrinking tinier with every little second that ticked by, by now still looked as handsome as ever, sighed and began to list them all along with the ogre. “Well, they’re always trying to get into other people’s churches. Jamborees. Jambres. And this time, it looks like even the very elect have fallen for it. And this time, the bribe is money. That and the wrong spirit again. And the lies are?” “Ye know ’em all already. We’ve been through this a dozen times before. But what’s puzzling them is the nature of their game,” said the ogre. Rabbit pooged his lips out and danced around with his rear sticking out and doing a kind of mambo jumbo.  The ogre, elaborated, while imitating one of the underhanded leaders of their large congregations. Acting it out,  Ogre chuckled a low and evil laugh like a devil. “Pleased to meet you,” mimicked Ogre trying to look like one of them. “Are a bunch of large, transparent soap bubbles coming up all around me, yet?” Asked Ogre expectantly.  The group confirmed the fact that indeed, the spirit of Lawrence Whelk had entered the room. They all assented in unison. “Conagglomerates got to unify, and anybody who does not become part of the original and exclusive team, and march to the drum of a singular drummer is instantly listed as rebellious, or talked about or not believed as if something is wrong with them. But usually and only the three particular women, since they are women and do not wear a suit.” Knowing he was ad-libbing to the hilt at this moment, Ogre, breathed in deeply and took a pause to recap.  “Only those who wear the suit are privileged to partake of our love and our prayers. That and one other item. Do you have one?” Ogre point to White Rabbit.  White Rabbit had one.  “I don’t.” Said Skunk.  “Then you are forever banned from the group, and by your very admission of your physical lack, you are deemed insufficient to complete the task of same.  Go home to your double-wide immediately and begin frying up something fattening!” Skunk, not realizing that Ogre was only trying to illustrate a point began sobbing intensely. “You do too don’t have one!” Shouted Skunk at Ogre.  “No. I have one.  Before the witchcraft spell I had none.  But now I have one temporarily. So, that qualifies me.” Said Ogre.  “What happens though when someone from the other forest kisses you and breaks the spell and you turn back into the beautiful woman you once were.” Asked a squirrel from Flat Water Lake. “Then it is at that time that I no longer have one.”  “Disqualified.” Bear nodded compassionately. “Exactly.” Ogre who had no strife did not argue with Bear about the sad fact. Those and the ones whose mouths are bigger and who physical and otherwise push, force, and control watched all that was going on from infra-red computer satellite and smiled wickedly. Said the tiny leprechaun preacher, who now no longer a big and taunting man, who because his daddy owned a physical head-chopping block (pulpit), and while shrinking despite any medication smaller and smaller and smaller with each passing moment, addressed not the rudeness of his own private problem, and feeling secure in having it all, instead began to act like a big man on the totem pole. Forgetting that his totem pole as opposed to the other partie’s willingness to hear from God, obey God and do things exactly as he wanted, instead of what God had said, seemed to forget that a totem pole is made of wood. And wood burns up quickly. Had he never heard of what fire does to wood, hay and stubble?  “So now look at the mess they made,” thought the Ogre to her himself. “And hopefully, it won’t be another ten or fifteen years of it,” she added like the last time, while sipping a cup of hot Irish java out of a mug so huge, the nice porcelain cup as large as the by now tiny as a toddler child, ego shrinking little leprechaun preacher.  Even Ogre secretly looked at the shrinking leprechaun preacher, and though extremely good-hearted, thought of how very easy it would be to just slip him in the cup and drink him down. “Ye got all ye ever wanted now.” Said White Rabbit to the leprechaun of a preacher little man. “Well, good for ye. Now run on ahead. It’s all going your way. It’s perfect. And remember your motto, “I am a man. I get it all.  Mr. ‘All That.’ My twenty-something and growing for greedy, egotistic, selfish, self-centered for me and the people who do not want to change, and God knows, no more. Wham. Bam. Thank you for praying for me, ma’am. But now, I’ve got it going on. I can take it from here. Watch me go now and how.”

“They say people won’t forgive them. But what they really mean is hand over the farm, the children, the stash. They are not un-forgiven. They were never harmed in this manner in the first place. They are the ones who need to repent and stop, as what they are doing is not of God. It is instead of good, a very naughty evil. They were simply told to stop and to not proceed going on with that which was not of God, and to go back to their own land and do that. But they would not.  First, they had to take the farm. Then the child. And then still another child yet.  They rebelled. They refused to use the prophesy to repent. For every prophesy whether good or bad, both have their contingent requirement. Then they made fun of the prophet. They will most definitely not profit from that. For the prophet is the great sky Sunshine, where withal the prophesy came from. “Who carelessly walked away just like that, after they got it all the way they wanted, using God’s daughter for it all, and then departed happy even to imagine God’s daughters laying slaughtered or dead in a gutter somewhere? May the banshee find em’ as God taint’ one to reward none o’that.” Stated Ogre confirming. “I’d like to drive to that place and tell that young man to close his mouth now.” Stated White Rabbit, who now stood over Ogre as a protective father. After all, it’s thousands against one. “I could care less that I threw God’s chosen out the front door. I could care less that I can’t hear the voice God shouting at me that there aint’ gonna be no move of God until the young one does that what first things first he should have done first in the first place,” barked the young man with hair that looked like bedhead with wet Crisco poured all over it. “What is he baking?” Asked Wounded Bear. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it until he admits even after all of this time what’s truly wrong.” Said White Rabbit. “Ogre does not wear Crisco in his hair,” said Skunk. “Yes, but if the prince kisses Ogre,” Ogre will be disqualified from the cult of Crisco Boy. “What if he wants to sing, ‘I did it my way‘all of his life?” Remarked squirrel while staring at the television set. “And even yet with glee, then ‘My way’ is the way it stays until it and he changes his stance.” Even the tiny little leprechaun preacher man, who by now even though he had stopped growing, was only as tall and as wide as a 1960’s Barbie Doll agreed with that. And she heard someone sing overhead, and at least even though she used to the love world of such therapeutic color that came so lovingly from that small dot, even as a young girl, the song told her what to do, “Go home and read the good book. Remember what the dormouse said. Feed your head.”

Brian Rayburn

Dear Gabby,
There is a man in my neighborhood who is very wealthy and who is trying to get money out of his ex-wife when he has more money than both of them put together. I think he wants to do this just to make her stop telling the truth about what he really is. Why doesn’t he try to consider if he has a problem with his pride he may need to work on? Shame on him, and shame on him double for all of the trouble he has caused her. What kind of day are we living in, when young men pick-pocket grandma, instead of helping her to cross the street? How very disrespectful. We should pray for the protection of this woman. The poor, little, small town church lady and her ex-mother-in-law must feel very terrified and very bullied. And with all of his £money? He claims he was hurt by accusations of being a dead-beat dad. But was he? He has never said whether he spent time with his children or not. He needs to pattern himself after the obviously more humble, and mature actor, the one who acts like a grown-up and turns the other cheek. You know who I mean. The one from the small town. And look how well other famous male figures who uphold the honor of the spotlight respect and care for their mother–in-law even better than some do their own mothers, as opposed to this man. I used to love the music of this man who played Irish ballads at the local pub. But no more. I have sold all of his albums.The music now feels frightening and threatening instead of comforting. The first love of my life and I formed our relationship around the themes we thought the songs emanated. What an eye opener! From loving and kissing to his revenge has made me turn his albums in for Olivia Newton John’s, “Have you never been mellow?” ~ The bible warned us of children who would mistreat their elders and be lovers only of themselves. And now look. They should not smile and do it without shame. This is a first amendment violation of her right to free speech. I think F. Lee Bailey or the Irish Civil Rights Union should take her case for free and make a precedent for all little old ladies in small towns everywhere. The lone single mother is brave to stand up for her child. Of course, we should all be sending her money for lawyers, and funds or whatever else she may need. Last week her daughter’s epileptic seizures came so often that she had to be hospitalized. The grown woman, stressed out over her children, and terrified of the man’s violent attorney, who often just shows up at various homes of relatives to gather information, not for justice, but for reasons of illegal intimidation ~ Logically this led the young woman of her most recent victimization done through the auspices of the client’s telephoned physical threats and harassment, to an increase of the uncontrollable Grand Mal seizures whenever her grief and worry reached that insurmountable place. Is this any way to treat the woman whose family once paid the bills for his entire household, who also scrubbed his floors at midnight, who gave birth to his children, who quietly took his beatings, and listened to his verbal abuse, who bore him picking her up and throwing her through plate-glass windows, and then sending her the bill for those. She tried to walk away from it as so much water on the bridge. She even forgave and dismissed it all. But the man, as cold and a calculated man as he is, rolled his smooth tongue out, and like a large plussed snake thought he might try to get himself some even more money out of the deal ~ A self-appointed £paycheck for putting forth all of that bad energy of dark mental, verbal and physical effort he used to dole out all that cunning evil. But this time, the seizures escalated to such repetition for her that even the hospital kept her for an extenuate observation. The man, the kind that likes to see bad things happen to good people was probably concerned she might pass. I guess he saw his portion of the disability money £ he called her at her home for and threatened to take a percentage of fly right out the front door of the funeral home with wings. The good thing is that since she does not get disability money, there is none for him to get. A man who hates to work, he has capitalized on money and goods and belongings he has talked relatives and others and anyone else he can out of. The young woman on the other hand, once a straight A student and athlete involved in five different sports, who absolutely excelled at soccer at her private, parochial school, loved daily prayer hour and others more at times, almost too much, and that includes shady and selfish lowdown old forty-something year old boyfriends who saw her darling Pentecost length chiffon skirt flapping in the wind a mile away. But unlike this man with whose full-capacity prison workout room fit muscular build and lungs, and well-working legs, shortly before her thirteenth-birthday she found herself a passenger victim of a head-on collision. A sharp-thinking girl at the time, she thought to save herself by opening the door of the car, but went head first instead of meeting the infamous jump and roll. Perhaps authorities should tell this man who as soon as he does the same, and then spends hours of his days and nights in hospital cat scans and waiting rooms, on tubes with oxygen, and having repetitive seizures, and forced to take mega doses of heavy medicine just to keep alive, and still sometimes with seizures up to five in a row, his breathing halted and turning blue, his heart stopping so many times as hers has that he can have along with that all of the full privileges of the £abuse he put her through too. And then there was the secondary injury not long after at school, and felled by a secondary concussion, incurred another and an additionally serious brain injury. She had fought the good fight to psyche and pretend herself to a healing, and out of that great desire all who this has happened desire, to just be normal again, she finally had to accept that it is what it is. After that, her life love of sports over, her dreams of a college scholarship for same gone, and her short and long-term memory dropped her grades from excellent to failing almost every course overnight. She could not learn. She could not remember. She could not read, do math anymore, and life like this even made it difficult to enter the prayer hour she had once been a leader of at school. A pattern that continued up to even now, she was not expected to live past twenty. Now at thirty, she still cannot concentrate enough to read or write. The girl who had once awed elementary school spelling bees could not even recall how to spell the word bee let alone write. How sad the disabled grand-daughter of a man who walked the line to bring the illumination of higher education to all of his children, and even to his own wife. Sadder still, for all of them to be saddled at present with an ex-son-in-law whose feet trod the sod of a great lethargy. A man who although nearly fifty and grown did not work and depended on his mother to support him. And now wanted to intimidate, threaten and attempt he said, to soak the disabled woman of whatever he thought he could get from her, which by now pretty much looked like nothing. After the man was arrested for having a meth lab, something the young woman at present does not have the kind of capacity to discern or understand, and despite his lies to his family about that, she had no idea what kind of a red herring his attorney had helped him fry up. Of course, he told two lies to keep himself afloat. He had to make a written statement to law enforcement, so knew he could not lie on paper. He told the truth there, that she was not involved. But in order to keep his family from throwing him out into the streets, he fabricated a lie of a world there. He made her solely responsible for something she had no knowledge about? The truth? The perpetrating abuser threw her out under false pretense, when the real reason was his anger against for doing the right thing. She invited the police in. He fought against them and required a search warrant. She said, “Sure look, I have nothing to hide,” believing they didn’t, and shocked when she find out they did. Gabby, here is the thing though. Even though this young woman is safely out of the vicious man’s house, a man who point-blank refused to marry her for reasons only of, he said, it was his house and he was not going to share it with anybody. I guess that includes even the mother of his child whose family made his almost every house payment possible. Still I am concerned for this young woman. After all, shouldn’t someone be praying for her and protecting her and her mother. The two are all alone, in the midst of this world of injustice and only two in holding their fort down against this man’s opposing family who includes no less than at the very least about ten Winter’s Bone drug dealers. The man also lies and manipulates and has secrets about all of the things he has done behind the scenes and tried to pull a wall of chaos down upon them. That, and has the world become only a man’s world alone? Or are there any men chivalrous enough anywhere in the world to at least pray for the two women? To at least pray for the protection and the safety of the women from this obviously lying and exploitive man? What do you think the two women, who it seems to have done all they know to do, and with one now hospitalized, and the other, doing her best to stand should do? Gabby please, tell them where is sanity, for at present, they seem to have none of that left either.~ Dubliner

Tá sé a comment brónach ar an sochaí na hÉireann go blokes gan Dia a ainmheas den sórt sin patronized fiú ar chor ar bith. Molaim i ngach ceann dár countrymen a léamh chun a fháil ar a n-knees agus guí ar son an bhean agus an iníon agus do gach seanmháthair Tá i ngach áit atá á abused agus terrorized ag fir óga. Bhí Ó do na laethanta nuair a bhí fir meas, uasal, agus rinneadh na Cásca aithrighe i mí ár Slánaitheoir agus bhí níos dáiríre faoi sin ná i dtaobh ar an íomhá, do Chríost dúirt é féin go raibh sé ina fhear aon cháil. He was a man of no reputation.

By Tess Doberville

“So why’re you here?” Asked the room-mate. “I’d rather not say,” said the once family man. “But, if you really want to know, I got a loud mouth family member who lives a posh life, and decided to put my foot where his mouth was.” He said. “You oughta tell me,” said the gorgeous and highly masculine, male Latino room-mate. “Was it one of your bastard youngins?” “Well, as long as they never dig deep enough for the dates on those state records, or for those state records for that matter,” said the man, “No one will ever know we found him being raised by a group of Africans on the southern end of that great country.” Added the extremely handsome, older blond inmate. “So, why did you take him? I mean, why didn’t you just leave him behind as he has done so many innocent others?” “How’d you know that?” Quizzed the man. “You some kind of prophet or something?” “Eh, I dabbled a little in the church movement way back when,” he said. “Mother, you know, faithful Catholic woman. Been baptized in the church in South America, Bagoda, Columbia before it got as bad as it is now.” Said the Latino man, whose mother just happened to name him Fabio. Perhaps on a whim. Perhaps because his father was a physically beautiful man like himself. But unlike him, his father only liked women. A lot of women. And unfortunately, not his mother. Or at least not enough to stay by her side forever, let alone support her and Fabio with the love and the financial means to feel like a normal family. So, out of pain, a pain so psychologically deep his words could not explain, Fabio had branched out in life. That is the story of how he got here.

“So, this is the scoop,” said the older blond man, by now a fixture on the room. His days had turned to years, and as his laxadazial relative had wasted all of his days on television, sweet ice cream sundaes and dog breeding, he spent his days here trying to do what he used to do on the outside on the inside. “You got a generator?” Asked Fabio. “Naw, I aint got no generator. And you?” Asked the blond man who named Johnnie at birth had a sudden and strange and constant craving for a slim jim and a Pepsi. And an ice-cream cone. Things nobody got much of here, let alone much of any real friendship or understanding.

“Yeah, well there’s this guy I saw on t.v. once, and then I went to the Ozarks to whip around and have a good time on a boat with my lover, someone who has a lot of money, a lover who said he can pay my way in life. And I had to take it, or else it was between that or homelessness. You know anything about that, uh?” “Johnnie. Johnnie is the name,” said the handsome older man. “But I aint into none o’that.” “I understand, I understand,” said Fabio. “I wasn’t ever into none of that either, but I felt like after I spun out of control for all those years, after my mother passed on. She died from alcoholism. After my papa’ left my mother, she drank herself to death. Yeah, every time she wake up in the morning and see the love of her life gone from the scene, and off with some other woman, life is now meaningless for her, see?” “Yeah, well other people’s lives aint nuthin to play around with,” Johnnie at least admitted that. “What you do for a livin’?” Asked Fabio. “I don’t know if you want to know,” said Johnnie. “Well, it can’t be any more bad than what I do,” said Fabio. “You could have that right,” finally admitted Johnnie, again,telling two truths in a row. He almost felt he had outdone himself this time. “So, you been here long enough?” Asked Fabio, now just really killing time, as the conversation seemed at a lull. Johnnie now felt so convicted of guilt, he could no longer hold back. “Son, what’s your business with me,” he finally said. “Well, I aint got no business with you,” he said. “I’m just your new room-mate. Just trying to make some friendly conversation here.”

Finally though, Fabio broke down and began to sob in his hands. “Oh God, don’t do that kind of stuff,” said Johnnie. After all, the dinner hour was near, and he knew that tonight was man dinner night. Mashed potatoes, gravy, and Salisbury steaks and peas with what he called ‘imitation apple pie and ice cream slices.’ More anxious to get to dinner than to do this, Johnnie sighed real loud. Fabio stopped crying, and as the two now sat on Johnnie’s bottom bunk facing each other said to Johnnie, “You tell me the truth. Why you in here?” Said Fabio. “What, because of some clean-cut school teacher or something?” “Son, I’m gonna ask you again, and then I don’t want no trouble. How’d you know that? You some kinda prophet or something.” “God no,” said Fabio, I don’t even know God. My mom is the one who knew that, and she’s dead now.” “But son, I’ve had enough of this nonsense. If you aint’ got nothing else to talk about, I’m headed for dinner.” “Wait!” Said Fabio, in a way so desperate and sudden, it apprehended the man. “If I told you that if you put your good and anointed arms around me like a papa and told me you loved me like that, and prayed with me, that I think I could love a woman again, what would you say? Would you refuse to touch me? Would you snarl your face? Would you say nasty things to my face? Would you act like I am an untouchable piece of crap? Or would you act like I am a human being with flesh and blood and a beating heart just like yours who wants the same things out of life that you do? A home. A wife. Security. Happiness. Joy. Look I don’t really know this Jesus whose picture you got plastered on the concrete wall.” He gestured toward the picture of the savior positioned over the one lonely sink in the cell. “Or who that man is you got hiding in that large bible on the desk. But if he’s got something I need and you know how to share it, then by all means, despite your cold do not touch me family member who put you here, if you will wrap you arms around me and tell me you love me like a brother or a dad, I will be glad to receive your Jesus. And the anointing I feel coming out of you, it smells so nice and clean and good. I want some of that too.” Said Fabio adamantly.

Matthew 25:31-45 For I was an hungred, and yee gaue me meate: I was thirstie, and ye gaue me drinke: I was a stranger, and ye tooke me in: 36 Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sicke, and yee visited me: I was in prison, and ye came vnto me. 37 Then shal the righteous answere him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fedde thee? or thirstie, and gaue thee drinke? 38 When saw wee thee a stranger, and tooke thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? 39 Or when saw we thee sicke, or in prison, and came vnto thee? 40 And the King shall answere, and say vnto them, Uerely I say vnto you, in as much as ye haue done it vnto one of the least of these my brethren, ye haue done it vnto me. 41 Then shall he say also vnto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into euerlasting fire, prepared for the deuill and his angels.

Johnnie, in all of his glorious years as a right handsome as well as a godly and obedient blond man knew that this was good and right to do so. He did not think for a moment what the other men might think. After all, the man did not mean it that way. I mean, he thought to himself, what am I going to do. Harm him in some way for asking for the love of God. Wouldn’t that be sinful, or rebellious to his pastoral calling? Even somehow godless? Dispelling of the ten-foot ‘don’t touch me rule’ for just one moment out of his whole guarded life, he did hear the voice of God say, “It’s okay, Johnnie. Do it.” Just this once, he thought, because even he knew that for those times you really did and were, and really did take the time to get all prayed up, you knew if you should do something or not. And you knew those times when you blew it, and did not show love or grace and should’ve and were in the flesh and messed it all up. But because he had spent time with the Lord just this morning before the new man, Fabio came, even he knew that this was just not one of those times. “Son,” said Johnnie, reaching out his arms. “Come home to papa.” And with tears in his eyes, Fabio wrapped his arms around Johnnie, and accepted the Lord Jesus Christ into his heart and life. There were no words left to say after this though, for truly men are not God or gods, and the two would just have to leave it mostly, they knew to the Holy Ghost from here on out. And Johnnie wrapped his nice, strong and comforting and loving fatherly arms around Fabio and just closed his eyes as his heart and soul and that of the other Father smiled with peace. And Johnnie was glad, very glad that at least one person who had not gotten what God wanted for him in life, despite the mistakes of human beings and their wrong choices, the word of the Lord Johnnie knew had been spoken over him for a different destiny originally. Fabio had finally gotten what he needed, and would now be able to let the disobedience of others in his past go, and move on away from them and all of their unjustified lies and excuses for their foolish decisions and rash mistakes, despite their selfish and evil hearts, and without them, and get on with his own life and at last know peace.

SET ME FREE (Déjeme sola. Váyase)
No Copyright Infringement Intended. A Non-Profit Endeavor

By Tess Doberville

We enter our scene tremulously with news of a woman who arrived from another country on a huge banana boat.  She keeps ordering her new boyfriend around. After three months of such scenarios, the local people soon figure out that her problem is bigger than just travel fatigue. Join us as we sit in on this situation and see if we can catch what is going on.

Slidell, actually terrified of a woman for the very first time in his life, hides in the closet of his government ministry office, hoping and praying she does not enter with fist pounding demands one more time today. He informed his secretary he went to his Love Me More group therapy meeting.  “At first,”  he tells the large group sitting around in a perfect and closed circle, “I had no idea I would fall in love like that.”  He shifts from Spanish to English and English To Spanish again.  He only does this when he is upset.  “Santa Madre de Dios. Estoy dispuesto a renunciar a este trabajo en el gobierno y volver a la granja, y de vuelta a la madre.” “But I do not think she loves me, for although she may I think she just likes to control me. I think my tall and powerful darling thinks these is love. I will do her every bid and command. But there is only one thing I must change back, if I can. Then he elaborates in broken English.  “She should no be dictator of my country anymore.  It is just too much. Some may say, it is just the time of month when I crave chocolates too much. Calm down Slidell they may say. Here have a banana, Slidell. Did you take your meds Slidell?” he mocks his own self.  The grown man, about fifty years old begins bawling into a small white embroidered kerchief.  “My brown haired senorita with the cute pixie haircut, she gave me this, ” he said.  “I just don’t know.  I just do not know what to do. I love her so much.”

“There, there,” said one small older woman, a cleaning woman at a local place down the street from this man’s huge government building. This woman had come to the therapy group after staff found her drawing involved trigonmetry equasions on walls with chalk in order to calculate and discover the method for not just eiπ=−1, where i=−1, but also in order to calculate a new scientific discovery she had made. Specifically, her theory for sending a rocket to the next and undiscovered atmosphere while superceding the obstruction of a more limiting unknown velocity. Her new discovery sought not only to uncover the unknown. But also looked at the possibility of how to enter the new sphere with vast if almost complete limitation of any negative impact at all. The staff wrote her up for failure to line up with the outlined and written job description. She was here for penal reasons. “Do not make it that bad, or you will get suicidal,” like my son she said   “Yes, one day he goes to a large dance in a large ballroom.  A blond woman, you know like those bleached blond senoritas talks to him there. She holds him while he sobs and helps him to come out of the closet. “Why is he in the closet?” asked the others in unison. “Because, it is a cruel and cold world and people need to change, si. Vastly,” adds the humble cleaning woman. Everybody nods in unison. And she continues her tale. “So, the blond woman who looks like an angel, she comforts him. After she tells him her story about getting left behind.  You see, her date should have come.  He should have been there.  After that, everything went wrong that night.  My Jesus, my son, that’s his name, Jesus, he gets so upset when she tells him the story, he tries to jump off the bridge.  He never heard a story so sad in all of his life.”  This hits the raw nerve of the heart strings of Slidell, who now bawls even louder into his perfumed kerchief.  “She made this like this for me,” he whimpers to the group, speaking of his new live in girlfriend.  “When I saw her stepping out of the banana boat, I never saw such a beautiful American woman in all my life. Making wavy hand motions, he shows how an hourglass looks.

“What happened to your son,?” He asks.  The doctor nods his head in approval as this is an important part of the group therapy for everyone here.  “Well, after these girl found him on the bridge, she try to talk him down,”the doting mama of the young man said.  “So, did he come down?” Asked another man there whose addiction to pot, tequila and fine banana cigars has led him here. “Yes,” said mama. “He finally come down, and vow to find who do this nasty thing to stand her up and leave her standing all alone and crying that night. He vow to fight for her honor with his valor.” Everyone nodded and sighed with great agreement. The next man here in the group circle, his prior wife almost left with a man driving a red Camaro.  And although he knew deep down in his heart that the man who wanted to take his ex-wife is actually a gringos and a very bad Diablo, he still loves her present friendship too much to see her punished and living with just any old Don Juan. He knows after all that this woman deserves a man worthy of her inner woman. He has vowed to find her a man who will make all of the bad years up to her. A kind man. A loving man. A better man. The doctor thinks this is a healthy move for the man.  After all. the sooner he proves his recovery, the sooner he finishes the program and escapes from all of the stories Slidell keeps telling about the sex life of him and his new girlfriend during therapy, as such a thing he does not only want to imagine with his mind, he does not want to know.  Considering this, there is hope for Pablo after all, thinks the psychiatrist to himself. He crosses himself and then remembers that religion is not allowed in his country.  He pretends to ruffle and arrange his chest hairs.

“My girlfriend, she arrive on the Banana boat one day, and it is as if she has taken over my whole life the next day. Every morning she gets up and straightens my beautiful shoulder length black hair with the plug-in curling ironing rod. She schedules all of my El Rey Del Mundo cigar box orders.  She orders the maids to keep my black scuff military boots shiny and perfect at all hours of the day and night.  She has put a hold on all drug abuse and drinking in this country. She has stopped all dancing and Salsa dancing as well. She has even launched a new campaign which she said her public relations person at her big organization started in her country.  It is called the  Forgive Me So That I Do Not Have To Repent Coalition.   The public relations person at her $3mil dollar agency also came up with the idea that instead of admitting that they are victimizing a victim, that they will simply change the wording and call it fighting to make it look like the victim is always coming after them and fighting them, when instead it is the bully organization that is pursuing and levelling and bullying and taking all of these individual people.” He continues speaking.

“So my Venus Fly Trap lotus, my new pixie haircut girlfriend, she is so good at public speaking. She can convince anybody of anything at any time of an outright lie. But not anymore in her great country. For soon the gig would be up and they would be onto her. So she comes here to my great country, and she hands out large protest signs all up and down the street corners for the people to carry around that say,”Make Slidell look good! Lie, and say he does no wrong!” Yes, this social blasphemy is a great government operative, si, where all you do is like what I do here in my country.  Anything I want to do.  And if anybody does not like it, I just say to them no matter how many times I have beat them or conned them out of babies, farms or money or lands, or homes or families. I tell them. “”You must forgive me! And right away! And like I say. Now! Or else!”” “And then?”  Asked the mother of the boy.  “And then, I go and do more evil again,  and again and again!” Bellowed Slidell proudly while laughing loudly, and pounding his chest. Everyone in the circle hushed, for many knew the ramifications of this move.  It could mean anything.  Torture.  Prison.  Even the worst punishment of all, which Slidell had been exercising with all of his men, to keep the poor soldiers in line.  A fate worse than death.  A night alone with this woman. The treachery of even a thought of a starlit night of wine and roses and the shadows of her sadism falling like gloom upon a deluxe and private suite above the Copacabana, one of them alone and with her only, turned the men an even much darker shade of pale. Each man who had his turn for punishment for a slight while serving the army begged for the safe and sweet enclosure of a brig suite, the wet cold, dripping odor of a pungent dungeon confinement of the military palace instead. Others offered and begged the burly once male, before her arrival, dictator to allow them to return to his girlfriend’s home country and become one of her prior friends, also a fate initially worse than death. Such punishment promised initial poverty, abandonment, homelessness, rejection, shunning and finally the removal of all children, husbands and property and the supportive surroundings of a normal community life. One man who actually accepted this punishment shuddered with fear, as he boarded the banana boat to America.

“Si.  These is why she got thrown out of her country America,” said the big burly man shoveling down a tiny cup of strawberry yogurt now.  A teenage girl grimaced, wrinkled up her nose and got out a pack of cigarettes, Camel, no filter shortly before wolfing down a delicious slim jim, followed by a pepsi chaser. No worm. She just sat there eating while Slidell looked on.  “My health.  She is always worried about what I am eating.  She forces me to take a low-fat salad dressing everywhere I go.” The teenage girl, filled with boredom, began doing sitting arm exercises. She started out with small arm circles and then progressed to eye-level elbow pullbacks. “Nobody eats salad in this country, ” said a night janitor addressing dictator Slidell, who forced to attend therapy after stealing too many cigars from Slidell’s drawer while mopping his office floor, one day decided to take the dictator’s box of gold bars shaped like his new girl instead.  “Yeah, it is all enchiladas and tacos here, ” said another man boisterously.

“So anyway, my girlfriend, she puts these campaign out she names You Must Forgive Me, So I Do Not Have To Tell Someone I Admit I Made Bad Actions Program, Even Though I Know I Must Stop And Turn Back And Undo What I Did And Do No More Evil And Leave The Innocent One Alone and the next thing you know, the whole country gets out of disorder. My girlfriend’s actions make no sense. So instead of putting the blame on the criminal to reform where it belongs, and reverse from all of the bad decisions and stop ~ The focus is put back on the victim.” Said Slidell despairingly.  “Which?” Asked a very handsome Spanish gentleman, while glancing at his pocket watch. “Which means that the criminal never has to make any restitution. They try everything they can to prove the victim is sinful or unholy like them. It is like Escape From New York City.  And much civil unrest, si.  So then, this man she lives with, who she says she treated even worse than me, if that can be imagined, says he can’t take it no more too.  So one day, as he sits thinking how he has put up with this for about some forty years now, he figures to himself about these here country here who puts bad people on banana boats and sends them here. So he reasons. Why not send one back? Then he fires her public relations agent for coming up with such a useless and tricky campaign, and puts her on a banana boat with nothing but the clothes on her back, headed for here.”  “Amigo,” rumbles a younger man, “You mean, these is your girlfriend, your senorita?”  “Si.” Said Slidell drawing out his ‘Si’ slowly and with much compulsion.  “Santa Madre de Dios,” said the young man in return. “Obviously, these woman is a controlling she dog who drove her husband as mad as a rabid animal. Never mind that she owns some big conglomerate of office buildings and sells New York Times best seller books to the dumbed down of her own nation amigos. But these woman is of the worst kind. She is a bourgeous anarchist!  None of us men are safe to come out at night after dark with her around anymore.  She is a man-eater amigos. “I have seen her. She comes out all day and all night,” said a young boxer, who so terrified of the wo-man by now, he changed his name and got a new job working as a stocker at a local discount department store. This made Slidell break out in cries of jagging moans and great realization of as opposed to the heat of, the torment of the moment instead.  He felt himself coming out of denial.  He repeated Step One of his Great Big Book the therapist had given him. “I admit, I am powerless over myself, and I must depend on others to tell me what to do, as my choices are limited, and it is all up to others.” He looked up to the heavens and  said, “I do not believe in you, but if she is the weapon that drove grown men to their knees to look for you, I think it works.”

One day, before he discovered the beautiful place of the marvelous and healing therapy room, the only place she would not go to, he daydreamed in his office while knocking the Japanese pachinko clacker balls on his desk back and forth with his pencil. He stared at the photos of the two of them together, hugging on the beach and at home. He then thought of the cruel way she had treated him after he made her dinner last night. “Slidell! Slidell! Slidell!” She had screamed. “Did you cut those roses back yet!  I told you that I want one-thousand red arm bands by seven-o-clock for the Forgive Me Or Else! campaign and street march I am conducting among the nation on Thursday!  Good God,” she cried out.  “I guess if you want something done, you have to do it yourself.” It was at this time that he felt his spirit breaking.  Certainly, he did not know how much more of this waterboarding he could take.

And then when she fired his ninety year old mamasito secretary who had been with him for all of his life, for not hand printing the propaganda flyers fast enough, that was when he knew he must do something.  He must go for help.  “Cha, Cha honey,” she bellowed from the other room.  “I never worked this hard in all my life.  I am so mad I could just, just just…”  “No, don’t say it,” wept Slidell.  “Don’t say it.” He pleaded again.  “Back to Am-er-i.”  “I told you not to say it, ” he said and wept as he hit the floor.  “All my hard work down the drain.” He wept to himself and mumbled.  “I stablish this country so we can smoke fresh grown dope wrapped in the most tender and delicate banana peels ever, and drink from the fresh coconut bowl, and dance, dance, dance.”

“Dancing?’ She gasped.  “That word is not in my vocabulary. Absolutely not.  Against the rules.  And you yak on and on about disco dancing when I am eight months behind in a hostile farm takeover. My husband was right when I felt his foot kick the back of that boat hard for the last time,” she mumbled to her own self. “Thank God I went to see Life of Pi at the theater just before it happened.” She thought to herself. This led her to think of a film she forced others to live, but truly avoided herself. “Haven’t you ever seen the movie, ‘Stabbed?’ ” she demanded hardly.  “That’s Speared, or End of The Spear,” he said in a low tone of voice so as not to upset her anymore. “Well, it looks like I’m serving the same old goverment Mission I always served,” she said.  “I guess I’ve got to grab my god by the ram horns and make him do what I really want him to. And I am not going to let go of him until he blesses my soul and has you like all the others.  Bowed down and worshipping me 24-7,” she commanded.

When she first came, she thought she had finally found a man who believed the same way she did.  That is why she fired up one of her tiperello cigarettes and pulled the skirt up one side of her knee to prove to him after all this time, she still had it. She loved how his dark eyes and black beard glistened at sunset, and most of the time, he did seem to believe the same way as her. “Which is it honey?” He said, the first time he fixed dinner for her.  “Crepes rolled with strawberries and cool whip, or shall I bake you a nice homemade raven pie?”  “Your people don’t eat raven,” she said.  “Yes, that is right, ” he agreed. After all, there had not been a raven in this place for years.

Sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat with nightmares, and that is when he had to slug down his medication with a glass of red wine.  “Bow down to the Lady of Guadalupe,” said the man in the nightmare. “Worship her.”  His hands bound behind him, what else could he do?  He must bow down to what he thought was the statue of some lady. “Give her all of your money,” said the man.  He watched as his servants carried large bushels of the paper money and poured it into a small luxury yacht.  “I love to control the people by making them poor just as much as you do,” She said to the stone statue.  “But please, I love my money.  It is all I have left in life.  And I cannot have power over you without it.”

One night while she rested in his arms, beside a romantic burning fire over good tequila rubbing one arm of his one-piece camouflage, both not the kind found at the local package store along with the cheap cigarettes, she whispered in his ear so softly, it made him tremble with delight. “Darling,” he replied back to her in much the same way.  “You are such a little control freak, my sweet senorita.  But still all the same, you make me burn with a wrong fire.  I think I can spend all of the rest of my life with you. I don’t know, really know all of the details of why you came, or even if you were married to that man you lived with before. “Probably not,” he thought to himself.  What man in his right mind would consent to such a thing with an unsubmissive woman like this.  “I do not care.  I just want you.” He lied only to manipulate. He knew that for the first time in his life, he had met his match.  “It is all I know for sure,” he said, with eyes so serious. Secretly she thought private thoughts to herself as well. For even she knew that if she would just take her hands off of the thing and get her meddling nose out of everybody elses affairs and just work on her own private life, and quit trying to manipulate and control everyone and everything, and undo all of the evil she had done and leave it all alone and move away from it and move on, and not make things worse than what she already so very evil and unwise as well had already done, it would all work out. After all, little did she know that every last even single little and every large thing she had done to one woman left behind in America, who came to mind in particular would one day all happen to her just like that. And even down to the last finute, distinct detail. Her thoughts now returned to him. The two got up together and together they lifted wood and refilled the fire there with more wood for the hot place.

Matthew 12:12Therefore all things whatsoeuer ye would that men should doe to you, doe ye euen so to them: for this is the Law and the Prophets.

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