Feather in the Tar: One Hand Washes Another

           “Genie, come-in.” Seven says after quick knocks at the door and a wink through the peephole. He motions toward the couch, “have a seat.” She’s a friend and client. Once upon a time, Seven chased a college boy, a stalker, away from her.

          The studio apartment is 10 by 15 feet with a door to a bathroom in one corner, and a small kitchenette in the opposite. A work table/desk juts out about 3 feet from one wall with bookshelves on the 90-degree against the wall, covering it all the way to the front wall. The shelves are crammed with electronic detritus, magazines, a few books, and on the bottom shelve in the right corner is an upright 2’ by 2’ safe, and next to it, a large computer frame with wires, cards and who knows what, Heir Frankensmack. Red, green, and amber lights flicker on the inside and out. A hard drive array and tape machine sits on top of the safe. In the middle left bookshelf, across from the couch sits a 19” LCD TV with a bookshelf stereo. A thick layer of dust covers its case, but the screen has been wiped recently.

          Seven sits on a work stool in front of his desk, and Genie, erect and fidgety, sits across from him. She takes out a cigarette and puts it between her full red lips. Seven turns and picks up a Colt 45. Her eyes get as big as perfect over-easies when he points it at her. “Click,” Seven pulls the trigger, and she inhales sharply. A flame pops out of the barrel.

           “Funny,” she giggles, nervously. “Where’d you get that thing?”

          He hands it to her, “garage sale in the neighborhood, 5 bucks, cool or what?”

           “Yeah, real cool if you know before it points.” She says, “It feels like the real thing.” She exhales a fresh cloud and sighs.

           “So, what’s up?” He asks, “you seem nervous. Is everything OK?”

          Genie takes another deep toke and exhales, her shoulders shrink, she’s quiet, an uncomfortable quiet like when an IRS pencil doesn’t believe your deduction for iced coffee and cigarettes on a stake out with client de jour. “Something terrible happened to a friend. I was there.” Genie begins the story about Sal at the Lombard Bridge Motel. “I came out of the powder room, and his body was laying next to the bed.” She takes a deep puff and begins to shake. “His, his head,” she exhales and tears up. She whimpers and takes another drag.

           “His head?” Seven says, “His head had a hole in it? Genie squeaks, but Seven continues, “An axe? “Chainsaw?” Was blown apart?” Genie bursts out in a full on cry. He turns around and grabs a box of paper kerchiefs, generic with aloe and a John Bull engine in a modern pattern printed on the side; he hands the box to her. Seven moves to the couch and puts his arms around her. “It’s OK, cry if you need to, let it out, it’ll be OK.” He comforts her.

          Genie cries for half an hour. Seven stands up and walks over to the kitchenette. He opens the last top cabinet on the left and removes a bottle of Irish whisky. He picks up two Hanna-Barbera jelly glasses out of the sink, washes, dries them, and returns to Genie.

           “Here,” he hands her Penelope Pitstop and pours an ounce. “The first one’s quick,” he says. Genie shoots it down, and Seven fills it half full. “Take a small sip. Start over.” Seven pours himself half a glass, Hadji.

           “I met Sal at the Lombard Bridge Motel.” She says

           “Sal, Sal Klement?” Seven asks.

           “Yeah, he said he just got a bonus and wanted a little company.”

           “You met him at the bar?”

           “Yes, he called me, but I was already on my way for a final, final; and you know Sal, he’ll let you stay while he wipes out the toilets, and then maybe breakfast.” Genie says, and bursts out again. “Sal was a real gentleman.”

           “It’s OK. It’s OK,” He hugs her again. “Take another sip.” Seven lifts her hands to her mouth. “Sal was a real hero.”

          Genie sniffles, “well he said he got a big bonus, and wanted to hang out and watch late night TV.”

           “Yes, you checked into the L. Bridge?’

           “Uh huh, they’ve got free cable.” Genie says, “the whole package.”

           “Yes. I’ve worked it before, classy sheets.”

           “Well, I am in the bathroom, and the walls shake. I hear this strange sound in the room, and I call to Sal, but nothin’. There’s this loud thump.”

           “Yes,” Seven nods.

           “I open the door, and it’s foggy in the room, hot/sticky, the door slams shut, and, and,” her lips quiver, she begins to hyperventilate, she moans and sobs.

           “It’ll be OK, sweetness, take your time. Take another sip.” Seven reassures her.

           “His,” she sniffles, “his hea…, his eyes,” her lip quivers, “Sal’s head is starring at me from across the room.” She can’t hold it back. Tears flow again like sweat on a melting ice cube.

          Seven hugs her to his chest and pats her back. He gulps the whisky. “Sal stares at you?”

           “Yes,” she takes another kerchief, blows and wipes her nose and eyes. “I’ll never forget his eyes.” She wrings the kerchief in her hands.

           “Genie, I don’t understand? Sal is starring at you from across the room.”

           “No, no, no,” she whimpers for a few seconds, sniffles, “Sal’s head, it’s not on his body.” Genie chugs the remaining whisky, and Seven refills her Penelope.

           “Fuck, he’s been decapitated?”

           “Yes! And his eyes, his beautiful amber black eyes, it’s like he knows, but he’s scared as shit?”

           “He knew the killer?” Seven asks.

           “Yeah, I think?.” Genie chugs the whisky.

           “Funny sound? What kind of sound?” Seven asks and takes hold of her hand.

           “I don’t know, like whooshes, like a kettle with no whistle?”

           “Hum, did you talk to the cops?”

           “No, no, I got the hell out there.” She cries.

           “Ok, but your prints in the bathroom?”

           “Yes, and I left my Pinky heels.”

           “Damn woman. How can I help you?” Seven asks.

           “I dunno,” she begins to cry, “do you think they’re looking for me? I didn’t do anything.”

           “Yeah, but you left the scene. The stiff-ties will be suspicious.” Seven says.

           “Shit Seven. What should I do?” She pleads.

           “You are going to have to talk to them. I’ll sniff around, I have a few friends in vice; maybe they can tell me something?”

           “OK.” She says, and Seven fills her glass one last time.

           “Lay low, not your home, but a friends or family, and I’ll contact you. Are you still at the same cell?”

           “Yes.”

           “OK. Are you OK to go?” He stares in to her eyes.

           “Can I use your powder room?”

           “Sure, but it’s pure bachelor.” He answers.

          Washing her hands, Genie looks into the mirror and sighs. Her mascara is streaks down her checks, so she wipes her eyes clean with toilet paper, freshens her lipstick and walks to the table and picks up the glass. Seven is surfing the net for any reports on the homicide. Genie picks up Penelope and knocks back the remaining whisky. “Thank you Seven.” she grabs his neck and squeezes tight. “I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.”

           “It’ll be fine Genie. It’ll work out.” He says, “ you didn’t do anything wrong, OK?” She releases him, spins his stool, and pecks his cheeks. Her blotchy rouge and lips color each, moist and warm.

late night static

Hippie, happy late night static
in a cathode ray tube construct
of concept simulation,
under a deep moon darkness
and a sleepless loa stare;

aware of reverend moonbeam’s
graphs, charts, and
whiteboard smudges
stimulate an allegory of
the leaf cutter liberation.

A five to five prayer hoop
starts one step two, and three
on a single lane brown, around,
up and down, green and over,
head to tail conga trail.

Mandibles bare, machetes tear
girders the size of cereal bowls
in blue backpacks trundle
shreds to fungus manna grow
as the days route to years.

White noise data diffusion
swims sentient in synaptic snow.
smooth, nude, two legs, arms
induce self deduction,
24 ribs and smiles.

A nine to nine subway loop
stops six, station seven, and eight
on an nth rail steel, parallel,
left and right, chrome and under,
elbow to elbow concrete rumble.

Fingertips deft, cognition cleft
relics the span of gravity’s bliss
in errant electric books transmit
particles to anima lingua bloom
as the years route to myths.

EGOP: Opinion and Satire

WARNING: The RNC/DNC does not approve this blog. If an opinion¹ different from yours or satire² is not your cup of tea, then DO NOT READ this post. It could affect your moral fiber. I suggest you click other/safer links or return to a book in your personal or public library.

It is true. Candidate Sarah Palin is the most interesting thing to come along in politics, since the VP’s friend’s face stumbled into many small pellets. She has accomplished a variety of things: high school basketball star, Miss Alaska, sports commentator, five children, one grandchild on the way, and Governor of Alaska. I get the impression (speculating) that she and her blue-collar husband share “the pants” in the family. She has shown both determination and fortitude; she swims with some of the most rugged men, Alaskans (114 unmarried men to every 100 women). But I have to ask, is she on the wrong ladder? The EGOP (Evangelical Grand Ole Party) use her belief system to scare and enforce moral behavior in children and adults, men and women, everyone but themselves.

A woman’s place, the 19th century, interpretation of the biblical belief that she follows says, “…suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.” (1 Timothy 2:12-15.) And about children, the belief system she follows says, “If a man have a stubborn and rebellious son…Bring him to the elders of his city…And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die…” (Deuteronomy 21:18-21)

I suppose she doesn’t speak for herself, because she doesn’t believe in doing so; or perhaps the EGOP and McCain do not condone it, as a woman, it is not her place, or is it that she might embarrass them? Or, is it a political strategy to keep discussing detritus over substance? Come on Palin, be a maverick. Be authentic. This is the United States of America, the home of the free and the brave; raise your voice, your honest voice. We all need to hear you; it’s our right and your responsibility. We are not stupid; we are human beings, “sinners all,” and still forgiven.

Either way, in choosing Palin, McCain has revealed his contempt for the American people. He chose someone who is inadequately qualified to be a heartbeat away from the presidency. You have to do more than just “not blink” or that light coming at you could be an oncoming train.

Foreign policy and diplomacy require a minimal awareness of a country’s entire history and culture, and at least, an understanding of your lack of knowledge. McCain practices this, but his choice makes me question his ability to persevere. I don’t expect Palin to know it all, but she does not appear to be humble enough to recognize her deficiency. She could have said, “Charles, I am ready. I have a lot to learn, but I am a fast learner.” Instead, she chose not to blink. “I am ready.” Admitting one’s ignorance or errors, and overcoming them increases credibility, and demonstrates bravery and wisdom. Is she so arrogant to think that all she needs is a stare, a gun, and a prayer?

The strategy is clear and cynical. Mimic the opponent’s strategy then blame the opponent with the “Big Lie.” The American big lie is a 50’s advertising technique used on television. Tell a lie so big, so unbelievable and easily verifiable, that it couldn’t be a lie.

Hitler wrote of this in Mein Kampf, but his Reich Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, expanded it from his opinion of the English. “Rather, it depends on a remarkably stupid thick-headedness. The English follow the principle that when one lies, one should lie big, and stick to it. They keep up their lies, even at the risk of looking ridiculous.” ³

The OSS, Office of Strategic Services later to become the CIA, described it in the following way when describing Hitler’s personality. “His primary rules were: never allow the public to cool off; never admit a fault or wrong; never concede that there may be some good in your enemy; never leave room for alternatives; never accept blame; concentrate on one enemy at a time and blame him for everything that goes wrong; people will believe a big lie sooner than a little one; and if you repeat it frequently enough people will sooner or later believe it.” ⁴

The “Big Lie” goes back to the beginnings of western democracy. In the Republic, Plato describes a society of philosopher kings who rule for the common good, enlightenment, and not monetary advantage. The noble lie is rooted in sophistry, the art of persuasion through rhetoric. Sophists believed that persuasion could answer all questions of beliefs, virtue, and truth in spite of the facts, and would use specious arguments as proof. In the Republic, the children of citizens with wealth and power, the elite rulers would be able to maintain their status resulting in an orderly society, not a free and open democracy, or the mob.

The 2-party system rakes the muck, so they don’t have to express their plans for the country. The McCain/Palin lid says, “Sorry honor, but that kettle is immoral and anti-feminist (anti-child, anti-change, anti-democracy, anti-patriotic, liberal, terrorist, communist, evil, Satan, a pig with lipstick, yada, yada, yada).”

Don’t analyze or criticize McCain’s policy or Palin, she’s the potential leader of democracy in the free world; she’s a woman and if you do, you must be a misogynist. After 14-years of EGOP administration’s “Contract with America,” is it more important to compare Palin to a breed of dog (a pit-bull) and a predatory fish, or is it more important that a woman only earns 80 cents on the dollar and can’t be trusted to make decisions about her own body? Is the economy so strong and righteous that it can replace all of America’s values? Is the world such a safe place that all we need to do is see our neighbors with an unblinking eye and not worry about or attempt to understand their history or culture? I wonder what others in the world think of a world leader in the 21st century age of information that doesn’t know who they are or anything about their culture? Is contempt for us all the new McCain/Palin Doctrine?

I for one am tired of shallow divisive politics as usual. I am fed up with both parties. Change may not be achievable in the current 2-party system. America needs workable/achievable solutions, not schoolyard name-calling and moral hypocrisy. Morals are strictly an individual/personal choice not a matter of law.

If McCain/Palin expects me to listen anymore and accept their credibility, then they should stop drilling on a platform to nowhere. Where’s the substance?

And now, how about a little satire/humor, so come on and sing along with me.

Come and listen to a story ‘bout a gal name Sarah

Poor ole governor barely kept her family errors
‘Till in ‘er plane, she was shootin’ up some moose
When over the bridge come a crude blowin’ loose
(Oil that is, GOP, the other pork barrel.)

Well the first thing ya’ knowed old Govs.’ a feminist
Kinfolk said Cuda move away to the Beltway blessed

Said Washington is the place you oughta be
So ebay the plane and move to Observatory
(D.C. that is, baptizer pools, revenuer health care)

It’s time to say yahoo-yippee to Palin and her kin
They would like to thank folks for kindly chipping in
Y’all invited back again to pay them taxes for her friends
To have a stinking pile, four more years without an end
(EGOP Oilbillies, that’s what they call ’em now,
Rich folks, y’all “go fuck yourself” shoppin’, ya hear?)

1.opinion – (\ə-ˈpin-yən\) noun, Source, 1a : a view, judgment, or appraisal formed in the mind about a particular matter 1b: approval, esteem 2a: belief stronger than impression and less strong than positive knowledge b: a generally held view3: a formal expression of judgment or advice by an expert b: the formal expression (as by a judge, court, or referee) of the legal reasons and principles upon which a legal decision is based. 2. satire – (\ˈsa-ˌtī(-ə)r\) Function: noun, Source 1: a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn 2: trenchant wit, irony, or sarcasm used to expose and discredit vice. Or, from the Devil’s Dictionary, 1911, Ambrose Bierce ( June 24, 1842 – 1914?) 1. satire – n. An obsolete kind of literary composition in which the vices and follies of the author’s enemies were expounded with imperfect tenderness. In this country satire never had more than a sickly and uncertain existence, for the soul of it is wit, wherein we are dolefully deficient, the humor that we mistake for it, like all humor, being tolerant and sympathetic. Moreover, although Americans are “endowed by their Creator” with abundant vice and folly, it is not generally known that these are reprehensible qualities, wherefore the satirist is popularly regarded as a soul-spirited knave, and his ever victim’s outcry for codefendants evokes a national assent. 3. Joseph Goebbels, 12 January 1941. Die Zeit ohne Beispiel. Munich: Zentralverlag der NSDAP. 1941, pp. 364-369 [original German: Das ist natürlich für die Betroffenen mehr als peinlich. Man soll im allgemeinen seine Führungsgeheimnisse nicht verraten, zumal man nicht weiß, ob und wann man sie noch einmal gut gebrauchen kann. Das hauptsächlichste englische Führungsgeheimnis ist nun nicht so sehr in einer besonders hervorstechenden Intelligenz als vielmehr in einer manchmal geradezu penetrant wirkenden dummdreisten Dickfelligkeit zu finden. Die Engländer gehen nach dem Prinzip vor, wenn du lügst, dann lüge gründlich, und vor allem bleibe bei dem, was du gelogen hast! Sie bleiben also bei ihren Schwindeleien, selbst auf die Gefahr hin, sich damit lächerlich zu machen.] 4. A Psychological Analysis of Adolph Hitler. His Life and Legend by Walter C. Langer. Office of Strategic Services (OSS) Washington, D.C. With the collaboration of Prof. Henry A. Murr, Harvard Psychological Clinic, Dr. Ernst Kris, New School for Social Research, Dr. Bertram D. Lawin, New York Psychoanalytic Institute. p. 219 (Nizkor) Hitler as His Associates Know Him (OSS report, p.51)

References
The Republic, Plato, Book 2, Sections 414-7
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/
http://www.thedevilsdictionary.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noble_lie
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Big_Lie

Book Burning: Candidate Palin

          On my about page, I said I was a lightweight when it comes to politics, but I know the difference between the cow and the bull. One thing I learned from history is that ignorance, fascists, and totalitarian egomaniacs ban and burn books. In an open society that values liberty and ideas, bad ideas reveal themselves in the light of day and are swept into the dustbin of history.

“For a nation that is afraid to let its people judge the truth and falsehood in an open market is a nation that is afraid of its people.”
John Fitzgerald KENNEDY,
Commander of torpedo boat PT-109, WWII and 35th President of the United States (1917-1963)

          The Republican Vice-presidential Candidate, Governor Sarah Palin, attempted to ban(burn) several books according to the minutes of the Wasilla Library Board, Wasilla, Alaska, while mayor there. The librarian said no, and Mayor Palin threatened her job. The town rallied in support of the librarian, and Palin backed off. Subsequently, the librarian resigned.

“Don’t join the book burners. Do not think you are going to conceal thoughts by concealing evidence that they ever existed.”
Dwight David EISENHOWER
American general and 34th President of the United States (1890–1969)

          Puzzling, I wonder if Candidate Palin read even one of the following books? I wonder if Presidential Candidate John McCain spent six years in a Vietnam’s Hanoi Hilton to support book burning?

“Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings.”
Heinrich HEINE
Almansor: A Tragedy, 1823
Used as inscription on memorial at Dachau concentration camp
German poet (1797-1856)

          The following is a list of books that book burners, right and left, would love to burn. Sarah Palin?

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
Annie on My Mind by Nancy Garden
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Blubber by Judy Blume
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
Canterbury Tales by Chaucer
Carrie by Stephen King
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
Christine by Stephen King
Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Cujo by Stephen King
Curses, Hexes, and Spells by Daniel Cohen
Daddy’s Roommate by Michael Willhoite
Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Peck
Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller
Decameron by Boccaccio
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
Fallen Angels by Walter Myers
Fanny Hill (Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure) by J ohn Cleland
Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes
Forever by Judy Blume
Grendel by John Champlin Gardner
Halloween ABC by Eve Merriam
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Prizoner of Azkaban by J.K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling
Have to Go by Robert Munsch
Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
Impressions edited by Jack Booth
In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
It’s Okay if You Don’t Love Me by Norma Klein
James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
Little Red Riding Hood by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Love is One of the Choices by Norma Klein
Lysistrata by Aristophanes
More Scary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
My Brother Sam Is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and ChristopherCollier
My House by Nikki Giovanni
My Friend Flicka by Mary O’Hara
Night Chills by Dean Koontz
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer
One Day in The Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn
One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Ordinary People by Judith Guest
Our Bodies, Ourselves by Boston Women’s Health Collective
Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy
Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl
Scary Stories 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones by Alvin Schwartz vScary Stories in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz
Separate Peace by John Knowles
Silas Marner by George Eliot
Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
Tarzan of the Apes by Edgar Rice Burroughs
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
The Bastard by John Jakes
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
The Devil’s Alternative by Frederick Forsyth
The Figure in the Shadows by John Bellairs
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Snyder
The Learning Tree by Gordon Parks
The Living Bible by William C. Bower
The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare
The New Teenage Body Book by Kathy McCoy and Charles Wibbelsman
The Pigman by Paul Zindel
The Seduction of Peter S. by Lawrence Sanders
The Shining by Stephen King
The Witches by Roald Dahl
The Witches of Worm by Zilpha Snyder
Then Again, Maybe I Won’t by Judy Blume
To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare
Webster’s Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary by the Merriam-Webster Editorial Staff
Witches, Pumpkins, and Grinning Ghosts: The Story of the Halloween Symbols by Edna Barth

Feather in the Tar: Envelope

           “Not much blood,” Sergeant Detective Samson shouts through the door after he removes the pink, purple, green, and gold paisley handkerchief from his nose and mouth, and scratches his head.

          Lieutenant Detective Cochran snaps her left latex glove, pulls a surgical mask around her head, and takes a shoe cover out of her kit, a black messenger bag that is strung over her shoulder and around her head. She raises her leg to reach her foot, and the uniform next to her, acting as a hang-on, looks down at her athletic calves. She’s wearing a pair of black Fluvees with a three-inch heel and medium rubber soul. The bottom reads, “Flight from Evil.”

          Lieutenant Cochran enters the hotel room, judiciously choosing her steps away from a direct path, and moves toward the body. A uniform enters with and follows her in the same steps. He’s holding her bag. “Hum.” She murmurs as she bends down to examine the bloated torso for any obvious trauma; the head is missing.

           “Careful,” Samson says, “it could pop.”

           “He.”

           “What Lieutenant?” Samson asks.

           “He, he could pop.” She says sternly. “He may be more swollen than an ex-humpback on a shallow tide, but he’s still a human being.”

           “Yes sir,” Samson answers, “the poor son-of-bitch.”

          Cochran looks around the room, stands and walks toward the bathroom. A wet towel is on the floor; pink lipstick smears across its nap. A hairbrush sits on the sink. She picks it up both, bags both, and hands them to the uniform. She turns towards the bed, and sees a pair of pink stilettos next to it, standing up straight and together, size 7. She bags them.

          She looks across the room and sees blood spray on the wall and the rug. “The head must have landed over there.” She points at it.

          Samson crosses to the secondary stain and leans down to touch it with his gloved hand. “Yep Lieutenant,” he says as he rubs it between his hands and sniffs. “Could be the killers?” Samson takes out a swab case and samples the puddle and then another on the wall.

           “I don’t know,” Cochran says. “There’s not enough blood.” She leans down to the soulless cadaver. “Where’s the M.E.?”

           “He’ll be here in 15 or so; he’s working a shooting in the Mission.”

           “Look at this Samson,” she says, “the wound around the neck is cauterized.” She looks up towards the floor at the door. Samson bends down next to her.

           “What kind of weapon would do that?” he asks, as she rises and walks toward the door. “That probably explains the lack of blood. It’s all still with Mr. Bulgy Briefs.”

          Cochran leans down at the door and lightly touches the dark brown, commercial carpet. “Sams, look here. Is that some kind of foot print?” She points at several impressions on the floor.

           “I can see it, but it’s not a foot or shoe I’ve ever seen. It’s too square.”

          Cochran leans down and sniffs the carpet.

           “Jelly-Jo Coch, what the hell are ya’ doin’? Do you have any idea of what or who has been there, disgusting; your not Sherlock Holmes ya’ know.”

           “Sergeant Samson,” she looks into his amber-browns, “Lieutenant Cochran in the field”, she barks with the voice of command.

           “Yes sir.” He maintains eye contact and salutes with a nod.

          She bends down to smell again. “It smells burnt.” She looks toward the bed and rises up slowly. “Do you have your multi-tool?” He shakes his head yes, and reaches to the scabbard on his belt. “Cut the best print out and bag it.”

           “Yes sir.”

           “Do you see that spot about a foot from the victim?”

           “No Lieutenant, I can’t see it from this angle.” Sampson makes a semi-circle around the near invisible footpath. He bends down on his knees, and opens the long blade. His neighbor, a sword collector and creative anachronism, sharpened it for him last weekend. The blade penetrates the carpet like a salesman in the mouth of $100 hostess. Sampson incises a patch of carpet with footprint. “The mangement is not goin’ ta like this.”

           “They can bill the department. This room could use carpet.” She says, concentrating on the new smear, as she treads to it on her kneecaps.

           “Good luck getting paid,” Sampson says to himself as he drops the patch into an evidence bag.

           “What Sergeant?”

           “Nothing Lieutenant.” He zips the bag and hands it the blue hat.

          Cochran removes an evidence swab and dips it in the wet blotch on the carpet next to the body. She lifts it to her eyes and then sniffs; it’s clear with a slight hint of silicone. It hangs on the tip like viscous glue. She closes the swab case and puts it in her coat pocket. She dips her left fore and index finger into it, and rubs it between them. “Hum?” She takes two more samples for testing.

           “Sorry, it’s a busy night.” Dr. Caracass, the medical examiner, says as he and an assistant enter. “What the hell?” He bends down for a closer look. Cochran is still on her knees. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen one so swollen.” He instructs his aide, “bag the hands, and go get the stretcher and an envelope.”

           “Envelope?” Sampson asks. “You mean bag, right?”

           “Call it what you will Sergeant; he’s not a sack of garlic.”

           “What do you think Doc?” the Lieutenant asks.

           “Hum, I would guess he’s been dead for about 24 hours. I won’t know for sure until we get him back to the lab.”

           “How about the wound on the neck?” She points, touching it with her left pinky.

           “Looks like it’s cauterized, but it’s too rough to have been cut, not much char either. I’ve not seen it before. Any sign of the head?”

           “No.” Cochran shrugs, “trophy?”

          Caracass is indifferent, “I guess you’ll need to find a psycho-massive ego wall.”