The Hula Popper hit the stream with a plop. George W. Bush jiggled the line which was attached to his seven-foot Loomis rod with Shimano spinning tackle firmly in his right hand. Bush was sitting on a folding chair next to a stream that was moving slowly in the Arkansas humidity. The Ozarks were a place where Bush escaped, little known to the media. Even his retinue of White House staffers was unaware that Bush helicoptered into Arkansas to catch fish. Trout. Brown trout. Rainbow trout. Trout is what Bush liked, but not on a fly rod or with waders. Bush liked to sit down with a Diet Coke and some chips in an easy chair with light tackle in hand. And he never used live bait. Lures are what he liked. The colors. The candy colored lures reminded him of toys he had when he was a child. Bush’s father was a saltwater man, fishing for big game off of fast moving Cigarette boats in the wild and cold waters of Maine. Not George W. Bush. George W. Bush preferred the quiet of a stream and the subtle sounds of freshwater. Bush also thought that fresh water fish were smarter than their saltwater cousins. The big ocean fish were, as far as he could tell, big and stupid. He liked the sharp-eyed thoughtfulness of trout. (more…)
A light Spring rain was falling outside the window behind the oak desk in the Oval Office. George W. Bush was sitting back in the thickly padded dark brown leather chair, his black loafers on the credenza, ankles crossed. His hands were casually clasped resting in his lap as he watched the early morning clouds. The rain drops made trails on the window glass. Bush glanced at his rubberized digital watch. It was 6:32 AM. Bush had yet to put on the red tie that was on the desk behind him. Bush’s white shirt was open four buttons down exposing a white t-shirt. He sported a black blazer that was open and ruffled because of the position he was in. He counted the rain trails on the window glass. Seven trails. (more…)
The year was 5866. That was the Hebrew year. It was also known as 2106. The place was a city. They called it New Israel. Some called it New Jerusalem. Many who did not live there called it Jew Town or Jew City or Kike Hell. The city was encircled by a twelve-foot high cinderblock wall that was thick enough to support a two-lane road on top. The land was flat in this part of Nevada. Flat and dusty. Water was brought in by underground tunnels that fed off the upper Colorado. The second and third tunnels were dug without the knowledge of the Great North American Government. These tunnels were not only conduits for water but also permitted the clandestine inflow and outflow of people and goods. Vehicles operating on hydrogen, which the scientists of New Israel had perfected in 5798 and gave the city unlimited and cheap power, drove up and down the 153-mile Tunnel Two and the more ambitious 400-mile Tunnel Three which was still being worked on. Tunnel One was just for water, built by the Great and Grand Christian-Islamic Settlement Treaty that organized essentially four nation states, two Christian and two Islamic. The Treaty achieved unanimity by permitting the relocation of Jews rather than the extermination of Jews. And part of this compromise required the building of Tunnel One, the water tunnel. Tunnel Two was built by the Jews. And Tunnel Three was financed secretly by the Vatican, which did not sign the Great and Grand Christian and Islamic Settlement Treaty. Indeed, the Vatican was under constant siege in Italy for having eschewed what many considered to be a diplomatic peace initiative that essentially ended random world-wide terrorist activities. (more…)
Pete Doherty was on his knees wearing a white t-shirt with the words “Exxon Mobil” emblazoned on the front in big block letters. The room was on the fourth floor of the Rembrandt Hotel in the Knightsbridge section of London, about a ten-minute walk from Harrod’s Department Store. Doherty had an Executive Suite, one with a Jacuzzi in the bedroom. And that is where Doherty was at the moment, in the bedroom with the Jacuzzi a few feet from where the young girl was lying on the floor. The girl’s name was Libby. Doherty did not know her last name, though it did not matter much. A first name and a body, that is all Libby needed. And Libby’s body was sprawled out on the floor, in faded blue jeans that Doherty had opened and unzipped in the front. Libby was wearing a white t-shirt as well but with a photograph of the Statute of Liberty on the front. The t-shirt was ripped from it’s v-neck down about a foot, exposing Libby’s left breast as she lied on her back on the polished oak floor boards. From the bottom of Libby’s blue jeans jutted bare ankles and two-inch black high heels. Libby’s right leg was bent inward, the high heel on its side touching the upper thigh of Libby’s left leg, which was out straight. (more…)
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