“The Sanatoga Fire Massacre of 2003”

 by John Gotheborg

COVER LETTER

Hello, God’s True Patriot here, John Gotheborg.

I am trying something new with this story.  I have invented a completely

fictional character who is nothing like myself.  In fact, only small

portions of this story are based on my true life tomfoolery shenanigans.

This is a story about a character named William Cahill -- an investigative

reporter for the Sanatoga Courier who is also an amateur pool champ and

sometimes private eye.  I should also mention that he is a veteran and a

firm supporter of home schooling.  I do not know if I will write a full

series of adventure stories featuring this character, but I do think he is a

daring and intriguing man.

Suu Ni doesn't like this story, because there is no romance.  Maybe it needs

romance.  There is one character I think Cahill could have a tragic romantic

moment with, but I just couldn't work it out.  I'm talking about Heather

Donahue here -- I know what you sick people are thinking. William Cahill

isn't like that.

Enjoy and please share your comments.

SANATOGA -- December 14, 2003

Protest erupted outside Patriot Hall yesterday as the Sanatoga Fire defended against the Quad City Steamrollers. A large congregation of Native Americans protested the home team’s use of what they characterized a “racist Tomahawk symbol.” Meanwhile, several quadriplegics also gathered to protest the Quad City team’s “discriminatory and insulting mockery of the disabled.”

The Indians arrived early in the morning, pitching teepees and lighting bonfires, which they danced around in full war paint, singing “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.” This drew immediate media attention, with this reporter arriving first on the scene.

The noble spirit of the Native Americans struck me. Their red leather faces beamed with pride, and a healthy glow that comes only from repeat visits to Tiki Tan, “Where the sun is always shining!” Tiki Tan offers first-class service and the latest in modern self-tanning solutions. Located at 768 Wilshire, Tiki Tan is your one stop tanning solution.

I spoke with Heather Donahue, 23, a resident of the Highlands district who did not appear to be an Indian, though she did state loudly that she is a vegetarian. “This is totally offensive,” she hollered. “The U.S. government committed an act of genocide against the Native American people, and here they are rubbing it in with crap like this Fire logo -- depicting the tomahawk in a totally racist type fashion.”

When asked if she was aware that the Sanatoga Fire logo is actually a fireman’s axe, and that the semi-professional football team is not endorsed by the U.S. government, the woman appeared confused. “That’s totally racist,” she said. “I see what you’re insinuating. Sanatoga Fire Water?”

With the arrival of the quadriplegic protestors, it seemed as though things may get out of hand. They arrived with bullhorns blaring, the Superman theme song oddly reminiscent of “Flight of the Valkyries” from the helicopter attack scene in Apocalypse Now. The crowds parted before them and they proceeded directly to the center of the Indian encampment.

They chanted, “Quad City! Quadriplegics are people. Quad City! Your racist minds are feeble. Quad City...” The leader of the group, identifying himself only as Kal-El, whom I interviewed at the hospital after he’d received a concussion in a freak hair drier accident, stated that his people came to this planet to escape the prejudice they faced on Krypton. They were in fact completely paralyzed on Krypton, but the red sun of our world gives them the power to move their bodies above the neck.

With Kal-El at the lead, the quadriplegics steamrolled through the Indian encampment, setting fire to teepees, trampling women and children.

“This is the problem with protest marches,” Police Chief Danny Thomas stated in a press conference days after the terrifying events, during which several officers were awarded gold medals for bravery in the line of duty. “It starts out peace and goodwill, holding hands. Then a pack of anarchists like those radical quadriplegics comes in and people get hurt.”

It was then that the police moved in, wearing full riot gear and firing tear gas canisters. It was an awful scene. The police fired indiscriminately, wounding protestors and innocent bystanders alike. The ceramic plates in their body armor made them look oddly like gorillas, which prompted some environmentalists to draw up new signs: “STOP MONKEY VIOLENCE.”

This reporter watched in shock and awe as an unidentified officer sprayed tear gas directly in the face of Heather Donahue. Then, a group of officers smashed in the windshield of my car with their batons, claiming it was illegally parked.

Forest Walker, 29, also of the Highlands, chained himself to the doors of Patriot Hall. As police closed in he shouted, “I lived in a tree for seven months. You pigs don’t intimidate me!”

Then all hell broke loose. The victorious Sanatoga Fire football team emerged from Patriot Hall, trampling Forest Walker underfoot, having trounced the Quad City Steamrollers 60-0 in what semi-professional sports experts have called, “The worst beating since 1970 when the Harlem Globetrotters appeared in Hanna-Barbera Studios’ ‘Football Zeros.’”

Unbeknownst to the rioting protestors, the Quad City team actually was comprised wholly of quadriplegics. It was a charity benefit for the promotion of stem cell research. Oh, the humanity...

The Sanatoga Fire tore through the crowd like a stampede of buffalo, crushing all who stood, rain danced or wheeled in their path. I watched in horror as several linemen lifted my battered car and flipped it. Then it exploded.

I could hear the wounded cries of the dying everywhere as the sky turned black and I crawled over the piled bodies in a desperate attempt to find safe passage out of the killing field. By some twisted act of fate, the blood stained my lips and the ash completely covered my face. Between that and the tuxedo, I looked like a minstrel show performer.

The police certainly had their hands full as this morning of protest turned into a night of riots and fires. Those brave officers were fighting on two fronts. A call on my cell phone from a colleague at the Courier confirmed it.

“In front of the Sanatoga Science Center downtown, the Brotherhood of Aryan Knights, a radical rightwing militia group, has been protesting the presence of dinosaur fossils since well before noon,” my colleague shouted over the hysteric din.

They had shouted “sieg heil” several times and raised their hands in the Nazi salute. Then, according to several eyewitness reports, they hauled a caveman mannequin out of a white cargo van and forced their way into the building.

That protest became violent as one of the Nazis forcibly attempted to place the caveman mannequin in with the dinosaurs. When Science Center security attempted to stop him, he took the caveman club and brained one of the guards with it. I sympathize strongly with the man’s act of Christian patriotism in standing up for the presence of cavemen alongside dinosaurs, but those militants go too far sometimes. The rioting spread all the way to the Hilton, ruining the evening for many wealthy tourists.

Meanwhile, back at Patriot Hall, Harvey Dowd, the 6’ 3-1/2” quarterback from UT Austin, managed to snatch a tear gas canister from one of the officers. He lobbed it with such force that it exploded on impact, permanently blinding innocent teen Lemonjello Jefferson in one eye.

My instincts as a veteran compelled me to drag the wounded young man to cover.

“Why did this happen to me?” Lemonjello moaned. “I was just here because I hate black people.”

“Perhaps you attended the wrong protest,” I said. “The Brotherhood of Aryan Knights is protesting downtown in front of the Science Center.” I held the boy in my arms, fearing that at any moment he may die from his wound.

“I know that,” he said. “It’s just that I wanted to see the game first. Then I went to the restroom and I saw a black man in the mirror. When I turned around, he was gone. So, I figured he must have ran out here.”

“Lemonjello, I hate to tell you this, but...”

“Wait a minute. You kinda look like him.”

It was then that I realized how the blood and ash made my face look so ridiculous. I untucked my tuxedo shirt and wiped my face clean. Lemonjello was visibly relieved to see that I was a white man beneath the black face.

“What were you going to do when you caught him?” I asked the boy.

“I was gonna hang him!”

I helped Emergency Medical Transport personnel (EMTs) lift the troubled young man onto a gurney and rode with them towards the University of Sanatoga School of Medicine, where I am told the underprivileged often receive cheap medical treatment at the hands of student nurses.

“It’s going to be okay,” the EMT shouted. “We’re going to get you a new eye. You’ll see clearer than ever before. You won’t be able to see in color, and may suffer double vision, but dog eyes are very sensitive on levels that human eyes are not. You may be able to see ghosts, and you will definitely be able to predict the weather...”

I have always been fascinated by medical and technical jargon of all kinds. I took lengthy notes as the EMT soothed the boy. However, University Hospital administrators asked that I not publish my findings. I had to fight tooth and nail for the one quote.

“That man is no longer employed by the University,” said spokesperson Ray Goldberg. “I am not at liberty to disclose the exact substance at this time, but a mind-altering chemical normally extracted from cactus stalks was found in his blood stream. In fact, that entire EMT crew has been dismissed. They are sick, deviant, psychotic individuals who do not in any way represent the School of Medicine.”

As the siren blared and the driver ran over several pedestrians, I saw that the riots had spread with alarming speed. The entire city was engulfed in raging chaos. Quadriplegics zoomed alongside the ambulance in rocket-powered wheelchairs, pursued by vengeful Indians on horseback; and in the distance, I could see fires left in the wake of the rampaging Nazis.

Then the ambulance rammed into an oncoming Greyhound bus and overturned. Tumbling within the confines of the careening vehicle, everything seemed to go in slow motion. For a moment, I felt completely weightless, as though the EMTs, Lemonjello and myself were astronauts aboard the space shuttle. It was a miracle I escaped serious injury, but we were all banged up pretty good and I lost consciousness.

Imagine my surprise when I was awakened by Fred “Curly” Neal of the Harlem Globetrotters. “As you may know,” he said. “I received my Globetrotter ‘Legends’ ring in 1993 and have since traveled the country as an Ambassador of Goodwill. It just rips my heart out to see people riot like this.”

And so it was that the Harlem Globetrotters -- whose tour bus seemed fated to cross our path -- came up with an ingenuous plan to stop the quadriplegics. Curly Neal and Meadowlark dressed up like barbers and painted a crude sign which read: “FREE HAIRCUTS FOR QUADRIPLEGICS.”

I could not believe the beautiful simplicity of it all as the wheelchair-bound anarchists lined up in front of the makeshift barber shop. Then, when they wheeled themselves under the “hair driers,” the Globetrotters clamped the lids down over their heads and the quadriplegics were trapped. However, the danger had not yet passed.

Things had become hectic as the rioting mobs clashed in front of Try Angles, a popular gay bar/nightclub in downtown Sanatoga. While I was unconscious in that ambulance, the Nazis and Indians had faced off in a Battle Royale.

It was a massacre. The Indian braves on horseback used their tomahawks and fired flaming arrows. Some of the Nazis cleverly changed into leopard print caveman costumes and fled into Try Angles. Most, however, were not so lucky. By the time I arrived on the scene, there were scalped Nazi corpses everywhere and the Indians were kneeling over them, wishing them safe passage to the Happy Hunting Grounds where they might dwell for all time with spirits of Moose and Squirrel.

Danny Beaucoup, 26, approached this reporter and offered a limp handshake. The fancy lad said,

“Hi, my name is Danny Beaucoup; how do you do?”

“What can you tell me about this conflagration?” I asked, wiping my hand on the tuxedo shirt.

“Oh, it’s like this every Friday.”

“What are you talking about? There was a riot here. Indians just massacred a party of Nazis.”

“Oh, that... I thought you meant Roman Toga Night.”

“No, damn you! I’m talking about the riot -- the riot that’s been raging across Sanatoga all night.”

“Hmm... Those cuties in the leopard print togas were kinda rough. I don’t know if I’d call it a riot, though. Maybe a laugh riot!”

“Damnit, I’m serious. Now give me a straight answer, you fruitcake. There are important social issues with which the community must grapple.”

I watched in bewilderment as a Nazi in a caveman costume, still wearing his SS helmet, peeked around the doorjamb of the nightclub entrance and muttered, in a thick German accent, “Very...interesting.”

Then huge pieces of the wall rotated outward, revealing that the building itself was made of cardboard, and then minor celebrities such as Jim J. Bullock and Bruce Vilanch appeared, making extremely odd and inappropriate quips which I unfortunately could not hear over the Indian chanting and the explosions that rocked the city. I am told they were quite disturbing, however.

I felt like I was losing my mind, when I realized Danny Beaucoup was still talking.

He said, “Well, I did get a rock thrown at me earlier. You see, one of those Indians saw my ‘Pride Not Prejudice’ tattoo and mistook me for a Nazi. I said, ‘Jesus! Please! Can’t you see the rainbow flag? It’s a rainbow flag, not a frigging Confederate flag!’ Those Indians are savages!”

Then I heard a voice yell in halted English, “I heard that, stupid white man!”

Suddenly another fight broke out, this time between the gays and the Indians. Ironically, one of the gays was dressed like an Indian. If I were him, I would have played it smart and blended in. The gays had superior numbers, but the Indians are a warrior people with fierce fighting spirits who will show their enemy no quarter.

As the Indians charged, a spunky short-haired blonde transvestite shouted, “Sock it to me, baby!” Then the gays, Indians and Nazi cavemen all broke into a song and dance routine reminiscent of MGM musicals.

And so it was that the constant bloodshed and sycophantic protestations of the rioting mob came to a close and I staggered across the street to Side Pocket Billiards.

It was Friday night and I knew the place would be packed. Even when all hell breaks loose and the streets are on fire, some things never change in this town. My town. Sanatoga.

“An Evening with Sidney Sheldon”

 by John Gotheborg 

I had a fascinating conversation last night with my good friend Sidney Sheldon, author of such famous novels as Rage of Angels and The Sky is Falling, whose work has been systematically plagiarized by that Jew hack who reaps constant rewards from his ill-gotten manuscripts, by way of microwave brain scans performed by the NWO. The worst is, Sidney Sheldon's true genius may never be recognized because they stole his worst books! He's a fascinating man, who has written extensively on the International Jewish Conspiracy. We talked into the wee hours of morning.

Well, it was when we began discussing the vast gay conspiracy that I got all worked up, really hot and bothered. I'd only had two glasses of wine, but mind you they were 32 ounce glasses. I stood up and informed Sidney, "I'm just going to go slip into something more comfortable."

When I returned several minutes later in a kimono, Sidney became very uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, and looked at me with a queer expression. I shouted at him, "What in the hell is the matter with you? Can't a man wear a kimono???"

Now, I realize that was a poor choice of words on my part, but it was all just a simple misunderstanding. I had no idea how ignorant my friend was of both the Korean culture and scripture, but I'll get to that in a minute.

He said, "I never, never, thought you could be one of them!"

"What are you trying to insinuate?? I've got nothing to do with those people!" I shouted. Sidney is a sharp man with handsome features, not the kind of man you would expect to make such idiotic and clearly irrational statements. "Why would I be stealing your manuscripts??? I'm a writer with a personal telegraph cable to the Lord!"

"That's not them I mean at all," he shouted back.

“Well now you’re just confusing yourself, you damn fool!”

Then he quoted scripture at me, a Youth Minister! You don't recite actuary tables to your accountant, do you??? My personal faith beliefs are my business. Sidney rattled off a quote I know more intimately than you poor fools could imagine. He said, "The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do so are an abomination unto the Lord thy God!"

"Deuteronomy 22:5!" I spit back at him angrily. "Don't condescend to tell me the words of the Lord! I know them better than anyone!"

Well, I leapt from my chair with such fury that the kimono accidentally came undone and I had to fumble with it like a damn fool to cover my exposed privates, cursing to myself all the while.

Sidney spit out his wine and I became angrier still. I was so upset, really flustered.

That wine would have ruined the chaise lounge if not for the various cleaning products I keep stocked below my kitchen sink and Suu Ni's skill at using them. God how I love that woman. I shouted for her to get out of bed and come downstairs immediately in Korean. Well, that just confused my poor friend even more. He must have thought I was speaking in tongues, as I am often known to do when I feel the wrath of God boil up inside me.

Sidney shrank back in the lovely white cushions of the chaise lounge, quivered with fear mind you, as I plopped back down in my chair and poured another glass of wine. I sat there fuming long after Suu Ni arrived, berating me in such a frenzy that I could barely understand her feisty Korean tongue. She calmed slightly as I apologized for waking her in Korean, careful not to let on to Sidney, and she then exited briefly to obtain the cleaning products.

Sidney motioned to stand, wisely reconsidering as I grabbed for the wine bottle and growled at him. Then Suu Ni returned with the cleaning products and got down on all fours in front of the chaise lounge. She looks today every bit like that beautiful 14-year old girl I'd met in the rice paddies outside Seoul. How she soothes me. I clutched the pillow in my lap as she lathered the rag with white fluid. It was only after several minutes of silence had passed, the entirety of which I spent observing my lovely Suu Ni as she crouched on the floor with her behind in the air and scrubbed the chaise lounge in smooth concentric circles. Suu Ni lovingly and dutifully, as every woman should, kissed me softly on the cheek and patted my head as she exited.

Every great man has a woman behind me, and I am no different from those great men of the past. Sure, I have my moments, but it is a rare man who does not treasure the greatest gift ever given him: spiritual provenance.

The mood had calmed considerably by the time Sidney ventured to bring up that infuriating topic again. "You understand, the Lord just told me to speak my mind. He said, men shall not put on a woman's garment, and the kimono is a woman's garment...I, I apologize if you misunderstood. I didn't mean, uh, I mean, to insinuate anything."

"Look, Sidney," I said, adjusting the pillow and leaning forward, "You're very knowledgeable in the areas of gay conspiracy theory and microwave surveillance, but you are sitting here face-to-face with an expert on scripture, second only perhaps to Mel Gibson, although I must admit The Passion doesn’t hold up under the seventh viewing. First of all, you need to understand that in ancient times, particularly in the desert, both women and men wore long, flowing robes, the only substantive difference being that woman were prettier than men. Let me explain this to you as clearly and concisely as I can..."

I then proceeded to explain the historical and cultural context of Deuteronomy, digressing for about twenty minutes to explain why it is so important to understand the symbolic meaning of the Harlem Globetrotter's mockery of the Washington Generals and how that relates to Adolf Hitler.

"Woah. That is a mind-blowing," he said. "You mean the Washington Generals weren't a real team???"

"Of course they weren't real!! It was all an illusion, masterminded by those masters of trickery the Illuminati! It's so clear even an idiot could see it. What rational white man could be so foolish as to think a bowl of spaghetti is really a basketball!?? Anyway, where was I?"

The point here is very simple, but sometimes even fellow Christians can't comprehend it, so it is vital that you speak very slowly and repeat yourself several times. It took approximately [INSERT MORE HERE]

"Well," Sidney said, scratching his head. "This may be over my head, but I, I think I can see

Sidney turned at the door and asked, "Oh, what did you think of my latest manuscript?"

"Genius. Pure genius. A real page-turner," I said.

"Do you think your publisher will accept it?"

"Of course they will! Jesus Loves Books is as independent publisher. They don't kowtow to the gays and the Jews."

"I sure hope not..."

"Now you're just being paranoid. The Gays Killed Christ will be published, I'm sure of it. But it'll be a tough row to hoe. As you well know, there is a near-total media blackout on my novel, and it's not even controversial!"

"Well," Sidney said with a sigh that betrayed his truly troubled feelings, "I'm come to accept that we live in a sick society. The end times are coming soon, I'm telling ya."

And with that, my friend left. Thank God I had the foresight to place that pillow on my lip, because it sure would have been embarrassing if Sidney had seen my massive erection. To be honest, I could have stood and walked him to the door, but in my nervousness over the situation I mistook the Bible pressed against my thigh for the erection, which had probably subsided within ten minutes of Suu Ni's exit.

“The Incense Brassiere of Pusan”
 by John Gotheborg

 After waving goodbye to Kevin, who stood watching me from the bay window, I put my foot on the gas and didn’t let up until 30 minutes later when I hit the curb in front of the departing passengers’ entrance. It was a real headache getting to the airport with that garage door dragging behind me, but damnit I had no time.

Luckily the security lackey gave me no problems--probably because he could see the youth ministry insignia clearly displayed on the side of my vehicle. I just ran right past him towards the ticket counter.

Then it hit me--I can’t just leave that behind. It was too much trouble getting that insignia made. You’d be amazed how many prying questions sign makers ask. I think they must be government informants, like those damn bank tellers and postal workers. I’d had to give the sign maker a fake name, and repaint it myself in red.

Well, I rushed back to the entrance only to find that there were some half-dozen police officers traipsing around my vehicle with their flashlights out. It was the middle of the afternoon. You don’t need flashlights in broad daylight! I don’t know what those devices were, but they were clearly not flashlights; more likely some bizarre government-issued weaponry. The situation had clearly escalated. I had to think on my feet--where I do my best thinking, I might add.

I turned my back to them and nuzzled up close to a large potted plant. I think it was supposed to look like a palm tree, but it was made of plastic. Anyway, I got tangled up in it a little as I attempted to conceal myself. I must have looked like a fool. Damn those potted plants.

Well, I removed my jacket and put it back on inside-out. Instantly I was transformed from the corduroy coat wearing John Gotheborg, to a new and mysterious figure in a coat made of white rabbit fur with a brown corduroy collar. Glancing at the mirror, I determined the change in appearance was quite striking; but I decided to quickly make a bandana out of some palm leaves to be safe.

I was just in time, too. One of the “police officers” was just about to pry off my youth ministry insignia as I exited the airport. He was struggling to read my name. “Johan... Goat...head?” It’s a shame even government employees are illiterate in this backwards country.

“Don’t touch that sign,” I shouted.

I yelled so loud, the man shook. He was speechless at the sight of me.

“Military Intelligence,” I said. “Undercover on the South American Narco Trafficking beat, but I couldn’t help notice you fellas are after this Johan Goathead character. Well, trust me; you don’t want to run into the likes of him. Every agency of the U.S. government has their eyes on him. He’s a lunatic -- a deranged Vietnam veteran with a hair trigger.” I continued my practiced official-sounding speech as I placed rubber gloves on my hands and pretended to examine the sign.

“What’s with the gloves?”

“The man’s a chronic masturbator,” I barked as I placed the sign in my carry-on. “Besides -- damnit -- this sign is evidence! I’m taking this with me. I can’t have you amateurs screwing it up.”

#

As the tiny cargo plane taxied onto the runway, I glanced out the window and laughed with amusement as I saw those fools run out to try and stop me; but they were too late. I suppose they’d never before run into one as cunning as the likes of me. I’m sure my travel arrangements stupefied them, as it must stupefy the skeptics reading this now. Well, that’s how skeptics are; they can’t think creatively. It would never occur to them that it’s much cheaper and less suspicious to register oneself as cargo on a Korean Express Cargo Airlines flight to Seoul and then take a cab to Pusan.

No, those poor fools will never catch me, because I always think outside the box. My mind is like one of those children’s toys with the steel eyes you have to get inside the holes in the picture -- I’ll have to get one of those made for my fans when this is published on the Best Seller List -- only the toy is inside a labyrinth, you see; and that labyrinth is inside a... Well, you know what I’m trying to say.

I felt the familiar lurch as the plane left solid ground, and it seemed like mere moments before I was drawing red lines over my map of the Pacific. Seeing this was a cargo plane, I had to rely on instinct; because the pilot did not call out landmarks as we flew over them, you see, and I wasn’t about to look out the window again now that I was airborne.

Many of you, I’m sure, recall the famous Twilight Zone horror drama starring William Shatner, in which a terrified man saw a creature on the wing of the plane. You probably thought it was amusing. Well, I can assure you, it is not funny when you really see a creature on the wing of your plane. If there is something out there, I don’t want to know about it.

I chewed my lower lip and thought carefully for a moment before deciding if I had yet passed over the various UFO crash sites, but I estimate I was somewhere north of the Phoenix Islands, south of Hawaii when I drew my final red “X” and got some shuteye.

Well, either we hit some serious turbulence or they don’t keep that freight tied down properly, because I had two big shiners and a fat lip when I awoke buried in crates several hours later. There was a goose flapping its wings like mad, and I had feathers all over my hair. Apparently, I didn’t get them all out, because there was an embarrassing incident later.

#

Everything went quite well since I left the U.S. It always does, I thought to myself as I recalled the last time I’d disembarked in Seoul; back in 1975, two years after Nam, when I finally got burned out from my job at the box factory and kept having those awful nightmares. I thank God that job didn’t really drive me crazy. I was in the Quality Assurance Department, you see. Just imagine folding boxes all day, only to unfold them again and rate the quality of the experience on a complicated system of inane company standards. I couldn’t stand to be cooped up in there much longer.

As I climbed out from that pile of crates and packing foam, it felt like I was once again freeing myself from the boxes of that stale factory. The air is so fresh in Asia -- all over the Near and Far East -- but particularly in Korea. Korea is just like Montana except wetter, much hotter, and more jungle-like. I felt how that goose must have felt as it flew from the cargo bay -- I was in a place where I can feel peace and be well.

Luckily, none of the spooks seemed to realize yet that I had arrived in-country. I was able to obtain a personal cab and guide with little hassle. They came running towards me, wailing in Korean, the moment I stepped out of the airport. Korea is a truly magnificent country. I have always been treated like a king by the noble Koreans. They are a pure freedom-loving people, many times superior to us Americans.

One particularly lively Korean who ran like a little yellow monkey caught my eye. I waved him over and said in Korean, “HEY BOY, I AM WAVING AT YOU.” (Whatever Korean follows will be denoted as such by the use of UPPER-CASE LETTERS. I don’t expect many readers have attained mastery of the language such as I.)

The boy suspiciously sauntered over, eying me up and down. It suddenly dawned on me -- he must be questioning my unusual appearance. I dropped the carry-on and struggled with my inside-out jacket, the palm leaf bandana and several goose feathers falling from my head. “I WILL TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF,” I said to reassure him. “SOON MY CLOTHES WILL BE OFF AND YOU WILL WANT ME IN YOUR CAB.”

His eyes popped wide open and he waved his arms frenetically in front of himself, shaking his hands and head. He stuttered so much, I couldn’t understand one damn word he was saying. The only words I could make out were, “NO, NO, NO, NO!”

“Do you speak English?”

“NO, YOU DRESS LIKE A LADY.”

“OH! IT IS THE DISGUISE! DO NOT WORRY.” I righted the coat and put it on, then smiled broadly as I lifted the youth ministry insignia from my carry-on and said, “SEE? THIS SAY MAN OF GOD.”

“YOU ARE NOT A TRANSVESTITE?”

“YES. I AM IN DISGUISE. I AM HERE ON SECRET.” I nodded and smiled more, giving the boy a universal “thumbs up” to reassure him.

After some confusion over the boy’s name -- some of those Korean names are damn near unpronounceable -- I finally decided to just call him “Frog Face.” I know, that’s not very descriptive, but they all look the same to me. I don’t mean anything racist by that -- I’m no racialist -- I just don’t differentiate between male faces. It was a beautiful Korean woman’s face I was looking for, and I would let nothing stand in my way until I found her sweet, lovely lips pressed against my own once again.

#

The road from Seoul to Pusan was relatively smooth. I did have to get out and push a few times, but you can’t blame the driver for that. Foreign cars just aren’t very reliable. This cab was no Ford Pinto; they’d even put the steering wheel in on the wrong side. Well, maybe I should have let Frog Face drive. I just didn’t think it was safe, because he was so short that he could barely see without sitting on a booster seat, and I didn’t think those tin cans tied to his feet were safe.

Where it really got hairy was when we hit the packed streets of Pusan’s market district. My guide insisted that we get out and walk. He’d been wailing in terror most of the way there, so I humored him as best I could.

I spat at him, “IT IS NOT MY FAULT -- IT IS ALL THESE PEOPLE BLOCKING THE ROAD!”

Finally, I could bear no more and had to stop the car before I really did run someone over. Frog Face looked on in bewilderment as I dug through my bag for the youth ministry insignia.

“I PUT THIS ON THE SIDE OF CAR,” I said.

“I CAN’T READ THIS. WHAT DOES IT SAY?”

“Hmm... Frog Face has a good point there.” I knew they would recognize the cross and the picture of Jesus, but even that idiot on my trail back in the States couldn’t read the gothic script of the text. I called out to my guide, “BE RIGHT BACK. STAY HERE.”

I quickly perused the nearby stalls. Most westerners would be lost in this chaotic situation, but I felt right at home. The sweet perfume of Korean delicacies and incense compelled me through the market on a cloud of pure delight. I marveled at the live fish in huge plastic tubs, the exotic animal products, and bright paper ornaments.

As I passed each shop, I showed people the bleached color Polaroid photograph of Suu Ni that I’ve carried in my wallet since 1975. She was such a beautiful girl. The photo depicts her in a rice paddy, splashing water and smiling. Unfortunately, no one recognized her; but I didn’t expect this would be easy. One seedy looking man got the wrong idea entirely.

“YOU ARE LOOKING FOR A YOUNG GIRL?”

“SHE NOT YOUNG NOW. JUST YOUNG IN PICTURE!”

“I CAN GET YOU A YOUNG GIRL FOR TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS.”

“NOT YOUNG GIRL -- JUST YOUNG IN PICTURE. IN PICTURE!”

Then I looked over the man’s shoulder and saw exactly what I was looking for. Among the goods an old shopkeeper had stacked on the shelves of his stall was a jar of thick white liquid with a picture of a happy tiger on it. To this day I do not know the Korean word for “condensed milk,” but I presume the term must be universal because the old man smiled and nodded immediately after I said it.

“YES. LUCKY TIGER MAKE YOU STRONG,” he said.

I obtained a jar of the LUCKY TIGER condensed milk, a lump of charcoal the old man kindly offered free of charge, and a paintbrush. Within moments I was back with my guide.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT TIGER SEMEN AND COW SHIT?” he shouted.

“WATCH YOUR TONGUE,” I screamed at him. The uninformed often mock my use of improvised materials, but you’d better believe condensed milk is an excellent substitute for liquid paper. I wish I had a jar of that fine Korean product now, because it was especially effective. I later obtained some powdered milk that worked as extremely effective glue, I might add, but I won’t get into that. There are all kinds of useful methods I’ve learned in my survivalist training and adventures.

I scrutinized my handiwork for a moment. The condensed milk wasn’t drying as quickly as I’d hoped; it was dripping down the side of the cab, and I had to wipe some off with my coat lest the rest of my sign be whited-out.

Then I crushed the charcoal with my bare hands, mixed it with more of the condensed milk, and deftly painted a Korean phrase where my name had been moments before: PATRIOT OF THE TRUE GOD.

“NOW NO DEVIL WILL STAND IN OUR WAY!”

It is amazing how skilled I am in the Asian arts of calligraphy. My own natural handwriting looks so similar to Korean characters, I sometimes wonder if I was born in the wrong country.

I howled as the pedestrians turned away in fear at the site of my holy insignia. Some were so terrified they covered their faces with cloth and screamed as the vehicle drew near. The crowded street emptied before my very eyes, as if it were the Red Sea and I had parted it like Moses. One food stand proprietor even shooed customers away and drew down the tarp over his stall.

By the time we finished canvassing the market, it was as though the crowds knew we were coming. Word passes fast in Pusan. It was with great shock, however, that I realized word had stretched as far as the Secret Police. They ambushed us just as we were leaving to canvas downtown.

#

Well, that’s how I found myself once again locked in a tiny concrete room. This cell was different, though. It was damp, and completely silent apart from the sound of dripping water. I wondered if other Americans might be kept here. I’d heard tell of POW camps still in operation, and I was a Vietnam veteran. It may seem silly to think they are still capturing soldiers today, but the fear was very real back in 1984.

After several hours of that maddening rhythm, my persecutor finally appeared. He was a Korean, but very tall and oddly reminiscent of an American military officer. A guard walking several paces behind him rushed forward to swing open the gate of my cell and stood at attention as the man entered.

I felt paralyzed with fear as everything seemed to go into slow motion and the drops of water reverberated into loud crashing cymbals. I didn’t recognize this man, but I clearly recalled the image of an American military officer holding a manila envelope in one hand as he waltzed into my cell 14 years ago. My vision blurred as he leaned forward and said, “YOU ARE HERE FOR MEDICAL PSYCHIATRIC EXPERIMENTS. WE CANNOT ALLOW YOU TO LIVE.”

I cried like a woman in agony and scrambled for the water puddle in the back of the cell -- desperately hoping it might lead to a cave through which I might escape these evil, hideous, insane bastards.

“YOU’RE TORTURING ME,” I cried. “I DEMAND TO KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING!”

The man merely smirked and knelt to one knee, as though I were a child.

“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH? PLEASE TALK TO ME IN ENGLISH, YOU SICK BASTARD!”

“I am speaking English now, Mister Gotheborg. I have been speaking English since you first arrived. Now, I need you to pay close attention because I have a lot of questions to ask, and I do not have a lot of time.”

“What heinous drugs have you injected me with?!”

“Please, Mister Gotheborg. I assure you we have injected you with no truth serum, no hallucinogenic drugs, and most assuredly no puffer fish venom. Just drop this charade and you will be released shortly.” It seemed from his eyes that he was honest, but I’ve been through this before. I tried to pull myself together, to act as though everything were normal. “Now, are you CIA?”

“No, but I can see why you might think that. People make that mistake all the time, but I’m not with that pack of amateurs. They’re all conspiracy theorists, you know. It often amuses me how far off the mark they really are.”

“It says in your file here, ’12 OCTOBER, 1975. SUBJECT STATED IS MEMBER OF CIA. CONTINUED QUESTIONING REVEALS PLOT TO POISON KOREAN WATER.’” My interrogator raised an inquisitive eyebrow and sat silent for some five minutes.

“Well,” I said, “That can easily be explained. You see, I was merely pretending to be CIA for purposes of getting the police officers to believe me.”

“’9 OCTOBER, 1975. SUBJECT STATED RECEIVED NOTE WITH SEOUL TELEPHONE NUMBER AND OFFER OF WORK. WORK WAS WITH CIA.”

“That’s all a misunderstanding...”

“Please. I know you feel you have a professional obligation to keep quiet, but your guide has already told us everything. You came into Seoul on a cargo flight under an assumed identity, and stated directly that you are here in disguise, on a secret mission.”

“Look, look... I know how this looks. I only worked for them once. I didn’t even realize it was really the CIA until much later, when I noticed the surveillance. I thought it was a legitimate job at first...”

“ARE YOU CIA!” the interrogator roared in Korean as he brought his fist down on the floor in front of me, cracking the cement into dozens of ominous spider webs that reached out for my feet. It was only seconds later that I realized he’d held a revolver in his hand this whole time.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk, all right! I’m here looking for Suu Ni... The Korean girl. The Korean girl I met in 1975. It should all be in your files. I’m not really CIA. I only worked for them six weeks before they turned on me like they did fucking Lee Harvey Oswald. I’m not here for the CIA. I’m here for Suu Ni... Please, I love her!”

The man cocked his head and looked at me for several minutes as I sat there sobbing. I don’t know what happened in that Korean heart of his, but I think my words must have touched him on an emotional level. He looked into the folder again and held a photograph in front of my eyes. It was a beautiful black-and-white shot of Suu Ni and me embracing in front of Bogeun Temple in Seoul. God what a touching scene that was; Suu Ni only 14 and I in my 20s, younger than Kevin is now, though not by much.

I was transported back to my time with her in 1975 as I recalled endless afternoons in the Building of Scriptures, and nights enjoying Korean spicy hot pots and kimchi with my lovely Suu Ni. She was so full of life and innocence, and I longed more than anything to be with her again; all the more ten years later, knowing that she was of age and our love was no longer forbidden.

I was snapped from my reverie by the voice of the interrogator. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Suu Ni is someone who can take care of you, and she lives in Pusan?”

“Yes. She’s going to be my wife. She can take care of me better than any woman in this world.”

The man patted me on my shoulder and frowned, nodding compassionately.

#

Several hours later, I was again face-to-face with my lovely Suu Ni. She was much older, but had aged well. Barely aged at all, I should say. She was still every bit the sprightly nymph I’d met that day in the rice paddies outside Seoul. The only thing missing was that look of pure affection she’d always given me, which I prayed would return when she realized who I am.

“Suu Ni?”

“YOU CRAZY AMERICAN, I HAVE NO TIME FOR THIS. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

“IT’S ME. IT’S JOHN GOTHEBORG. PLEASE SAY YOU REMEMBER.” I reached through the bars, placing my hands on her tiny round shoulders, and squeezed the soft flesh just covering her perfect bones. As I rubbed her body, I could faintly smell the incense of Bogeun Temple in her clothing, and I knew with absolute certainty that I had once again found the greatest treasure of all Asia. If I could be with her, perhaps my life of adventure might end at last in pure bliss.

“JOHN...GOTHEBORG?”

“GUARD! GUARD, PLEASE!”

I felt like I was losing her all over again, and the guards would not come. If only I could show her the photograph. Then I remembered, and blindly, frantically dug through my wallet -- family photographs, bowling league membership card, discount program cards for many delicious homestyle cafeterias -- all ruined as I tossed them to the floor of the cell in my desperate search for Suu Ni’s picture. Then, at last, I found it. It is a bleached Polaroid, 14-years old at that time and worn from constant carrying, but it was my only hope. If Suu Ni didn’t remember me, I might have been trapped in that damp tomb forever.

“TRUE PATRIOT OF GOD?”

“Yes! Yes, Suu Ni! I HAVE COME BACK FOR YOU!” She flinched as I pulled her chest into the bars and embraced her, but gradually her lithe arm slipped through the bars to rest atop my shoulder and her fingers clutched my neck. Tears fell from her cheeks, reminding me that I have been so selfish, that she must have been even lonelier than me for all these years.

“I SO WANTED TO WAIT FOR YOU,” she said, “BUT MY FAMILY FORCED ME TO MARRY. THEY MADE ME STOP WRITING TO YOU -- AND THEN IT SEEMED TOO LATE.”

“NO! PLEASE DON’T SAY THAT’S TRUE!”

“IT IS TRUE, JOHN. HE’S GONE -- KILLED BY WILD ANIMALS ON KUM-JUNG MOUNTAIN -- BUT I HAVE A 12-YEAR OLD DAUGHTER NOW. HOW CAN YOU ACCEPT ME?”

It took a moment for that to set in. I had always envisioned Suu Ni as a perfect, untarnished virgin; and now she was a mother and widow. My love for her was so strong at that moment, though; as strong as it’s been since the day we first met, and almost as strong as it is now after 14 years of marriage.

“WHAT IS YOUR DAUGHTER’S NAME?”

“PARK CHOY,” she meekly responded.

“SUU NI,” I said, “I SWEAR THAT I WILL LOVE PARK CHOY EVERY BIT AS MUCH AS I LOVE YOU, WHICH IS TO SAY -- MORE DEARLY THAN ANYTHING ON THIS EARTH. PLEASE, BAIL ME OUT OF THIS DUMP AND COME BACK TO AMERICA WITH ME.”

"Blue Ford Pickup"

 by John Gotheborg

Imagine you are driving to the home of some friends.

A sign half-blocks the road up ahead. It reads:

NO THRU TRAFFIC

You’re not sure if the construction is blocking the road to your friends' house, but you decide to go around the sign.

Seeing this, a man in a beat-up, blue Ford pickup bolts to attention.  He revs the engine and charges the Bronco towards you, screaming unintelligibly and waving his arms like mad.  You slam on the brakes and pull your car to the side of the road before he can ram into it.  The man then climbs over to the passenger seat, rolls down the window, and leans his head out.

"There's no thru traffic," he spits at you.

"Well, I'm just going to see my friends... They live on this street."

"I said there's no thru traffic! What are you, an idiot!?"

It's pretty clear that this man can't be reasoned with, so you get the hell out of there, as politely as possible.  Driving farther towards the house, you see the blue pickup. You can't tell if it's following you or just lurking down the road.

At your friends' house, the main topic of conversation is the man in the blue Ford pickup.

"He came out of nowhere," you tell your friends. "He screamed at me like a maniac. Then he called me an idiot for no reason...."

"I can hear you," says a voice outside the window.

"Oh my God," you say.  "He's listening to us."

"What should we do?"

From outside the window comes an ominous threat:  "I'm going to killfile you!"

You duck behind the arm of the chair, putting your hands on it for security. It's really strange that this man is still trying to talk to you.  He must be crazy.  What if he's really dangerous?

"Uh! We were just talking about somebody else," you call out.

There is no response.

The evening seems to be ruined.  No matter how hard you try, all you and your friends can talk about is this strange man.  He seems to have disappeared, yet his presence still affects the group.

Several hours later, everyone turns in.  Most of the people in the group seem to live there, but you have to make the long drive home.  You wonder if the strange man will appear, but he seems to be gone for good.

At the traffic light before the highway, you notice the tank is a little low.  You're going to have to stop for gas.

You pull up to the last pump and notice a sign:

MUST PAY FIRST AFTER DARK

It is quite dark out.

For a moment, you think that maybe the man in the blue Ford pickup will appear and make some incoherent comment about the sign.

He does not appear.

You walk into the store and search through the useless junk you always carry, and then you find your credit card.

"20 on pump six."

The clerk, a 19-year old woman with a dark tan, seems to study the card for an unusually long time.  Eventually, she looks up at you and yells, "You're a fucking moron!"

#

AFTERWORD

[I had rewritten "Blue Ford Pickup" in first person and pasted it here, with the following text below it.]

Quite a startling event, that was. It troubled me for some time. Only days later did I find out who the man was, and why that young woman yelled at me. An acquaintance who was at that same party, a clinical psychiatrist who wishes to remain anonymous, informed me that the man was the ex-husband of his wife, who also would very much like to remain anonymous.

It seems the man, John Gotheborg, had been stalking the poor woman for years. She tried a restraining order several times, but the man made such a scene that she felt it wasn’t worth the embarrassment. It seems Mr. Gotheborg is quite popular on conspiracy radio such as The Jeff Rense Program and The Art Bell Show. He also hosted a weekly Christian Radio show called God’s True Patriot Hour, and had written numerous books which he sold out of the trunk of his car. A major theme in all his work has been the “fact” that his ex-wife is a Bride of Satan and Devourer of Male Life. More ominous still, the man often slandered me, due to my passing acquaintance with his ex-wife. He called me a “sick pig-fucker moron” and hosted a picture on his website of me with devil horns and a forked tongue.

I also learned that the darkly-tanned girl at the gas station was a student in the man’s youth ministry. It seems Gotheborg has chapters all over Minnesota, and perhaps even still in Montana and San Francisco, where he’d lived with his ex-wife.

Other details came only years later, as I listened to his ranting on the radio, read his deranged Usenet rants, and browsed the miraculous photographs on his website.

My friend told me about Gotheborg’s son Kevin, a brilliant and strange boy with a near-fetishistic respect for the G.I. Joe figure Snake Eyes. It seems years of emotional abuse at the hands of his biological father had permanently skewed Kevin’s perception of reality. Nonetheless, my friend loved his adopted son as his own. During the Gulf War, my friend was heartbroken as Kevin joined the Army to please his father.

Then, in 2003, I purchased the first John Gotheborg novel ever to appear in paperback on store shelves: The Adventures of Young Jesus. I hadn’t talked to my friend the psychiatrist in years, but I called him up on a lark.

Imagine my surprise when he told me that John Gotheborg is now a regular patient of his. It seems the man’s ex-wife had recommended her new husband to him. My friend could tell me little else, due to doctor-patient confidentiality regulations; but he did say that he had long considered using Gotheborg as a case study in paranoid schizophrenia.

“The man is a rare and beautiful find,” he said. “I have never met a more articulate, brilliant, fascinating psychopath.”

“Isn’t that breaking confidentiality?” I chided.

“No, not at all. That’s just common knowledge. Anyway, I’m afraid I’ve missed my shot at the book. John’s decided to write his own autobiography, and it’s been optioned by a major publisher.”

“Jesus Loves Books?” I sarcastically asked.

“No, a much bigger one. He’s asked me not to tell anyone, but he wants you to write the foreword. Believe it or not, he’s a huge fan of your writing.”

“Wow... I’m honored, I guess.”

“You should be. This autobiographical novel will be of inestimable value to the field of psychiatry for decades to come!”

“John?”

“Well I'll be Jim Dandy”

 by John Gotheborg

To: alt.conspiracy, sci.skeptic, alt.fan.art-bell

What happened last night was terribly ominous and deeply disturbing. It was a real kick in the head, and believe me I've had several. In other words, it beggars belief. We'll get to that later, though; right now the important thing is for you damn skeptics to understand that I AM NOT A RACIST. That incident, which led to my arrest and confinement in that torture chamber...Gitmo? No, worse. Bellevue! AGAINST MY WILL, and there is a big difference, mind you, as I know from seven years of marriage to the Lesbian She-Devil of San Francisco....Where was I? Oh yes. You ask me, I'd sooner walk back into that torture chamber of a marriage than EVER return to Bellevue.

I was speaking to a crowd of young people in the park, having plied them with cigarettes in exchange for their ears. I was just about to give them God's healing word, when one of the girls lashed, or should I say, spat at me, "You're staring at my tits!"

"I will not stare at your breasts, you harlot! Your tricks won't fool me!" She had worn a T-shirt with indecent words printed on it, you see, and so I, being a near-sighted and inquisitive old man, had leaned forward to read the offensive letters. The girl was young all right, and ripe, not two years older than my lovely daughter Cecilia. Young girls are heavenly creatures--and I mean that literally--but many are the angels who belie a wicked temptress. Did I mention the SHE-DEVIL OF SAN FRANCISCO?

That foul harpy stalked me through A GRAMMAR SCHOOL (I was a freshman college student tutoring part-time at the local junior high) only to LURE ME FROM MY HOME. TRAPPED IN THE LAND OF THE DEAD. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Young girls. Young girls are beautiful and innocent, but this "young girl" before me now was a banshee. She smacked me in the face and I grabbed at her arms. Then one of the boys blindsided me with a skateboard. I fell to the ground and covered my head.

Thank God I have the personal mandate of Jesus Christ.

The Devils spared me after taking my wallet and I wandered the park in a black-and-blue haze for several hours before finally I found a policeman. Now, this is where I (supposedly) did something very racist, very racist, I know it may sound, but believe me that this was an honest misunderstanding. You see, it is VERY COLD in New York in Winter. I hadn't dressed for a night outdoors and so had dug through some garbage cans as I wandered the park. It was pure coincidence that I found the top hat, coat tails, and white gloves. The battering of my face, swelling and reddening of my lips, blacking of my eyes, and the shoe polish brown of my face after those foul miscreants had rubbed it into the dirt, well it came together to render me the quintessential Jim Dandy.

Of course, there are no mirrors in Central Park, mind you. I had NO WAY OF KNOWING.

Imagine my dismay as I explained to the officer what had happened and that NO ONE BELIEVED ME. "This park is full of Satanists," I shouted. "The worst kind--they have NO VALUES. At least the Satanists in Congress and San Francisco BELIEVE IN SOMETHING!"

Then I demanded, "Hey listen to me. I'M ONE OF YOU PEOPLE!" The officer, unfortunately, was a negro. Oh dangit all to Hell. That came out all wrong.

I believe the officer was quite fortunate, very fortunate indeed, to have been born black and beautiful. I love people of ALL COLORS. It is only those with BLACK HEARTS whom I despise. Like the Jews, for example. Anyway, you can understand how it was an unfortunate SITUATION for this man to see me there, given the way I was (UNINTENTIONALLY) dressed. How was he to know I had MEANT that I am a former officer of the Military Police? I am a decorated veteran of the United States Marine Corp!

"You've got to help me find some kids," I shouted, louder this time, because apparently the poor man couldn't hear me; he just stared at it me with his eyes bugged wide and jaw dropped. "I have to take my pills every three hours and I can't get them down! I gave them cigarettes, but they TOOK MY HOLY WATER. I ONLY WANTED THEIR EARS! Can you hear me???"

I cupped my hands and shouted in the officer's ears. How was I supposed TO KNOW he could HEAR? I thought the poor man was deaf, but try telling that to the New York Police Department! That police report was highly inaccurate and FULL OF LIES, I might add. Can you believe the officer wrote that I had...well I'll just quote from the gawldang police report:

Subject approached the arresting officer after nightfall, UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS, ranting and raving about TAKING EARS. He was intoxicated and dressed in an offensive minstrel show costume, i.e. blackface. His face was beaten, probably due to grabbing at people's EARS and attempting to bite them off. I barely got my nightstick out in time, and believe me when I tell you that I feared for my life as I attempted to subdue him, but the perpetrator would just not stay down. Upon bringing the assailant in for administrative detention it was determined that he must be sent to Bellevue for psychiatric review.

And there I found myself, once again under "psychiatric review," i.e. euphemism for legalized torture. If you ask me, that police officer is mentally ill. That police report was incoherent and exaggerated!

Anyway, to make a long story short, the good psychiatric professionals, trained no doubt by Nazi war criminals, once again put God's True Patriot through a battery of torture devices and brain control machines. They even tried to poison me with pills--which they claimed were my prescription medication--but I outsmarted them and hid the pills in a rusted radiator pipe.

It was three days into my incarceration that I began to receive messages from my alien passenger Elvis "Presley" Dweebo, a Gray-Human hybrid from the Planet Zardoz. We spoke for hours about philosophy, popular television, and literature. Mr. Dweebo was an educated man, although he admitted to having not yet read the work of either myself or my good friend Sidney Sheldon. "It's the Illuminati to blame," he said. "Your books should be on every store shelf and your good friend Sidney Sheldon deserves his rightful place in history! That NWO impostor has been stealing his books for TOO LONG. FAR TOO LONG!"

FAR TOO LONG:

http://165.29.91.7/compsci/eppersoh/unit99/DWEEB1.htm

I CHANTED with him, "FAR TOO LONG!" It was then that I was placed in the five-point restraints and sedated. What happened next, I cannot recall.

I know only that I found myself once again at home in the arms of my lovely Suu-Ni. She stroked my forehead with a wet washcloth and cooed kind Korean words.

"I was right," I whispered weakly. "They did take the Fonz to Orc. It wasn't a dream....Henry Winkler is an impostor."

Suu-Ni didn't understand. I don't mean she speaks no English, you damn fool! In fact, I should mention that I spoke those words to her IN KOREAN. I mean that she didn't understand what I was REALLY TRYING TO SAY. She just nodded her head and smiled. How is it that I speak fluent Korean and yet find it so hard to express myself when speaking to that woman?

But I love her and I'm glad to be home.

If only....If only I hadn't witnessed that ominous and truly DISTURBING thing not 24 hours ago, not two days after my release from the torture chamber.

I was just sitting down to log my new evidence of the ZOG-NWO Conspiracy, most of which was culled from Playboy Magazine (ISM Virii, aka Speed-of-Reading Wavelength Transmission Patterns: SORWTP), and when I wiped my keyboard with holy water, you'll never believe what appeared, ominously, disturbingly, one-cursor-length at a time...

":POI4567890-[P=\][=POIUYTREWQ    azXCNM

":TR   

\][9876543    qrtyfrdYTR

IS THIS CODE FOR THE MOTHER COMPUTERS BELOW THE PENTAGON???