Assalamu Alaikum pakistan,
I moved to Pakistan from America approximately one year ago due to personal reasons, which ultimately resulted in a need to be closer to my extended family. During the course of this year, I have learned a lot about the Pakistani culture and the Pakistani people themselves. This is not a post about Pakistan itself, but about Pakistani people. I would like to preface this post by stating that this is a generalization, and therefore, with all generalizations, this doesn’t apply to everyone at every time. There are many Pakistanis that I have met that do not fit the descriptions and adjectives below, but this is a depiction of the overwhelming majority of Pakistanis that do.

1. Poorer Pakistanis are incredibly nice: Since I am from America, and people from America are considered to be straightforward and terse, the general politeness and decency of the Pakistani people was a bit refreshing. I am not oblivious to the existence of well-mannered people in America, but if we're to plot kindness of the individual populations on a bell curve, I believe that Pakistan would be 1.5 standard deviations to the left of the mean kindness of the American people. Early on, I had to speak in a creole of Punjabi and Urdu due to my poor lexicon, and they were incredibly understanding. Drivers, waiters, and shopkeepers took their time to understand what I was saying, even though it was impossible for my own family members to understand. However…
   
2. Affluent Pakistanis are incredibly rude: First, as I have mentioned previously, this is a generalization. As in all generalizations, it is supposed to encompass the majority under the description, not every single well-off individual. With that being said, they regularly abuse their servants over very minor matters, and threaten to fire them if they don't accomplish their tasks with precision-like accuracy. I have seen affluent children beating servants’ children in front of them, and the parents often have to simply look away and ignore their child’s suffering to maintain their job. Once, I went to a Jazz Experience center to fix an issue with my mobile package, and there was a line of people awaiting the assistance of the Jazz representatives who were busy helping other customers. A man comes in with his assistant carrying his coattails, and begins to bark orders to the employees. He demands that the employee in charge of providing the tickets to the customers allow him to cut the line, simply because he is important and can't be bothered with the hassle of waiting in line. For some reason, the employee acquiesces and asks the Jazz rep. to see him. The man explains the problem that he encountered with his package to the rep., but the she couldn't understand what he way trying to say. The person threw his phone in her direction, and abused her and the generations preceding her, and then had the gall to ask for the manager afterwards.
   
3. Pakistani people are incredibly jealous: Pakistanis, especially comfortable ones, are incredibly braggadocious and love to prove how brilliant or accomplished they are. I mean, there is always a passive-aggressive tug, whenever anyone discusses what they have been doing or what they have done. If one person states that he has recently met the PM, the other person has to supersede him and asserts that he has visited Mars. Furthermore, I have seen people come up to me and insist that they have visited America and have ”white” friends. If I try to explain to them that I don't give two fucks what they were doing in America or who their make-believe friends are, they believe they have beaten me at my own game. I have visited people’s home in which they insist in showing me their wardrobe and the various articles of clothing and accessories they have purchased from Harrod’s. As a person who has grown up wearing Uniqlo shorts and a Walmart t-shirt like every other teenager in the Bay Area, I don’t have an interest in the designer of your clothing, the store from which you have bought it, or the amount of money that have you spent for it. In addition, I have asked people who would converse with me that they should speak to me in a language that they are comfortable in; however they always choose to speak in English, and it is almost always very poor. I don’t tell them that they are unintelligible because of their thick accent or poor vocabulary, since I don’t want them to perceive it as an insult to their intelligence. I have often joked with my intermediate relatives that watching Pakistanis speak English is as if watching them consult an Urdu to English dictionary in real-time. It is so incredibly slow because they have to translate every word from Urdu or Punjabi into English, and then arrange those words in a proper syntax, grammar, and intonation. I have never held it against them because my Punjabi and Urdu is incredibly poor, but the key difference is that I always preface my conversations by telling them I am not a very good communicator whereas they are too arrogant to state that they are not competent in speaking English.
   
4. Pakistanis don’t like to emphasize or maintain their culture: For some peculiar reason, possibly due to colonialism, Pakistanis don’t like to maintain their traditions and often shy away from mentioning the uniqueness of their culture. I remember an incident that took place a couple weeks after I had arrived, in which a family member had invited me and my family to a resteraunt. The resteraunt was a fusion resteraunt, and therefore the food contained characteristics of both western and subcontinental cuisines. The host asked me which burger I liked and at what temperature the steak should be cooked at. I responded by saying that I would like to order a plate of tikka botis with a couple of roghani naan. For some reason, he and his family had these idiosyncratic looks on their faces soon afterwards, and at the time, I didn’t understand what they were responding to. As much as I love an In-and-Out Burger and French Fries, if I am in Pakistan, I would much prefer devouring tikkas, kebabs, biryanis, and karahis. In comparison, if I was to travel to Italy, I wouldn’t dine at a McDonalds, but at an Amalfitano resteraunt serving linguini with clams or a Roman café serving pasta carbonara. It is unfortunate to see the amount of vendors and resteraunts in Lahore serving burgers and steaks, and subsequently ignoring the ingredients and flavors of their heritage. The Pakistani cuisine contains considerable variety and intricate flavors, and not every culture can boast of something similar. It is something to be proud of, and pride is not an adjective I would use to describe Pakistanis when they discuss their culture. Another prominent example of this lack of pride was when I inquired about “melas”, or Punjabi festivals. In America, there are county fairs, which can be used with the word “melas” synonymously. In the county fairs, they often have carnival rides, delicious treats and desserts, chivalrous completions, and dances. I have always enjoyed the county fair with my friends and family. However, they are non-existent in the rural landscape of Punjab, and many people simply aren’t interested in holding them any more. By contrast, Punjabi Sikhs hold huge melas on the anniversary of their martyrs, and they encompass many different aspects of Punjabi culture, tradition, and ethos.
   
5. Affluent Pakistani women are lazy: Remember, generalization. Nonetheless, compared to American women, Pakistani women are idle and apathetic. They sit on the couch from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m., watching some obsolescent romantic drama on Hum TV, and only commit to any laborious task if they are in the presence of their husband or if he is soon to arrive. I could sum all of my maternal and paternal aunts with this lackluster description. She has a caretaker for their children who takes care of the children’s needs and requests, instead of tending to them herself. Even though they may have two to three servants, they are unable to keep the house clean. Even if the kids are nagging for paternal attention, which is very important for young children, she is too busy sharing an ayat or a hadith on WhatsApp. They have an aversion to work and an attraction towards gossip, and concoct the most nefarious rumors about the most noteworthy of individuals. However, if guests arrives, she puts on this persona of being a very obedient and conscientious wife, and takes off her mask when the guests leave. When they arrive, she is always scheming against a guest who may have given an insinuation of an insinuation of an insult, and devises plans to humiliate them later on.
   
6. They are great at excuses: Another issue that is prevalent among all strata of Pakistani society is a persistent laziness and the ability to provide an abundance of excuses for their laziness. I will provide a couple of examples. As an American, we worship the idols of punctuality and accuracy, and these are simply two qualities which matter very little to Pakistanis. I will provide a couple of examples. I ordered drapes from a renowned store for a couple of windows that needed them. After paying their obscenely high prices, I asked them for the estimated arrival time. They stated that they will be completed and installed in less than two months from the point at which I bought them. I was satisfied with that, but after three months, they called me and requested my presence in notifying them of the drapes that I originally chose. I asked them how could they not have securely stored the information regarding the drapes that I had chosen, especially after the price that I had to pay for them. They said that the book was missing and that the hard drive of the computer that was used to facilitate the transaction was broken. I was pretty angry, but came back to the store and picked the drapes again; but even to this day, I am not completely sure that the drapes that I picked on that day were the same as the original ones. After two more months, I call the store inquiring about the arrival and processing of the drapes that I have had to reorder. They state that the factories producing the drapes in Turkey have stopped and that they will contact them when they reopen. I responded by asking why they would promise to fulfill the order by a deadline, when they have no intention of keeping that promise. They said that they couldn’t control the factories that produced it, and were simply vendors selling a third-party product. I understand that, but don’t assert claims which you cannot ensure. After one month, I called them, again, and asked about the status of the order, again. They told me that the check that I had provided them to cover the cost of the order had bounced and, therefore, couldn’t begin cutting the drapes to their precise measurements. I asked them why would they try to cash a check five months after signing it, and wouldn’t call me to notify me of the situation. For some reason, this magnitude of coherence and sanity was incomprehensible to them, and they simply made more excuses. They replied by saying that the banks have a processing time whenever they approve any cashier check. I stated that the excuse is valid if this had been 1-2 weeks after the order, but not five months after providing them with the check. I won’t bore you with the remainder of the story, because it simply consists of excuses made by the employees of the store due to their incompetence, and me refuting them with elementary logic.
   
7. They believe in every conspiracy theory: There are people in America who believe in conspiracy theories, but they are ostracized as psychos. In Pakistan, everyone, from the laborer to the industrialist, believes in every conspiracy theory and canard imaginable, and this has become especially clear during the coronavirus. My uncle believes that the Jews have conspired with the American government to release the coronavirus, which was concocted inside a lab in Tel Aviv, to enslave everyone and establish ”Greater Israel”. My cousin states that Bill Gates is inserting a microchip inside a vaccine with the assistance of Dr. Fauci so that he can assert his dominance over the human species and track the movements, speech, and breathing patterns of every individual on Earth. It drives me bonkers and insane that educated people can believe in something so ludicrous and against the faculties of logic and reason. The vast majority of my extended family and family friends watch Haqeeqat TV and Dr. Shahid Masood, and believe in every preposterous conspiracy that they spout.
   
8. The word “modern” is overused by Pakistan people: “Oh Momima, you dress looks so modern.” “Haider, what a modern haircut.” I understand what they are implying, but it is used too liberally in any situation in which the person has a peculiar trait or style. The adjective that they should use to describe the individual in that context is unique.
   

There are many prophecies produced by Mirza Ghulam Ahmad that have allegedly been fulfilled and one can find many articles and books produced in the defence of their fulfilment. The prophecy about a great earthquake that was fulfilled by the event of the First World War is an example. This in particular sticks out to me because its fulfilment is related to such a great event that everyone learns about in school and most people know its history and causes. So, let’s dig into the arguments in defence of the prophecy. The argument comes from the book Invitation to Ahmadiyyat by Khalifatul Masih II (Prophecy No. 9: The Great War of 1914-18) and it has the following structure:
i. Some arguments regarding the use of the word زلزلہ (Zalzala) and that it doesn’t mean a literal earthquake. I give full poetic licence to Mirza Ghulam Ahmad for this to mean a great calamity (footnote 1, Barahin-e-Ahmadiyya Part V: English Translation, pg. 217-218, 2018). Tafsir such as ibn Kathir back this up.
ii. Then he uses an Urdu poem written by Mirza Ghulam of the same reference as above along with other “prophecies” to back up that this may only be a war
iii. Then he explains his points by using historical facts to back this point up.
I am writing this because I find the arguments quite unsatisfying and hope for people to read them and judge the texts of Ahmadiyyat with a critical eye; whether it strengthens their belief in it or causes doubts in them. Also, I haven’t really seen anyone address them in this way. In this post, I will address (ii) of the list above. I will try to provide references where I can, and they will most likely be to English versions of the books of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad (these may be found on alislam).
First, if you read the extract from the book in the link above, the arguments seem quite airtight. But there are a number of glaring generalisations made which are not accurate to what actually happens in the real world. For example, KMII provides a list of explanations which show that the prophecies and poem of Mirza Ghulam is talking about a war:
1. The prophecy says that the earthquake will involve the whole world. But everybody knows that earthquakes never do that; they only involve parts of the world.
This is a claim which can be refuted by the logic of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad. Mirza Ghulam Ahmad states,
“It may not be an ordinary earthquake, but some other dire calamity evoking the spectacle of Doomsday, the like of which would not have been witnessed by this age…”.
(Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, Barahin-e-Ahmadiyya part V: English translation, footnote 1. pg 217-218, 2018)
The best way I can explain my logic as to why this is inconsistent is in the following:
· Claim of MGA: calamity (…) the like of which would not have been witnessed by this age.
· Claim of KMII: But everyone knows (from experience) that earthquakes do not do that*.*
· He uses human experience (the everyone knows bit) to explain why an earthquake can’t be one of the possible outcomes. But if this event is like nothing experienced or witnessed by a human of the age a global earthquake meets this criterion… this is a logical fallacy.
2. The prophecy says the calamity will prove very hard on travellers, who will lose their way and stray far from their routes. But earthquakes do not trouble travellers. They trouble those staying in houses, in big cities. A calamity which can trouble travellers can only be war. When war starts, travellers cannot follow their normal routes. They have to give them up and adopt devious and difficult routes instead.
…And…
3. The prophecy points to the ill-effects of the calamity on farms, fields, etc.; but earthquakes have no ill-effects on farms and fields, which are destroyed only by war. Shelling from both sides destroys them. Sometimes ‘scorched-earth’ policy destroys them.
There are a number of glaring statements made in this part of his argument:
· That earthquakes do not affect travellers. Now, earthquakes DO cause the most catastrophic damage in areas with large buildings. BUT that does not mean that earthquakes do not affect travellers. In England, there is this road called the Mam Tor destroyed in a landslide in 1974. I can imagine an event such as this would be a great nuisance to travellers and would cause them to take alternative routes (which would be troubling).
· This follows into the next claim that that only war can affect travellers. It is true that a war affects travellers, but it is not the only thing that does.
· There are many “calamities” which can affect travellers, such as torrential rain or a storm.
Glaring statements about how earthquakes cannot affect crops etc. Only war can do so. That’s just not true. Do I need to explain it?
4. The prophecy points to the ill-effects of the calamity on birds; they were to lose their ‘senses’ and their ‘songs’. An ordinary earthquake can have no such effects. The vibrations only last for a time. If birds sitting on a tree or a building fly into the air, they experience no ill-effects whatever. A modern war, however, is very hard on birds. Day and night bombing and the destruction of trees is highly detrimental to bird-life. The birds either die or suffer greatly.
· There is again use of human experience to explain something that humans have never experienced. But let’s present a thought experiment. Imagine a bird nest in a tree. A bird will call this nest home. Earthquakes can in fact destroy trees (just search Google Images). So, in our scenario, the bird’s nest may in fact be destroyed by our tree and have ill-effect to the survival of that species of bird. Sure, day and night bombings are a possible cause of ill-effects, but so are earthquakes.
5. The prophecy contains the revelation ‘I have saved Israel from detriment.’ This indicates that the calamity was to result in some advantage for the Jews. Such a thing can have no connection with an ordinary earthquake.
…And…
6. The prophecy points to war because, apparently speaking of an earthquake, it goes on to say that the Pharaoh and Haman and their hosts are in the wrong. This is an obvious reference to the German Kaiser, who thought himself God or at least God’s Deputy, just as the Pharaoh of Moses thought he was ‘God of his people and Mighty’. Haman in the revelation means the Kaiser’s ally, the Emperor of Austria, who had little will or personality and was totally obedient to the German warlord. If the prophecy meant a literal earthquake, the words ‘Verily Pharaoh and Haman and their hosts are in the wrong’ would have little or no meaning.
I must complain slightly, as if one reads the actual prophecy (Tadhkirah English Translation pg 703, 2009), it states: كَفَفْتُ عَنْ بَنِىْٓ اِسْرَآءِيْلَ which really translates to ‘I stopped Bani Israel’. Which still is not saying much if I’m honest. The reference given is for the 2019 edition so the page may be different, the date given is April 9 1905. The figures Pharaoh and Haman refer more to the idea of a living idol. For example, the Pharaoh in Egypt was considered the literal God on Earth rather than just a vicegerent or prophet. The story of Haman is from the Bible. He was the Vizier of King Ahasuerus, and commanded all of the king’s servants to bow in subservience to Haman. But one of the servants denied him (this servant was a Jew). Jews (like Muslims) believe in the oneness of God and to bow in prostration to another is to equate partners with God. So, it seems that this revelation is more about the oneness of God and how Allah stopped Bani Israel from idol worship and Allah’s destruction of it than a prophecy about the Jewish State. Additionally, this prophecy speaks of an earthquake as well. In the footnote of my copy of Tadhkirah (same reference) it says that a note by Mirza Bashir Ahmad (KMII’s brother) said:
“This prophecy was fulfilled on May 20th, 1905. A severe earthquake was experienced in Dharamsala and many newly constructed homes were demolished [see Civil and Military Gazette, May 24, 1905]”
I kind of feel for KMII because I can’t stop my siblings from ruining my plans either.
7. The revelations mention the repeated promise ‘I will come suddenly with my armies.’ This also points to war rather than earthquake. The revelations speak of a volcano, the eruption of which will entail advantages for the Arab peoples, who will also venture out of their homes. The description cannot apply to an ordinary earthquake. A volcano can only mean the violent expression of political discontent which may be precipitated by some passing event. Some such event was to stimulate the Arabs into some large action by which they were to turn events in their favour.
…And…
8. The revelations assert that on that day, God Almighty will be the Universal King. This description also indicates a war in which powerful states were to be involved against one another. The great powers, according to the prophecy, would become weak. The Dominion of God was to be re-asserted by powerful Signs.
If this is about a war: What are Allah’s armies? Is it the Ottoman Empire? The Austro-Hungarian Empire? Could they be the Angels who are to follow Allah every command? Who can say except the Almighty himself? If the Muslims are the armies of Allah, then it doesn’t work, as the Muslim force of the Ottoman Empire sided with the Central powers who lost the war. Also, WWI wasn’t a war between Muslims and non-muslims so it still doesn’t work. Moreover, if you want to argue that the armies of Allah are the side that won, well that was Britain, France + Co. so you would still have to defend that position. It doesn’t necessarily point to war just because the word ‘armies’ is used (just as the use of Zalzala doesn’t necessarily mean earthquake). The point about the Arab peoples is a reference to the following vision of Mirza Ghulam:
“…Setting right the affairs of the Arabs. Journey among Arabs…”
(al Hakam, vol.9, No. 32, September 10, 1905, p.3)
Which is part of a larger set of visions that he received. He interpreted this to mean that he (or his descendants) would journey to Arabia*.* To say that some passing event could allow Arabs to turn things in their favour is quite a shallow statement. The Ottomans were colonizing Muslim lands so, Arab resentment for the Ottomans already existed with or without the war and the rise of groups like the Young Turks (not Cenk Uygur) who facilitated the fall of the Ottoman Empire. After the Central Powers lost, the Sykes-Picot agreement and Balfour Declaration were set to break the Ottoman Empire apart into Iraq, Jordan, Palestine and the Hejaz (later Saudi Arabia). Sure, Britain and France allowed for Arabs to gain autonomy from the Ottomans, but it was part of a greater agenda of dissent in the Middle East and setting up proxy states to control the people in this area. We all know how that turned out.
9. One revelation says, ‘A mountain fell and came an earthquake.’ Even schoolchildren know that earthquakes are not the result of falling mountains. In fact, it is the other way about. Mountains may fall as the result of earthquakes. This also shows that the prophecy does not apply to an ordinary earthquake but is a metaphorical description of some other large calamity involving the nations of the world in mutual warfare.
Again I find it weird to use human experience (the condescendingly put: even schoolchildren know) to explain a Doomsday-like event the like of which would not have been witnessed by this age as not a very good argument against an earthquake.
Someone might be wondering why most of my arguments agains KMII’s analysis are against his use of human experience. The facts are that this argument quickly becomes inconsistent with that of Mirza Ghulam Ahmad. Mirza Ghulam Ahmad also says in the same footnote given above that, "this calamity can be averted through piety and righteousness and is not inevitable". But it must be asked: piety on who's part? Is it Muslims or Christians? The British or the French? You may also say, that a global earthquake is a scientific impossibility. With regards to this I can say that humans always say that something is impossible, until a scientist comes and proves by experiment and theory that it is possible. Also, if the Might of Allah is in play in this event, what is stopping an omnipotent Allah from causing something that goes against human experience? Moreover, you might say that I haven’t read the entire passage of this book and have only addressed half of it so my arguments are half-baked. To this I will say that the list at the top of the post is what I aim to write about. I will address the remainder of the arguments in (iii) in a later post as this is already getting too long. But with that, I hope you enjoyed reading this. I will soon post the remainder of my analysis on the last part of KMII earthquake argument. This may take a while as the passage is long and I am only one man. I have other things to do in my life and this is becoming somewhat like a hobby for me.
Thanks for your readership,
S.

The Horror of Urdu'Al

To the Honorable General Neyala,
The words that can express what me and my men and women have discovered here eludes me. I have sat upon my seat for what can only be hours, trying to collect and organize my thoughts. Alas, it was for naught. The only course I can take is to not even attempt to describe how all of us here feel, but instead, to simply tell you what we have found.
The first was when we began seeing a string of corpses scattered amongst the main road to Urdu'Al. Considering that we have been sent to investigate why the town fell silent, this was not a good sign. After looking over both the bodies themselves, as well as the surrounding area, we concluded that there was no evidence this was a bandit attack. The most likely explanation was that of a single individual. All the bodies had only one arrow, straight through their hearts. And with each body having an arrow shot into them at different angles, we are making the assumption that the killer was well hidden, catching these poor souls completely unaware, and without a doubt, never knowing why they have died in their last moments.
When we arrived at Urdu'Al proper, we immediately felt a sense of dread. We knew that, if we were investigating a town for going quiet, do not expect any activity. But what we found here was much different.
The town guardsmen were slain, no doubt where they stood. Hunted down like dogs while being none the wiser. Most of them were just left in the streets, soaking in the pools of their own blood. The rest were in the guardhouse. Slain in their own beds. I can still vividly see the path of blood that dripped from their bodies, down the bed and onto the floor below.
And then there's the townspeople proper. They were not spared. Just like the guards, they were slain without any warning. Not even the children were allowed to live.
Have you seen grown, strong men cry, General? I have. All it takes is to witness a newborn babe surrounded in their own blood, within their own cribs. The ones who were more entrenched in their sense of pride, lashed out with rage I have not seen often.
This is why Urdu'Al has fallen silent, sir. Whoever...whatever, has killed those travellers outside the town, has descended upon these people like a vicious monster. No remorse. No pity. Slaughtered the men, women and children down to the last.
And as final insult to their injury, we have discovered that many of the townspeoples' possessions that can be considered valuable are missing. Whoever killed them has the unspeakable audacity to also pilfer their belongings.
General, I am begging you, to organize a security force to come down to this region and secure it in force. Whoever is doing this is clearly intelligent, highly skilled and, as clear as day, extremely dangerous. We cannot afford to waste even a single day to this monster. We must--
...
Jay'El sighed as he set the bloodied parchment back onto the desk. The Knight-Captain that was writing this letter had died. An arrow right through his chest. But there was one more wound that demanded his attention.
A sizeable chunk of the soldier's neck was torn off, blood drenching his shoulder, chest and back, the blood pool on the table indicating his last moments was on the surface. Jay'El knew, deep down within him, that there was only one man, in all of existence, who has both the capability and insidious malice to do this.
Arterius. The most dangerous vampire that the Solus Order has ever faced.
Letting out a deep huff, Jay'El reached for his flask and gulped down his mead, seeking comfort in the fruity flavor as well as the alcohol's burn.
"You're not going to win over the recruits if they keep seeing you drinking, especially when on the field." A voice warned in a light-hearted manner. It was Lucius, the Captain of this region's chapter of the order.
"Yeah, and?" Jay'El replied dryly, returning the flask to his belt.
The dark-skinned human just sighed as he entered the tainted room of the inn. After scanning the room for a few moments, he looked at the lizardman with grim eyes. "So, is it what we're afraid of?"
Jay'El nodded. "Arterius. Not a single doubt in my mind."
Lucius sighed again, trying to expel the sudden dread within him. "I can't tell what's worse. That all of this was just fun time for him, or just a step in some larger plan."
"It's both, sir." Jay'El asserted grimly. "Everything he does is just a move in one large game, but he also enjoys making those moves."
"You know him best, Jay'El." Lucius said after looking around again. "What do you think? What kind of meaning is behind the absolute slaughter of an entire town and the Royal Knights sent to investigate?"
Jay'El leaned against a wall, eyes closed with his arms crossed, as he pondered and thought. After several long, agonizing, moments, he opened his eyes and looked at Lucius. "Forcing our hand. As soon as people realize that a vampire is behind this, they're going to demand answers from us."
"What, the amount of bodies slain here isn't significant enough?" Lucius shrugged, with a smirk that attempts at toning down the tension but only serves to betray his own fear.
"As soon as word gets around, the Order will need to send a force to secure and search the region, lest they risk the rage of both outsiders and those who knew people here." Jay'El explained, moving away from the wall. "But the only place that can accomplish that in short order is Fort Ironpeaks. Other choices will require several days of travel. But...if we do that..."
"The fort itself will be light on defenders." Lucius finished, his voice indicating desire to not believe such a scenario. "Jay'El, do you think that's what Arterius is after? Weaken our defense at the fort?"
"I say it's highly likely." Jay'El nodded. "If he attacks and wipes out Fort Ironpeaks, he'll have free reign of this entire region. And any reinforcements from other Order chapters will need time to arrive. Time that Arterius can use to prepare."
"Veryssa, shield us..." Lucius muttered under his breath, then looked at Jay'El with forced calmness. "Well, people have always said that Ironpeaks has the most defensible location in the entire Order. Let's hope that'll balance out our lack of manpower."
"You're not thinking correctly." Jay'El warned him. "You're still in the mindset that this was done by a legion. A slobbering horde of undead and thralls in service to Arterius. Listen to me when I say this: This was done by one man. Arterius himself accomplished this. Ironpeaks has the location, but only against an army. If Arterius chooses to attack by himself, and he will, that advantage is erased."
"I hear you." Lucius nodded, his breath taken by the meaning of that information. "But the Headmaster is the one who decides if the detachment is sent out or not. He's the one that needs to be convinced."
"In that case, I'll pound my head some more." Jay'El sighed, already leaving the room.
"It might help if you hide your flask!" Lucius raised his voice after peeking out from the door.
...
"What is it, Jay'El?" Headmaster Jhurn sighed in annoyance. "For both of our sakes, I do hope it's your report on Urdu'Al."
"The entire town, as well as the Royal Knights, have been slaughtered to the last." Jay'El began, maintaining a calm, stoic composure. "No survivors. And based on the carnage and clues we've found, we know who committed such an act: Arterius."
"Him again?" Jhurn groaned out as he leaned back in his seat. "Jay'El, we've been over this many times. Arterius is good, but not that good. He's a vampire, not a...god of death or something."
"And as I've explained, many times," Jay'El hissed through his teeth, "Arterius is a vampire unlike any we've ever encountered. His experience with the Red Dagger Guild. His latent talent for magic. What Count Nestor did to him-"
"Arterius is a madman who is a slave to his own impulses." Jhurn interrupted. "Urdu'Al? From your description, that can only be done by either a large and fast undead horde, or a small group of highly skilled thralls. If you keep blindly praising his skill-"
"Excuse me?!" Jay'El interrupted in return. "Jhurn, I, of all people, should be the most authoritative source when it comes to understanding Arterius! Both in motive and ability! So when I say that Urdu'Al was done by him, and him alone, that's the truth!"
"The truth is, is that you've lost someone you were very close with." Jhurn replied cooly, leaning on his desk. "And you're resorting to burying your pain with mead. I've read the reports regarding Count Nestor. The torture they've done? Arterius is merely a shattered remnant of his former self. You need to let go."
"Do not go down this path again." Jay'El warned with a growl, leaning fully on Jhurn's desk. "I've warned you about the Duke, and look what happened! The Duke and his entire immediate family are dead! All because you thought that Arterius was just a madman who can't hold a thought!"
"That was not Arterius and you know it." Jhurn replied with a growl of his own. "In fact, that tragedy occurred because you steered us away with your misinterpretation of what was happening. You caused us to track down one madman when we should've tried to find and destroy a hidden vampire coven!"
"Because he's got you down, Headmaster." Jay'El snarled. "He knows that you're a man who can do no wrong. Anything that happens, it's someone else's fault, and he's playing you like his own lute."
"I'm done trying to make you see the truth!" Jhurn boomed with anger, shooting up from his seat. "If you can't spend even a single second away from a barrel of mead, what makes me think you're still in any position to think?! Thank you for your report on Urdu'Al, as brief as it was. Now get out, now."
Jay'El glared at the Headmaster, pouring every ounce of rage and hatred he could into that stare. After a long, tense period of time, he sighed. "Everybody that dies tonight, is on your hands, hear me?" And without even letting him respond, Jay'El stormed out of the office.
...
The cave was dark. The scent and sound of running water filled the air itself. Within, torches illuminated one's path. And within what can be considered the grand hall, a group of three was congregated. Above them was a crimson-red banner, a fanged-skull adorned with gold and red upon the center.
"Has anyone ever seen the King?" One, a werewolf encased in red and black, steel-plate armor, asked in a raspy voice. "Fattest bloke I've ever seen. Just a hint of Deathshade and everyone will think his gluttony finally got to him."
"Can't imagine what his whore wife thinks." Another, a woman with dark-brown hair that reaches past her shoulders, chuckled. "I mean, really. How can you stand being married to such a man? Hell, how can you even go to bed with him at night, every night?"
"I like to think she's got some weird fat kink going on." The third, a Lizardman with scales blacker than the midnight sky, shrugged. "Probaby sucks on his man-breasts when he's sleeping."
That earned a silent stare from the others. The Lizardman gave a defensive shrug, "What?"
"I have returned!" A voice echoed within the cave. The trio looked towards the source.
A tall, slender man of ghostly-pale skin, blood-red eyes and silver hair, landed upon the ground below. The faint splattering that accompanied his landing indicated that he was more than soaked with blood. The trio greeted him happily.
"Looks like we missed out on the fun." The werewolf chuckled after taking a moment to look over the man. "How many?"
"Honestly? I wasn't counting." The man grinned with a shrug, revealing his vampiric fangs. "All I can say is that there wasn't enough."
"There is the whole world." The woman shrugged with a smirk. "A lot of the peasants living just to fatten up people who delude themselves as superior. Someone's got to free them."
"A lot of people to...have fun with." The Lizardman grinned the widest. "No need to worry about asking them either, just...kill them and have your way. Or even better...summon daemons from the Underworld and just watch as they destroy her in every possible way..."
"Alright, Jala, tone it down before you get too excited." The werewolf laughed a bit, clapping the Lizard's back.
"Anyways, I suppose you're all here for the same reason?" The vampire asked with a shrug.
"Nihlus." The woman nodded. "She's been waiting for us, let's not keep her any longer."
And with that, the group made their way up an incline, reaching into an area that's been carved and constructed out of the cave. Upon the door, the same fanged-skull was carved onto the stone door. Its eyes burned a bright red upon the group's approach.
What is the greatest lie of life? The skull spoke in a raspy voice that came from within their heads.
"Fate." The woman answered clearly.
Welcome. The voice replied. The stone door, of its own accord, opened for the group. When they entered, it was a completely different atmosphere.
The torches that lined the walls emitted a deep red. An ominous fog clung to the ceiling, and various statues and idols had their eyes alight, seemingly with life. After a short walk down the main hallway, the group arrived at their destination.
A grand, circular chamber, with crimson hieroglyphs and iconography inscribed upon the stone floor, seemingly with arcane methods. Upon a wall, observing the entire room, was an idol of an inhuman creature. Its skull indicating a possible canine-origin, but with three different pairs of red-glowing "eyes" upon its skull. Gnawing and twisting antlers emanating from its head. Two pairs of arms jutting out from its body, ending in hands whose fingers tapered into menacing claws.
The group took up their positions and kneeled down, taking up a posture of reverence.
Welcome home, my children. A female voice spoke with delight. We have much, good things, to talk about.
"We're listening, Mother." The werewolf replied.
I have heard the voices of those who performed the Dark Calling. She explained. And it makes me happy to say that, out of all those, each of you will find one you will deeply enjoy.
"Thank you, Mother." The woman said with a wide smile.
Arterius? How goes your project? Nihlus asked.
"Just completed the biggest step." He replied with a grin, looking into her eyes. "Now, I just need to wait."
Then these contracts may help give you something to do in the meantime. Nihlus responded. Jala? Anything you have on your mind?
"I...I really have been wanting a human female." Jala replied, voice shaking with excitement. "A highborn, so that I can watch her so called 'honor' fade from her eyes."
I have just the contract for you then. Nihlus stated with some laughter. Go and enjoy yourself. Nevara? One contract involves an elf.
"Good." The werewolf let out a deep growl as he grinned. "I'll head out as soon as I get the details."
Done. Faera? There's a few contracts here that involves highborn, minus Jalal's. Any one you prefer?
"Let me have the Prince." The woman stated with a mad grin. "I've had my eye on him for a long time now. Time to see what he has in his estate."
Here you go, flower. Arterius? Have you decided on a contract?
He just grinned at her. "Yes I have. I'll take Headmaster Jhurn of the Solus Order."
...
Jay'El is at his wits end now. That idiot fool Jhurn went ahead and sent out the entire levy. Now Ironpeaks possesses only the bare minimum needed to constitute a defense.
All the more reason to not waste time. Sighing, Jay'El took another swig from his bottle of apple ale and returned to his tome. Upon his desk were towers of books. All of them concerning vampirism and magic.
The Order has done extensive research into a possible cure for vampirism. So far, either nothing has worked, or the results were disasterous. Jay'El wanted to wait on the scholars and court wizards, but they grossly underestimate the vampire threat. They didn't make it a priority.
And so he took it upon himself to attempt research into the manner. He first started with the possible origins of vampires. The only information he understood was that vampires were some kind of offshoot of Necromancy. Possibly an alternate way of attaining immortality while preserving one's body. An alternative to becoming a Lich.
Jay'El believed that if he first understood how vampires are created, or born, that might give him clues or insight into how it could be reversed. Bring them back to normal. And since vampirism is derived from necromancy, perhaps if he studied the theory and concepts behind it, he could see the beginnings of vampirism, and then perhaps find what he was looking for.
It was dangerous. Necromancy is officially declared dark magic by the Royal Academy of Magic, alongside the King's official decree. If he's not careful, both when studying it, and hiding it, he could be accused of dabbling in the dark arts and be sent to Arnir's End.
He tried to drink from his ale again, but found that the bottle was empty. Sighing, he tossed it aside and retrieved some blackberry mead. As much as it stung, he had to concede that Jhurn and Lucius both were right. The fact that he drinks so much doesn't exactly portray the correct image of himself.
But that would mean remembering. Remembering what he felt when he first found Arterius, slumped in Count Nestor's torture room. When he discovered that he was turned.
When he was forced to see that Arterius had become a bloodthirsty, monstrous vampire.
Just as he was about to take a drink, he was forced into sobriety when a bloodcurdling scream rang out and echoed on the walls. He knew.
Arterius is here. Just as he predicted.
Throwing his drink, Jay'El immediately grabbed his sword and shield, secured his helmet and kicked the door open. He and Arterius are opposites in combat. Arterius emphasizes stealth, precision and acrobatic dodging. Jay'El relies on endurance, strength and force of will.
It would be his steel plate armor versus Arterius' agility. Sword and shield versus bow and dagger. This was the only time where Jay'El was never certain. He can accurately predict what Arterius is up to, granted he finds out in time. But in combat, there's just no way to be certain.
Charging down through hallways, dimly lit by torches, it took him some time before he discovered the first victim. A human knight. Blood pooling on the floor, covering his cuirass. Face forever locked in mindless terror.
Jay'El knew that this was Arterius' territory now. He could be anywhere. Promptly, the armored lizard took up a defensive posture, eyes scanning every conceivable angle. Breathing deeply but calmly. Fighting to keep his own fear in check.
He heard a scuffle to his left. Wasting no time, Jay'El sprinted towards the source. He had no doubt that the ruthless clanking of his armor plates was announcing his approach to Arterius. He just had to prepare for the pre-emptive strike.
Another body, but no Arterius. This time, it was far more brutal. Unlike the throat-slit of the previous knight, this one was just mauled to death. Chunks and pieces torn off. Jay'El's fear grew even more.
Arterius' bloodlust was rising. His appetite for death whetted. It won't be long before the very stones of this fort would be drenched in every drop of blood that its defenders possessed. He had to find him. Now.
He did not delude himself into thinking he'll win easily. All he can hope for is that he would keep him at bay long enough for the defenders time to regroup and organize. But now he couldn't help but worry.
Was this a prelude to a larger attack? Did Arterius mean to attack and seize this fort? Claim it as his own hideout? Or perhaps even a base for his eventual horde to operate out of?
With a quick huff, Jay'El reminded himself not to get hung up on speculation. Arterius is here, he took out the outer guards and is now picking off the denizens rapidly and with escalating brutality.
"Jay'El!" A voice called out to him, not Arterius'. It was Lucius, shaken.
"I warned you." He declared with a growl once Lucius stopped at conversation distance. "All of you."
"Hey, don't take it out on me, okay?" Lucius responded with indignation. "All I did was tell you that the only man who mattered was Headmaster Jhurn. Take it up with him!"
Jay'El was frozen by a surge of panic. "Did you see him? Do you know if Jhurn's alive?"
"I was just walking out of a meeting with him when I heard that scream." Lucius explained. "Unless he did something else, Jhurn should still be in his office."
"If Arterius learns that the Headmaster is here, he'll focus him." Jay'El explained quickly. "Jhurn is leadership. Arterius will try and cut off leadership before running the foot-soldiers down. We need to get to him, now."
"Follow me!" Lucius directed. The two knight-hunters sprinted their way down another set of hallways, always on alert and ready for the dreaded monster that stalks the corridors. After running through more hallways, stepping over more of their dead comrades, they finally arrived at the imposing double doors lead to the Headmaster's office. They wasted no time, barging right through.
To find the Headmaster, sword drawn and ready to strike.
"Headmaster Jhurn, are you okay?!" Lucius asked, already scanning the room.
"I'm fine. What's going on out there?" Jhurn replied, the old human sighing as he relaxed somewhat.
"The very thing I warned you about." Jay'El growled. "Arterius. He's here."
"How many dead? Do you know?" Jhurn inquired grimly.
"Five bodies, that we know of." Lucius answered, standing next to Jay'El after finishing his sweep.
"Why in the name of the Gods didn't the perimeter guard sound the alarm?!" Jhurn demanded, fury rising in his voice.
"Because they were the first to die." Jay'El said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Arterius never passes up an opportunity to kill if he has a choice. The guards died before they realized an arrow was coming at them. This is the way Arterius likes it. Killing at his own pace."
"Jay'El, by the Gods, your incessant overestimation of a madman truly is insanity." Jhurn scowled. "No, even if Arterius is capable of controlling himself, he has help. Fort Ironpeaks is too large for one man to kill at such a rate we're seeing. There must be other vampires with him."
"And your constant refusal to see the true threat is the real insanity, Headmaster!" Jay'El shot back, his patience for the day running out. "How many Solus members needs to die before you finally admit that Arterius is a greater threat than anyone has ever realized?!"
"They wouldn't be dying if you would pull your head out of your ass, stop distracting us and accept that the Arterius you knew is dead!" Jhurn practically screamed at him. "Dead and gone! Count Nestor killed him in that torture room! And you're too weak of mind to accept it! I think it's high time somebody beat the truth into you!"
"Everyone quiet!" Lucius shouted, holding up a piece of paper. "Arterius is right here!"
The two immediately dropped the subject and began scanning the room more intently. Lucius handed Jay'El the paper and looked over the room again. Jay'El felt his heart stop when he read the paper.
Your tail swishes a lot when you run like a panicked dog. =)
"Augh!" Jhurn cried out. Jay'El immediately threw his sword near the source. It lodged itself within the tall cupboard behind Jhurn, wobbling intensely for a few moments before stopping. No blood, no Arterius.
"Jhurn, what's wrong?" Lucius asked, rushing over.
"Egh...my cheek." Jhurn answered, removing his hand off of the spot. A deep red cut was there, small lines of blood already marked below.
"By the Gods..." Lucius muttered in absolute terror, now desperately trying to find the vampire in unabashed panic.
Jay'El heard it. Cackling laughter, but not in the room. Somewhere, away, in the halls. Panting for a few moments, Jay'El questioned why Arterius would abandon such an easy kill when he finally found the answer, turning to the Headmaster in shock. "Get to the Apothecary, now! You're poisoned!"
"Wha-? But it feels fine!" Jhurn protested with a shrug. "I mean, no burning or coldness. Usually poisons are instant, right?"
"We can't assume that!" Jay'El said sharply. "Get to the Apothecary, right now."
...
"All this for one vampire, eh?" One of the hunters asked in a cheeky manner. Sergeant Vernax just sighed and looked at him.
"You saying we're overreacting, boy?" He asked, leveraging his menacing voice.
"Uh...n-no...j-just, s-seems...n-no sir." The young hunter stammered profusely, ending with a meek tone. "I just...d-don't understand why all this force for one vampire."
"Talked to Jay'El, have you?" Vernax chuckled. "Look, that lizard is the one fighter I never want to fight with, but ever since that whole Count Nestor tragedy, he's never been the same. His flask is his shield now. Rely on his sword-arm, not his tongue."
"Isn't that the hunt where some of our own got killed or tortured?" The young boy asked curiously. "Wait...is it also the same hunt where some of our own got turned?"
"Don't be asking questions like those loudly, boy." Vernax warned. "Jhurn has a very sensitive spot for that. Don't let him hear you be saying all that."
"O-Oh...s-sorry." The hunter replied meekly. "But...you know?"
Vernax sighed and then leaned over, whispering, "Yes. Now don't ask again."
"R-Right, y-yes sir." The boy nodded rapidly, processing what he had just learned.
"Hey, head over to the north side of Urdu'Al and help out with the fortifications." Vernax directed, pointing to where he was referring to. He didn't get an answer. Confused, he turned around to look.
The boy wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. He instantly went into combat mode, drawing out his blade. He was about to call out to the men when he lost his breath, a sharp sting of pain in his back and something covering his mouth.
Letting out a deep grunt of pain, he tried to fight but his strength was rapidly waning. The corners of his eyes darkening. He tried to look behind him.
He saw red eyes. And glistening fangs of a vampire.
Vernax passed, the last thing he saw was a vampire having done him in. Arterius just gave a little giggle as he let the aged hunter slump to the ground, lifeless. He spotted a group of Solus hunters walking down the path, heading into town.
"Ey, more victims." He said to himself, drawing out his bow. Perching himself atop a rock, he nocked his arrow and drew. He only needed a split second of mental calculation. He released. The arrow whistled away from him. In one second, one of the hunters immediately dropped to the ground, like a puppet who's strings were severed. Arterius instantly nocked and drew another arrow. He released. A second one down.
The third finally realized what was happening and is already rushing, screaming for help. Arterius, laughing under his breath in sadistic joy, released his third arrow. The third hunter crashed into the ground, motionless.
"That's some good shooting sir." A deep, growling voice complimented him. Rising, Arterius turned to face a werewolf with red eyes, slightly bowed and hands clasped together. "Truly incredible, puts the mortals to shame."
"What's the status of my troops?" Arterius inquired, hooking the bow onto his shoulder.
"They're waiting, and eager, for your word, sire." The werewolf answered with a bow.
Arterius turned to look at the occupied town for a few moments before turning back, grinning. "Set 'em loose. Anything's fair game."
"As you command, my master." The werewolf gave a deep bow before running off to deliver the order.
Returning to the same rock he felled the three hunters, he reclined himself lazily and waited. Within just a couple of minutes, it began. The distant, cacophonous shouting of the defenders. The near-faint roaring of beastmen and ghastly wails of the dead. In another minute, the fighting spilled over to where he could see it.
Groups of shambling skeletons, clad in ancient armor, swinging at the surprised defenders. A lone werewolf charging around and barreling hard into one, tearing him apart with beastly savagery.
Jhurn yet lives, my child. Nihlus spoke to him. Have you forgotten the contract?
"Nope, I haven't." Arterius replied casually, idly flicking his finger along the bowstring. "Two hunters, knights I think, made it to Jhurn in a tight, enclosed space. I did try to distract them, but, well, I lost the element of surprise, so to speak. Now I'm just waiting until the little coward comes out of his hidey hole. And when he does, I'll be ready."
One of those knights was your former friend, Jay'El. She stated in an also casual manner. Is it possible you did not desire to fight him?
"Ah...knew about that, didn't ya?" Arterius sighed, entering a conversation he didn't want to have. "Alright, I'll confess. If I went for it, it meant I'd have to fight Jay'El, and, uh...well, I just...didn't feel like roughing him up for some old fool, you know?"
Do not be afraid, my son. Nihlus comforted him, her voice now more maternalistic. I am not disappointed or angry. If you did not wish to fight him, I will not force or shame you. I am just reminding you that you have an obligation to fulfill.
"I know." Arterius nodded in reply. "And I will do it, just...bad timing, is all."
That is all I needed to hear. Nihlus assured. If you ever need a time to recover or rest, my home is always open, my son.
...
Jay'El constantly scanned the tree line as the carriage bounced him and Jhurn about. It had been two weeks since the Horror of Urdu'Al. First its very inhabitants. Now the very Solus detachment to get justice.
Almost a hundred men and women. Dead. Taken by surprise by a never-before-seen alliance of undead and werewolves. They didn't have a chance, even with the fortifications that were managed to be set up. And now Jhurn has been forcibly summoned to Centa to provide answers to both the King and the Solus Council as to how it happened. Defend his competence as Chapter-Headmaster.
Jay'El forced himself onto this journey. Although yes he was duty-bound to protect the Headmaster while in transit, it's moreso to guarantee his own voice when the questions were asked. He had no doubts that Jhurn would try and blame him. Claim that his constant "distractions" about Arterius' danger altered his judgment.
If he did, Jay'El was more than prepared to outline how Jhurn's inability to accept and learn from his mistakes was the culprit behind this. Inability to accept when he was wrong.
"Jay'El?" Jhurn asked him. "I expect you to be on your best behavior when we arrive."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jay'El inquired, suspicious.
What he said next, froze Jay'El to the core. "I know you've been studying dark magic. Necromancy. The vile art of reanimating the dead. I knew you were damaged after Count Nestor, but to study a dark magic to bring back the man you once held dear? Never had I thought you'd stoop to such a low, beast. Unless you want a one-way journey to Arnir's End, you will not say a word that damages my image. Understand me?"
After letting out a shaky breath, Jay'El finally found the strength to speak. "You do r-realize that, if you do reveal it, they can also have your head, simply by the fact you knew and you chose to withold such knowledge until it suited you, right?"
"Not exactly," Jhurn shook his head, "I can argue that, I had my suspicions but I wanted to confirm them. Well, now I have."
Jay'El let out another shaky huff. He fell right into that trap. He should've realized, he hid those books well. He should've realized that even reactions can be proof enough, if you play your cards right. And Jhurn did just that.
He has no choice now. He needs those tomes to figure out how to unravel vampirism. Wait.
"You think I'm trying to reanimate my best friend?" Jay'El inquired him. "No, I'm trying to find out if you can cure vampirism, and if so, figure out how to make one!"
"Vampirism isn't a disease, it's an abomination of the Gods." Jhurn snarled. "Just like zombies, liches, wraiths, werewolves, any who are an abhorrent freak of nature, must be purged from this world in the name of the divines!"
"But what...ugh, nevermind." Jay'El sighed when he realized mid-sentence. "You're never wrong, are you? Even if it's proven that vampirism is indeed a disease, you will still hold fast to the idea they're another magical creature."
Jhurn was about to counter when the carriage halted abruptly, nearing causing Jay'El to hit his head against the wall. But during that motion, he heard the unmistakeble sound of a horse dying. They were under attack.
"To the trees, move!" Jay'El barked out, grabbing Jhurn's shoulder and dragging him out of the carriage. He was already guiding his stubborn headmaster towards the tree line when he was yanked off the ground and slammed down. It was a werewolf, snarling down at him but not attempting to kill him. Holding him down. Growling, Jay'El tried to fight off the creature but he couldn't get an opening. He heard the sound of Jhurn wheezing out beside him. When he looked, his entire mind became singular.
"ARTERIUS!" Jay'El screamed out in a voice filled with desperation and rage. Bloodied dagger in hand, Arterius just winked and grinned at him.
"Checkmate." He said between cackling laughter. And just like that, he launched himself out of view. And rapidly, the werewolf relented.
Snarling out, Jay'El drew out his sword and got to his feet. All he could see was the sea of corpses around him. The Solus hunters dispatched from other chapters to guard the headmaster. Arrows littering the scene and the bodies.
Dropping his sword, and then to his knees, Jay'El was overwhelmed by frustrated defeat. The paralyzing grief of loss. Hot tears bursting from his eyes. And, at its crescendo, he let loose a deathly scream that unleashed all of his rage, despair and grief. Rage that, despite all he had done, he could do nothing. Despair for the people left in this region, now that the chapter has been all but destroyed. Grief, that his very best friend, once a man of integrity and selflessness, now a vicious and sadistic monster, twisted by the torture of Count Nestor and corrupted by vampirism.
He finally rose up. Looking beyond the horizon, he resolved himself once more. He cannot allow one defeat to stop him. His best friend is trapped within that monster, and he'll be damned if he allowed it to continue for eternity.
Picking up his sword again, he gave a moment of silence for the fallen. Getting his bearings, he began to march towards Centa.
AN: So I just started playing Skyrim again, and this little idea popped back in my head after first getting it a long while ago. In addition, still not exactly feeling motivated to keep writing The Devil You Make. Maybe it's because I'm in a more fantasy-mood lately, but I meant what I said. I *will** finish it. And after my last final, I should have all the time needed.*
As always, let me know what you think! Because of this being a short, there's definitely things that would've been better or expanded upon in an actual series, so keep that in mind!

Continuing
The flight continued along as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Nary a bump or jostle. Hours later, I was playing with the in-flight entertainment system when Major Nak awoke.
I toasted him with a fresh drink and asked if he felt fully functional.
“Doctor?”, he asked, “Have you slept at all?”
“On the flight? Nah.”, I replied, “I slept well last night. Besides, this flight’s been fascinating.”
“Do you always drink like that?” he asks.
“Of course not!”, I replied, indignantly, “Sometimes, I really twist off and tie one on.”
“Seriously?” he asks, shocked.
“Major, I’ll let you I on a little secret.”, I said in confidence, “I’m a member of a certain class of unusual creatures; I’m an ethanol-fueled carbon-based organism. Many other geologists are as well. We tend to be drawn to that particular science.”
He stares at me with a look that is a cross between incredulity and “you fuckin’ with me?”
“You’re not normal…”, was his only reply as he shook his head.
“Not by a long shot!”, I laugh, drain my drink, and signal for another.
After one arrives, Major Nak stumbles to the head. A few minutes later, the annunciator notes that we are on the flight path to Bhavnagar Airport and should be landing in 20 minutes.
Another drink and beer chaser later, we’re buckled into our seats and on final approach. We land light as a feather without a crosswind, a perfect three-point touchdown. We taxi for a bit and stop out on the tarmac, next to a large non-descript gray-colored four-door sedan.
We begin to deplane and I see my luggage being loaded into the sedan already. Before I get off the plane, I am asked for my passport. The steward of the flight stamps it and welcomes me to India.
Off to the sedan and I see it’s larger than most usual 4-door types. It’s a minor limo of sorts, with rear and front-facing seats, like an old London taxi, except one wall is taken up with a fold-out bar.
Oh, I’m going to like this job.
I am instructed to sit in the back. Major Nak is sitting up front, working on papers of some sort.
I am told the travel time to Alang, the place where I’ll be staying, is approximately one to one and a half hours. I am asked to please make myself comfortable and if I desire, there is a humidor on the back forward-facing seat. I am to help myself to that and the bar, and enjoy the ride.
Which I did. The scenery was your bog-standard usual coastal highway sort of stuff, moderately interesting for the first 5 minutes, then it just sort of blurs together.
I sampled the humidor and most of the bottles in the bar while we wound our way south to Alang. It was getting late in the afternoon, so it was decided that I would be taken to the “Raj”, the company’s corporate house for when high-ranking business types, visitors, and guests arrive for more than a single overnight.
Alang is a company town, and that company is the Ship Breaker’s. It’s a fairly common sort of one-industry town; kind of shabby, kind of old, kind of desperate. It’s not horrible like some oil towns in West Siberia, Venezuela, or West Africa; but it’s no Paris, Texas either. There are some green areas, quite a slew of shops selling sea-sailing ship-sourced stuff, and a few residences.
We travel along and I can smell the diesel, dejection, and desperation in the air. This place is an area of low wages, hard work, little to no environmental or HSE controls, and throngs of men wanting to work. This is going to be some kind of experience.
We wheel around a well-planted and manicured corner and arrive at the “Raj”. It is a colonial-era, how can I put it? It’s a fucking mansion. Situated behind security fences on grounds of approximately 4 acres, at least. It’s an Edwardian or Georgian pile some four stories thick. There is a security shack out front and even Major Nak has to show his ID in order to enter.
They take my photo, particulars, and have me sign-in. Looks like I’ll be the only VIP staying here for the duration of my contract. However, I certainly won’t be alone.
There are butlers, cooks, chauffeurs, maids, and other forms of domestic help. And they are all there just to make my stay as pleasant as possible.
We drive into the compound, for the lack of a better term, come to a thick security door where the driver punches in a code and we are allowed to enter the underground parking facility. There are several security vehicles parked down here, a couple of motorcycles that I intend to ask to borrow. Before we went underground, I saw at least two teams of security forces patrolling the grounds with huge Alsatian dogs.
“Is all this security really necessary?” I asked Major Nak.
“Better safe than sorry”, he bewilderingly replies.
“OK”, I reply, “Thanks for the clear-cut answer.”
He smiles and confides that they’ve never had any trouble here, but since it’s where VIPs and corporate shills stay, they make a brave noise to dissuade anyone with evil on their mind. Shipbreaking is big business, with receipts measured annually in the billions of rupees. Yes, I agree, better safe than sorry.
We exit the sedan as two worker bees attend to my luggage. We are lead to an elevator and get in, take a quick ride due up, and exit on the main floor.
“Holy shit!”, I exclaim lowly. “This place is incredible.”
Full late 1800’s glory expressed in dark, thick hand-carved wood, leather, and dripping in opulence. It’s quite the sight, and it takes me a minute to realize that all this pomp and circumstance is being laid out for me. Now it’s Major Nak’s time to smile on my bewilderment. He asks me to walk with him as he needs to ‘introduce me to the staff’.
But first, a young lady appears, in a traditional maid’s outfit, and asks if I require anything.
“Loaded question”, I smile, “But I am a bit dry. If you could rustle me up a drink, I’d be beholden to you.”
She smiles and looks to Major Nak for a translation. He speaks in Hindi and she smiles wider and scurries off.
“What did you tell her?” I ask.
“That you’re American and can’t be expected to speak normal English”, he laughs, “Plus I told her of your favorite drink.”
“Why, thanks Major.”, I smile.
“Anytime, Doctor.”, he replies.
We walk along and the cute maid reappears with my drink. Major Nak is holding off and abstaining for the time being.
We walk along and meet the head of the household, the Majordomo, one Mr. Kanada. We exchange greetings.
“If you require anything, Doctor”, he tells me, “Please let me know. I have read your contract so when I say ‘anything’, that is precisely what is meant.”
“I will do that”, I reply and give him a hearty handshake in return.
Suddenly, a young male individual type appears. He looks very intent and earnest.
“Doctor Rocknocker?” He asks.
“Yes. And you are?”, I reply.
“I am Sanjay. I am your personal assistant while you are here in India.” He smiles back.
“Nice to meet you, Sanjay”, I reply, “What are your qualifications?”
I’m not messing around. I’m going to have a full tour on this job. He appears quite young but does have a good handle on English. At least English that I can understand.
“I hold a Bachelor’s Degree in Geology. I am going for my Master’s next semester, once this virus business is over with. I speak Hindi, Urdu, English, and some Russian. I carry a light, the time, and your favorite vodka. I am 100% at your disposal.” He smiles and hands me an airline-sized miniature of Blest Vodka; a local favorite.
I look at Major Nak, “Oh, I like him. Good choice.”
Sanjay beams. Major Nak smiles as well.
Major Nak continues, “Sanjay here can show you the rest of the house. If you’ll excuse me, I must be off to camp”.
“Most certainly, Major Nak. It’s been a pleasure.” I reply as we shake hands in a very manly fashion.
“I hope to see you before you leave, Doctor. Perhaps at the yards to see your progress. “ he notes.
“I look forward to that, Major.” I smile
He smiles to Sanjay, and does a briskly military about-face and disappears.
“Doctor Rocknocker”, Sanjay continues…
“Sanjay.”, I interrupt, “Call me ‘Rock’, it’ll save everyone a lot of time.”
“Oh, OK. Sure. Doct…um, Rock”, he says, as I smile back. “You must have made a big impression on Major Nak. He hardly talks to anyone he oversees.”
“Oversees?”, I smile, “OK, he seemed harmless enough. Affable chap. Can’t hold his liquor worth a shit though. But you’re not to say I said so. ..”
“Understood, Doc…Rock”, Sanjay smiles, “Let me show you the rest of the house. Let’s go to the basement first. “
“OK, fine. You lead and I’ll follow.” I replied.
The basement was one of wonders. A large heated and chilled pool, a sauna, fairly well kitted out gym, and a game room. The game room held a snooker table, a billiards table, a ping-pong table, and a Ms. PacMan table video game and a Galaga upright game. Vintage. Sweet.
There were cupboards full of ping-pong paddles, ping-pong balls, pool, and snooker cues, as well as the remotes for the sound system and large, flat-screen TV, with uncensored 7-satellite feed, hanging on one wall. There were several comfy chairs strewn around. This would be a nice place to relax after a long day of blowing the living shit out of old rusty boats.
“Nice”, I noted, “But no beer cooler or bar in the rec room?”
Sanjay smiled and motioned me to the elevator.
“Moment.” was all he said. He did speak a bit of Russian.
We go up two floors and exit the elevator. One side of this floor was taken up with a huge library, complete with a huge antique harp, a very shiny black Steinway grand piano, hundreds if not thousands of books, and several large leather chairs and a couple of leather couches and ashtrays strewn about.
Another place to waste a modicum of time.
Then Sanjay points me north to the other side of the floor.
There was a huge bar, fully stocked, with about a dozen barstools in front. There were at least a dozen taps of Indian, British, and Indonesian beer. There were hundreds of bottles of non-repeating liquor. There was a large ice machine humming away in the corner, full bar glass set-up, wash station, and dishwasher under one corner of the bar. There were several under-bar coolers full of carbonated drinks, juices, and other potential mixers.
“We have two dedicated barmen at your disposal”, Sanjay smiled, “Or you can go ahead and use it self-serve if you desire.”
I look at the empty glass in my hand and decide we’ll go ahead and inaugurate it now and not bother to call the barmen.
Sanjay, eager to please, runs behind the bar and asks what I’d like.
“Well, since we’re in India”, I say, rubbing my chin, “Let’s start out with a nice IPA.”
“Certainly”, he replies, “Light or dark?” as they had two on tap.
“Oh, dark, I think.”, I said, “And since you’re back there, why not grab yourself one and get me 100 milliliters of the finest chilled house vodka.”
“Yes, Doctor!”, he smiled and fetched our drinks.
Sanjay and I spent an hour or two at the bar getting to know each other. Several times, house employees rolled through to see if I needed any dinner or a cigar or…
“Good lord”, I say to Sanjay after the fourth one in an hour was dismissed, “They keep this up and I might take them up on something off the menu.”
“I can arrange that”, Sanjay smirked.
“Thank you, no. That was a joke.”, I told him, “I’ve been married 39 years to the finest partner and deadliest crack shot this side of Annie Oakley. Besides, I have no desire for any of that sort of extracurricular shenanigans. It was a joke. Seriously.”
“Understood, Rock”, Sanjay said. “I’m not married, but I am engaged. I understand fully.”
“Good and congratulations”, I replied, “No need to get off on the wrong foot or anything.”
“Or anything?” Sanjay smirks and raises an eyebrow.
“Keep that up and I might just keep you on as my assistant.” I said, “You will need a good sense of humor before this all over.”
Sanjay quaffed his beer and smiled broadly.
After I had him get me another beer and asked for my room as I was needing a cigar. He pulled out a phone, dialed a few numbers, and Hindi’ed directly into the device for a minute.
“No worries, Rock”, he said, “One will be here directly.”
“Fine”, I replied, “Now Sanjay, this job is not all skittles and beer, if you take my meaning.”
“Oh, look. Your cigars have arrived.” He says, totally distracting me.
An ancient butler pushing a silver tea cart appears. On the cart is a very large humidor full of many different shades, shapes, and sizes of cigars.
I went to grab one when the butler stops me and tells me to make a selection.
“Oh, oh, oh! Very nice.” I say and point to a likely looking Oscuro Churchill.
He takes the cigar, carefully wipes it with fine cheesecloth, and asks what type of cut I like; V-cut, punch, or slant.
“Oh, V-cut, if you please,” I reply.
He V-cuts my cigar and with his with gloved hands, holds it out for me to inspect.
“Lovely,” I reply. I jam the cigar in my yap and start digging around the pockets of my field vest for my lighter.
He taps me on the shoulder and extends a lit piece of cedar bark. The ‘traditional’ British way of lighting a cigar.
After all that, he tells me his direct number is 214 and that if I need anything more to have one of the staff ring him. With that, he turns heel and exits without another word.
“Well”, I smirk, “That was weird.”
Sanjay just smiles and tells me to get used to it. They will do everything here for you if you allow them.
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”, I say, get up and pour myself a new beer. A ‘Tiger’ this time. I ask Sanjay if he’s ready for a refill and he tells me he’s good.
I grab another 100 milliliters of chilled Old Fornicator Vodka and sit back down at the bar.
“Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Can you be a hard ass, Sanjay? Can you tell your peers ‘no’?” I ask.
“Will I have to?” he asks.
“Yep.” I say, “Damn, this is a really fine cigar. But working with me, you best develop a thick skin and a hard head.”
“Oh, OK”, he says, obviously confused.
“Right.” I say, “Serious talk time. I’m the boss on this project. What I says, goes. No questions. Period. You’re my de facto second in command. We are here to teach 24 of your comrades how to blast boats to smithereens and how to train the next set of like-minded individuals. This is a step up for them, every one. It means more money, more security, more prestige. I need only 24 and from what I hear, there’s what, up to 30,000 workers here? Guess what? That means a lot that are going to go home disappointed. They might hold that against me and you, Me? I don’t give the tiniest shit. But I’m going to leave after a couple of weeks. You’re here for the duration and going to take over my spot. Some of these characters might get shirty and decide to tap dance on your head if you tell them no. You have to be ready for that. Can you deal with that situation?”
Sanjay just sits there and looks intently at the finely polished hardwood floor.
“This is old hat for me,” I tell him. “I’ve had to tell some good friends that they weren’t picked for the job or contract. It’s business. And some have been less than adult about how they handled the rejection. There have been threats, usually hollow and empty. There have been altercations, usually unimportant. There have been fights with bloodied noses, broken arms, and police reports. But in the end, I had to stick to my guns. You ready for that, young Mr. Sanjay?”
“Thank you, Doctor Rock…”, he replies, “I never thought about it that way. But, yes, I think I can handle that situation if it arises. It’s business like you say and I am able to defend myself.”
“That’s good”, I reply, “At least physically. What about mentally? You might have to tell a good friend to get stuffed; in a nice manner, of course.”
“I think so.”, he replied, “I’ll follow your lead over the next couple of weeks. Call it ‘on the job training’.”
“Mr. Sanjay”, I say, “I do think you’ll do.”
We talk a bit more and I decide that after one more round of drinks, I’ll call 214, grab a couple of cigars and have Sanjay show me my room.
On the way down the long hall, Sanjay is smiling in a weird sort of way.
“OK, give,” I say.
“No, no yet. Wait until you see your room.” He snickers.
Now I’m worried.
We come to a large, polished, and engraved oak door. He produces a key from out of the depths of a Stephan King novel, twists it in the lock, and the door silently swings open.
“Holy shit!”, I exhale.
The room is enormous.
En suite bathroom where one could hold an Olympics meet in the Jacuzzi. American Standard bog, flanked on either side by bidets. Twin sinks, a shower with tropical, right out of the ceiling rainfall, or the new waterfall shower design. Or both. With steam function. Not boiling water, but live steam like any sauna.
“I could get to like this”, I mutter.
The room is fully carpeted with tapestries on the walls. A large, Victorian oak desk is over on one side, with a very nice dual-screen computer work station at my disposal. There is a note with my login and password in the leather-bound legal pad on the ergonomic computer chair before it. There is a huge flat-screen TV over on the other wall with the same 7-satellite feed as in the rec room.
“Whoa!” I say, “Data overload.”
My luggage is next to the built-in wardrobes. One houses a bespoke mini-bar.
“The maids would have put your clothes away”, Sanjay explains, “But they were locked. I can call them if you’d like.”
“Sure”, I reply, “Why not?” I see two of the aluminum cases that I marked “Careful: Scientific Instruments” are next to the computer workstation.
Two maids presently arrive and I unlock my luggage. They set to putting it away and are tsking that it needs to be pressed first.
“Perhaps later”, I said, “It’s been a day and I’m a bit knackered.”
“I will turn down your bed then”, one of the nubiles remarks.
Sanjay is now smiling way, way too broadly. I go through the door to the master bedroom.
“Holy shit squared,” I say.
There is a huge four-poster Edwardian? Georgian? bed. The carved wooden uprights are the diameter of telephone poles. I’m a pretty large person, but on this bed, I’ll need a personal transponder as its large enough for me to get lost. Easily 3x4 meters and the mattress is nice and firm, just the way I like it.
On top of the bed are blankets, a comforter, a quilt, an afghan, and more feather-stuffed keep-warms than I ever saw outside of Siberia. Under those, I’d sweat away to nothingness; but it looks so damned comfy.
The bed properly turned back, I thank the maid and make the noises like I want her to get the fuck out so I can get horizontal.
Sanjay notes that and has her and the other maid exit. All my clothes are put away, even my field vest I discarded when we walked into the room is tutted over and hung up.
“So, Rock?” he laughs, “What do you think?”
“I think if I didn’t have a serious job to do, I’d come down with some damned virus that would require me to stay home and socially distance myself.” I laugh.
“Sorry, but work begins tomorrow. What time would you like for me to ring you?” he asks.
“Right”, I said, “About that. I want to be on the job at 0600. Not leaving here at 0600, not wheels up at 0600. I want to be ready to select my 24 candidates beginning at 0600 tomorrow. I leave that to you. When do we need to leave, so when do I need to be rung up?”
“I’ll call you at… 0430…?” he cautiously says.
“Fine.” I reply, “Make certain that the notices I sent were posted. I want my 100 applicants ready and on-site spot-on 0600. I’ll need a large black coffee in a travel mug. Green?”
“Green?” he asks.
“My shorthand for ‘are we in agreement?’” I say.
“Oh, yes. Rock. Very green. See you in the morning.” He says, shakes my hand and departs; but not before leaving me the room key.
I lock the door and strip down. A steamy shower and a couple of very well-appointed in-room mini-bar bourbons later, I’m going over Email. Seeing nothing that can’t wait until the next day or two, I flop into bed and immediately become a missing person.
The phone cheerily chirps at me at precisely 0430. If I had my Casull, that phone would be in another dimension. As it is, I drag my carcass to vertical, grab the phone, say “Thanks” and hang up.
A quick shower, a couple of shower sunrisers, and I’m feeling much better. Damn near human. I gather the day’s necessities, don my vest, and Stetson over my usual field outfit and toddle downstairs. I’m not 5 steps out of the room when the maids arrive with the intent of committing premeditated neatness in my room.
I wave to them, and gargle an obligatory “Morning”, and head down to the main floor.
I am greeted by Sanjay, who is holding a large metal thermal coffee travel mug for me.
“You are a gentleman, scholar, and life-saver”, I say to him.
He beams in the way-too-early morning light.
“Breakfast, Doctor?” he asks.
“Just coffee. I don’t want to eat too much these first few days. ‘Delhi belly’ and all that. Too much work to do.” I remonstrate.
“Understood.” Sanjay complies, “Cigar?”
“Yes, it is,” I say.
“I have brought along a box of them for you today,” he adds, smiling.
“Outstanding”, I say and sip my coffee. Surprisingly, it is of the Greenland variety.
“The driver is waiting. Anytime you are ready, Rock”, Sanjay informs me.
“Give me a few minutes,” I say as I review the morning edition of the Times of India. I was actually waiting for the fine coffee to take effect.
A few minutes later, we’re headed down the coast to the beach; right where the rubber hits the road. Or rather, the ships scrape the sand.
Alang is the biggest ship breaking facility in the world. There are more than 400 ship breaking platforms here. They break about 1,500 ships every year. At any time about 300 people can be working on a single ship. The total workforce here is 40,000 plus. There are complaints about the treatment of workers and their service conditions. Ships are broken down crudely by hand using the minimum machinery; typically oxygen lances and welding torches.
It’s a horror show. Huge, rusty, jagged pieces of ships everywhere. Puddles of every color, containing noxious chemicals of every description. Lead, organotins such as tributyltin in anti-fouling paints, polychlorinated organic compounds, by-products of combustion such as polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons, dioxins, and furans are found in ships and pose a great danger to the environment and personnel.
There is a singular lack of PPE (Personal Protective Equipment) here. Thatched, woven palm-frond ‘hardhats’. Steel-toed sandals; if you grasp the irony. No coveralls, gloves nor much else. Ragged shorts, torn shirts, and car-tire soled sandals are the uniforms here.
Well, if there’s one thing I can do, it’s change this.
We wheel into an area containing a huge tent-like structure, a couple of Quonset huts, and a smattering of non-descript outbuildings. The place is swarming with workers. All male, all young, and all looking to be part of the chosen 24 today.
We park and I’m shown into the large tent-like structure. At the head of the tent are a table, a PA system microphone, and a desk where we can sit down and tally the day’s take.
“OK, Sanjay”, I say, “Time to work. Remember I sent ahead the qualifications I’m looking for in trainees?”
I had cabled ahead for them to pre-select 50 candidates, 175-225 pounds, 5’ 9” to 6’ 3”, preferably unmarried bachelors, which tend to be the best kind. They must be English reading and speaking. I need the larger guys to handle the physical demands of the job. They need to be within the height requirements as those are the heights my pre-ordered coveralls will fit. They must be fluent in spoken and written English as I don’t have time to learn Hindi.
There were easily 5 times that number milling about just outside.
“OK, here’s the deal”, I said, “Here are 100 numbered chits. You will pass them out to the first 100 gents outside that pass initial muster. That is their ticket inside. Pucker time. Think you can handle the throng?”
“I’ve got this, Rock”, he says, with a stalwart look.
“OK, but if you need help, you know where I am,” I reply.
I busy myself constructing a 10x10 grid on a sheet of paper. I number it 1 to 100. This will keep tabs on our candidates.
Behind me, on the wall, are 24 brass tokens, ‘chits’, about the size of a US$1 Silver Bullion coin, about 1.5 inches in diameter, numbered 1 to 24. They have a flat space for a name to be engraved upon. These are the coveted chits that enable a person to graduate out of the swill and into the ranks of blasterdom and eventual teaching.
Right now, they are the most coveted possession within hundreds of miles.
One by one, pre-selected individuals are filtering in and finding seats. Sanjay is doing quite the job, as so far, they all fill the bill nicely. Whether they pass or fail muster will be determined in the next couple of hours.
I sip my coffee and smoke my cigars. The room swells by the numbers. Soon, all the seats are taken and Sanjay rejoins me at the head podium.
“Good job, Mr. Sanjay”, I say, shaking his hand. “Let’s take a couple of minutes and then we shall begin, OK?”
He agrees. I head to the loo and he takes my coffee for a refill. We reappear a few minutes later and I grab the microphone for the PA system.
I key the mike, “Hello! Please, everyone, quiet down and pay attention!”
Very few replies much less capitulation.
Sanjay stands and shouts something in Hindi.
The room goes deathly silent.
“Remind me to ask you to teach me that,” I say and return to the job at hand.
“Gentlemen. Welcome to the selection board for Blaster’s Assistants. If you are not here for that particular position, the exit’s to the rear.”
No one moves, except to shift to pay me more attention.
“OK. Great. I am Dr. Rocknocker, the headmaster of this special education class. I am the boss. The hookin’ bull. The head cheese. I am the Maharaja of this project. What I says, goes. I am an American, I am a geologist, and I don’t tolerate tomfoolery or bullshit from anyone. I say jump, you say ‘how high’? I say shit and you ask ‘what color’? You will follow my instructions implicitly, without question. Are we in agreement?” I ask.
There are a few feeble “Yeah’s”, and “OK’s” that drift up out of the crowd.
“Gentlemen. I am an American, as I said, and I’m old, weary, and slightly hard of hearing. I don’t expect you to use your indoor voice around me. You answer so I can hear you, loud and clear. Understand?”
“Yes.” Comes a few half-hearted attempts.
“GOD DAMN IT! I’m the fuckin’ deaf one. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!?”
“Yes, Doctor!” came the reply.
“What? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
“YES, DOCTOR!” came the thunderous response.
“Outstanding,” I reply.
There were some snickers and chuckles in the crowd. It was time to toughen up the crowd and see if I can thin the ranks early.
“Gentlemen! Your attention.” I roar.
I had their attention.
I hold up my gloved left hand. I rip off the glove and show everyone my physical deformity. There were gasps, groans, and a couple of less hearty souls bolting for the door.
“I received this in a Russian rig accident years ago. It was not from a blasting accident. I’ve never had one and don’t intend on starting now. If this bothers you, leave. This is me and I’m the instructor.” I announced. “That fact will not change.”
Physical deformities here really scare some folks. I figured I’d get this out of the way straight off, and that would be one less thing to worry about. We lost three with that revelation.
“Groovy,” I said as I replace my glove.
“Now, we will begin the final selection. You all have your numbered tokens, one through a hundred. If you thought because you had a low number, you’d be first, forget it. I have a random number generator application on my phone, set from one to one hundred. And the first number is number…Lucky 13! Lucky 13. Come forward, front and center, and be recognized.” I say.
Sanjay is seated next to me with our book of the job. He’ll be handling secretarial duties whilst I do the interviewing.
“Your token?” I ask.
The young gent hands me lucky number 13.
“Fine.” I say, “Name?”
Name go in book.
“Age? Company number? Years with the company? Married? If so, children?”
All data goes into the book in the proper zones.
I ask a few questions about the job, to make sure they know what they’re in for.
“How’s your English?” I ask.
“I speaks it very goodly”, was the reply.
“Marvelous.”
I pick up this month’s Journal of Explosives Engineering monthly and hand it to him.
“Page 22. Read the first paragraph, please.” I instruct him.
He fumbles with the magazine, counts singly to page 22, and tries to read some random, but not first, paragraph.
I retrieve the magazine, thank him, and tell him we’ll be in touch.
Everyone and I mean everyone, chosen or not, will be personally told of their results.
I mean, it’s only right and fair. It’s the way I’ve done business for 40 years and it’s worked pretty well so far.
Candidates number 9, 57, and 42 results in much the same way.
“Number 77!” I call.
He lopes up to the podium.
“Your token, please,” I say
He hands it over.
We gather the information and he’s unmarried and without children.
How refreshing.
I hand him the journal and ask him to read the last paragraph on page 52.
“iRing has announced, “a breakthrough technology in ring design for underground mines” that uses a completely new blast design model. The development of this innovative blasting technique uses a unit charge and stress reflection methodology in conjunction with electronic detonators to design ring patterns with the objective of transforming underground blasting operations into primary crushing operations.”
“Your name again?” I ask
“I am Waazir Naidu.” He replies.
“Mr. Naidu, welcome aboard,” I say as I hand him his brass token. “You are trainee number one. Do not lose your token. It is your key up out of the swill.”
He smiles broadly and turns to the crowd to display his brass letter of acceptance. There are growls from the crowd, as well as a smattering of applause.
“We will reconvene in Outbuilding #2 at 1300 hours. See you there.” I say and shake his hand.
He’s all beaming smiles as he almost literally floats out the door.
We spent the rest of the morning thinning the herd. There were some judgment calls, but by 1130 hours, we were down to two candidates and one last brass token.
“Number 79!” I call.
He approaches, we do the usual and get his information.
“Please read paragraph three on page…oh, I don’t know, 31.”
He fumbles with the magazine a while and stutters and stammers somewhat.
“OK, thanks.” I say, “We’ll let you know.”
“OK, number 5! The best and last number 5!”
“About time!’ He scowls.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You really are deaf, Yankee benchod.” He sneers quietly; but loud enough for me to hear.
He figures he’s a shoo-in; last number called, last chit on the board.
“Sanjay, a moment,” I ask.
“This “benchod”? Not a term of endearment, I take it?”
“Ah, no”, he stammers.
“And it means?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know.” Sanjay hopefully replies.
“But, yes, I do. I insist.” I reply.
“It means colloquially ‘motherfucker’. ‘Sister fucker’ literally.” He splutters.
“Hmmm. OK. A new term for my dictionary. Fine. Let us continue.”
Name, age, etc. all go in book.
I hand him the magazine. He almost rips it from my hands.
“OK, please read the ad on page 55. All of it.” I instruct.
He flips the magazine to page 55. There’ a half-page ad in Russian for a new form of blasting cap super-boosters.
“I can’t read that.” He complains.
“Well, then me ol’ mucker; looks like you’re just shit out of luck. Good day.” I say.
“Sanjay”, I say, “Go outside and find number 79. He’s our last candidate trainee.”
“You said you wanted good English readers.” The rejected complains.
“Yes”, I agreed, “But I also need people that can follow instructions and not have a Gibraltar size chip on their shoulder. I’m the boss, and what I say goes. And I say you go, dick cheese. Ta-ta.”
He realizes his mistake and beings to entreat me with tales of woe.
“If that was a loose blasting wire, we’d all be dead. I don’t need an attitude. I need people with brains enough to listen. Now, piss off. We’re done here.” I say.
“Benchod fucker”, he snarls. “I keel you.”
Luckily my coffee mug was nearly half empty. Otherwise, it could have really left a mark across his face where I slammed him with it.
He’s down on the ground, wondering what hit him. I’m standing over him, towering and glowering. It was that kind of day. I don’t have time for monks resisting the carnival.
“You get the fuck out of my sight, you sawed-off little prick. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood and don’t give you a fucking C-4 enema. Or kick your scrawny ass to death. You might still have your shit job here in the yard, but I hear from anyone one more foul oath or unkind word out of you and you’re going to be Alsatian chow back at the Raj. You diggin’ me, Beaumont”
He just looked at me with eyes as wide as cheap paper plates at a windy Sunday picnic.
“Get out of here, you asshole.” I snarled and puffed mightily on my cigar.
He got up and scarpered. He didn’t even take the time to dust off.
Sanjay arrived with number 79 just as he hit the exit.
I hand number 79, one Mr. Yudhishthira Bahaiti, brass token number 24.
“Welcome aboard. Sorry about the foul-up. It’s been handled. See you in building #2 at 1300 hours.” I say.
“Sanjay? Lunch?” I suggest. “I could really use a fresh coffee.”
After lunch, Sanjay and I are smoking away in Outbuilding #2. It’s about 1245 hours or so and already a couple of new recruits have appeared. They are sitting in one of the 24 seats which look for all the world like elementary school desks way back in the day.
There are 24 locker boxes stacked along one wall. These are the new locker boxes for my recruits.
These contain a number of specialty items which they will now need in the execution of their new jobs.
Some of it could be considered quite pricey and there are needs for security, especially since this bunch will be dealing with high, low, and medium explosives. I’m getting that teaching vibe again. I love geology, I love blowing shit up, but I really love to teach. Especially a new crop of fresh recruits.
I’ve watched Full Metal Jacket far too many times.
It’s 1300 hours on the nose. All 24 recruits are assembled and in their proper numbered chair. Sanjay has made up a seating plan for me so I can get to match a name to face and locker box number.
It’s showtime.
To be continued…

** Please forgive me for any potentially weird text formatting, as I typed this up on my phone. Thanks for being here and adding to the conversation**
I dedicate this to my fellow converts to whom I ask they reflect on themselves and what they have become a part of.
Assalamualaikum brothers and sisters. As 'Ashura approaches, my own perception towards Shi'ism has been changing. I have not been Shia for very long and I have learned a lot since visiting house majlises, Imambargahs, Hussainiyahs and IECs in the meantime. I've already been through one 'Ashura and Arbaeen. I thoroughly enjoyed what little time I had to speak with folks like the Rastani Brothers (both Sheikhs). I will mention right now, that yes I spend a lot of time reading on Al-Islam.org and translations of Shia Hadith/Sunnah books. I used to be of the Ahlus-Sunnah but an education in history from the time of the Umayyads, Abbasids and their legacy today made it seem obvious that I must become a follower of Rasulallah (saw) and Imam Ali(as) and their 11 descendants. However, I have always been irked by the emphasis on cultural divides in Shi'ism. For example, my parents come from a country that has almost no notable twelver presence. The only community of shias I have been able to somewhat integrate with is that of the Indo-Pak community in Houston and Dallas. My time with them has made me even more so.... repulsed by Shia tradition. I went to Ali Center in Houston (yes, the trailer center that has a gravel 'parking lot') and I couldn't seriously finish my namaz because the Molana there had a very strange sounding disrespectful pronunciation/accent of the Qur'anic arabic. My time in sunni mosques in Houston has admittedly made me intolerant of Urdu and it's use. I don't understand it (for the most part) and it seems to dominate and devour places where it's speakers go. All of a sudden the Imam (in a Sunni masjid) has to do the rest of his Qotbah in Urdu and so the Qotbah loses value for a lot of Jum'ah goers. You will see why language is important soon. Petty fights between older Desi folk around masjids, and the reputation of Muslim owned businesses and their practices has not helped me with this view as well as the history of the language and it's impact on my very own cultural identity. First I noticed that Majlis is plagued with what I can describe as phony lamentations. For Indo-Pak it consists of long bouts of "Haye Haye Haye hay...." and then reverting back to emotionless silence. I even see forced tears. What good can fake tears possibly be? Unfortunately we live in a time where we are desensitized to violence and gorey details, so a lot of peopIe just can't cry even about Imam Husain's infant's horrible death. I know this is weird to say but it seems the martyrdom of Syed Shuhada isn't so tear jerking as it's described to be. I cannot understand why people are so big on being a Matamí and jumping up and down beating their chests the way they do. Maybe it's become a body showoff contest. I don't know if it's always been that way and my friends aren't telling me the truth. To me they seem giddy to do Ma'tam, but they tell me it's a "different kind of excitement" when I can clearly see otherwise. It's almost like a dance. Red lights in a dark room with really long hair and doing qama zani (blood ma'tam) on the top floor of IILM.....Singing their nohas/latmiyya alongside 8 and 10 year olds in a rather annoying/repelling way( I'm looking at 'Anjumans'). What did I even see, some kind of satanic ritual? Then creating "Shabedari" because there is no "good" Ma'tam in America? Inviting big singers/sangats to perform in Chicago, New Jersey, Dallas all night long. What is even going on, I've just witnessed creating a holiday without some approval from Marjas let alone Allah through Imam Zaman (ajfs). These Urdu/Punjabi Nohas are then musicalized and degraded into yearly albums and releases from people like Mir Hasan Mir, Irfan Haider, etc. What I thought was mourning for the Masumín has become a part of the entertainment industry. Hell, I might as well listen to Bollywood tracks with these. These groups of people who I struggle to even call friends spend most of their time talking about these authors, what they're going to memorize, who gives 'soz' and whatever else. I'm somehow supposed to understand who 'Sibte Jafar' is and be saddened by his tragic car bombing death. Then there's the ancestral elitism. I'm not talking about being Sayyid, but the type about bragging about having Persian ancestry or Arab ancestry and miraculously making it a part of every conversation I have. It's exhausting. Am I supposed to feel lesser than you for eating fish? Having a shade of darker skin? Having a particular first name that isn't Mahdi, Abbas, Ali, Haidar, Murtadha, Husain, Hasan, Ali-(some other name), Muhammad, Qasim, Naqi, Baqir, JaffaJaffer, Musa, Reza/Raza/Ridha, Fatima, or Zainab makes me immediately irreligious? Why do non-Iranians celebrate Norouz when it's really a Zoroastrian holiday!? Then there's the political atmosphere, 'Are you for or against Wilayatul Faqih?', by which they mean 'do you love/hate Iran', which most people I know have no business with so what's there to love or care for so strongly? Apparently if I don't condone what Hizballah does then I don't care for other Shias one bit and thus I love K.S.A. (may Allah revoke his mercy on them). Or if I didn't go to Qasem Soleimani's Majlis e Sawal (that was obviously filled with undercover federal workers) then I'm not "really" Shia either. When did this supposedly honorable school of thought deal in absolutes? Or if I objectively look at the actions of 3 particular caliphs or 2 particular women I supposedly softened my heart for them and now I won't get Syeda Fatima's intercession? Or if I refrain from calling Aytallah Khomeni, "Imam Khomeni". The last straw for me was blatant transfer of Hindu tradition. Rather than having a set of idols for puja (Sanskrit/Hindu word for Worship, exactly like Namaz for Zoroastrianism), these Indo-Pak Shia have metal miniatures of Hazrats Abbas and Husain's (as) Harams and set food in front of them and do some kind of munajaat. Then there's the small strips of green and red clothes tied around the wrists or neck that remind me of my distant Hindu family friends. I know you'll tell me those clothes have touched Imam Ridha's (as) or Ali's(as) zarihs and they are for tawassul sake, but I know closeted tradition when I see it. Perhaps visit a Mandir or ask about what goes on inside of one sometime. I should add that the Catholic tradition of putting holy scriptures on your head also confuses me. Why do Shi'a do this for Aamal, wearing the Noble Qur'an like a hat for Dua? At this point I feel regretful about coming to this group. I feel like I've joined some local religion or tribal faith. Those vicious comments from the Wahabiyya and their encroached Sunni victims about being a "Hindu-Majoos" make some sense now. Genghis Khan kept his ancestors form of Buddhism to his mongol folk and expected none of his new subjects to understand it or even convert to it. The Shi'ism I was sold on doesn't seem to exist or be honored and maybe I have no identity in it. I know I'm not alone feeling this way as a convert and if you're here please speak up, I'd really like if we can help each other. I won't look back to the Sunni school with the knowledge I have. Placing importance on tafseer of the Qur'an and Knowledge of the Ahlul-Bayt as well as the logical deduction (actual use of aaql) makes this seem like the real Islam. But then again, it seems Shia scholars and laymen follow two different Faith's which is concerning. You can watch a Sheikh literally walk out of a matamdari before the noise starts. They seem to tolerate random bursts of "narrrai haydari!" and get annoyed and I don't blame them. They also don't seem to brandish their feelings for the Enemies as much as your lay Indo-Pak will. I will say I frequently experience vivid dreams of being in Karbala or Imam Ridha's Haram or visiting Imam Sadiq (as), and I don't think I'll remove myself from being their Shi'i, but I sincerely hope I'm not in the right community to begin with. Do I find a new community? Create one with other displaced reverts? To me it seems the Indo-Pak person has their version of Shia, the Persian has their version of Shia, the Iraqi has theirs, and the Lebanese has theirs. My Shia experience gained me the view that Islam in general is not so universal anymore, or maybe it never was. What community do you suppose a Westerner could approach without becoming culturally Indo-Pak, Persian, or Arab? Why should I follow the school of Ahlul-Bayt(as) if this is what comprises it? I feel like the followers of Muhammad (saw) and Imam Ali(as) are extremely difficult to find now. I know what I've said will attract lots of negative views and that I may have given away too much about myself, but this is simply how I see it and I have no other evidence to see otherwise. I hope my short 'rant' has caused others to evaluate their current standing. Please help.
Assalamualaikum.

That reminds me of a story.
We’re sitting in the Cigar Lounge in the Canyon Hotel in north-central Kurdistan, in the necessarily air-conditioned patio section, of course, drinking cold treble potato juice and citrus cocktails, with lime wheels, of course. We’re no savages. Double Wild Turkey 101 Rye shooters on the side, with full-pint Sapporo Black beer chasers, literally hiding from the brutish realities of this increasingly intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty, CE.
“Arr! Jesus Seafaring Christ on an indigo moonlit bay, Rolf”, I said, in a most exasperated tone.
“We barely made it out of there with our hides intact. How dare these sorry landlubbing fuckers try and sandbag a couple of Doctors of Geology and Petroleum Engineering by inviting us into their benighted little shithole of a country to fix their fuck-ups and then trying to dry-gulch us? Arrr!”
“Easy. Steady, Rock”, Rolf says, ordering another round as he sees I’m about to go off again.
Damn right I’m about to go off again.
“Arr! Those goddamned sorry flatland motherfuckers! I still know my basic detonic chemistry. Let me go to a local grocery store and get just a few household chemicals. Let mix them in the proper proportions. Let me send by courier a few “Care Packages”…Those manky cocksuckers! Ar, Jim-Bob. Keelhaul the women and children first!”
I growled so loudly that fully half the people in the lounge, Oil Patch refugees all, got up, and quietly moved further away.
“Rock. Easy. They’ll hear you…” Rolf notes.
“Let them hear me! I’ll take them all out! Mothering…FUCKERS! Belay that last order, hie them to the mizzen mast. Motherfuckers!” I snarled a bit more loudly.
I know. This is not like me. I’m supposed to be all Vulcan, logical, and unemotional.
Fuck that. I was lusting for these asshole’s giblets. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry or bloodlusty as I was now.
“Guns. Knives. High explosives.” I snarled, “A can of mace…a .45…a fucking flintlock…These cocksuckers fucked with the wrong 7-fingered Expat!”
Rolf, who by some quirk of the hand dealt by genetics, is actually larger than me. He stands up, only to return with a fresh round of drinks and smokes but forbids me partaking until I calm down.
“Dickweed…” I grumble. I must have been in a real snit. Rolf’s one of my oldest and dearest friends.
“Right, Rolf. You are, of course, correct. Let me just go back and kill them a little, and I’ll be right as the mail. Shouldn’t take much more than a little fresh nitro, some C-4, and spool or two of Primacord. I can make it look like an accident…Arr!” I growled, slightly less loudly.
“Better. Close, but still no cigar.” Rolf chuckles, “Now, say you won’t kill anyone for at least 24 hours and I’ll let you have another drink and cigar.”
“Gimmee.” I said, “24 hours? Right? Starting now?” I click the chronograph on my watch.
Rolf smiles and nods. He knows we’ll be long gone well before that. Or, at least, he’s fervently hoping that will be the situation.
OK. So what’s all the palaver? What’s caused the usually taciturn and unflappable Dr. Rocknocker to go off the rails this time?

1. Being dragged into an undeclared warzone under false pretenses annoys me.
   
2. Being shown other’s fuck-ups with the miscreants wanting detailed remediation scripts and then refusing payment cheeses me. .
   
3. Being threatened with extortion, blackmail, and shakedown irritates me.
   
4. Being used as a surreptitious dope mule angers me.
   
5. Getting to the point where I almost have to use deadly force to extricate myself and my cohort from a dicey situation pisses me right the fuck off.
   

Yeah, it was just another contract to sort out a couple of burning oil wells. Another day in the life. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.
And accolades with huzzah clusters to my Agency contacts and my Iridium 9575A satellite telecommunications device. Remind me to be nice to both one time in the near future.
Esme and I are still languishing in the Dubai 5-star hotel system. We’re so bored, that we have taken to no more than a single week at one establishment. We are trying out those hostelries with 4+ stars and I’ve wrangled a bit of cash by writing on-line reviews for a certain travel-oriented website.
Someday, maybe, life will return to some semblance of normality and there will be opportunities for benighted people to actually come to this dismal region of the planet and see what all the noise is about. They’ll need places to stay; so Esme, my darling wife, called in a couple of her contacts and got me a writing gig reviewing some of the hotels in Dubai.
It pays in both experience, exposure, and cash; in that exact order.
In fact, my total compensation thus far could be wiped out easily by my bar bill for one long afternoon.
But, hey; aside from writing my dissertation, I need a little diversion now and again.
Besides, I like to vent, and if a place is deserving of a decent review, I heap it on by the trowel-full. But if they annoy, aggravate, or anger me, good luck getting even a single reservation.
I am tough but fair. Except if you piss me off. Then I call in a virtual verbal air-strike.
Luckily, I haven’t had to do that too often. Evidently, around Dubai, my reputation has preceded me once again.
So, Es and I are gypsying it around Dubai. One hotel to another and that provides a bit of diversion for a couple of weeks.
“God, I’m bored.”, I swan to Esme, “I haven’t blown anything up in so long…I fear I’m losing my edge. Can I go and make some plastique? Just a little? The room safe door’s sticking again.”
“No, dear”, my darling wife relates, “Go work on your dissertation. You’ve got four articles running concurrently, work on the fun one.”
“ARGH!” I swear, “I’m not an organism that relates well to captivity. I need open ground. I need wide-open spaces. I need the smell of fresh air, cordite, and nitrocellulose! I need to blow shit up!”
“Rock, darling…” Esme was about to go all matronly and better-halfedly on me when my satellite phone warbles.
“Saved by the trill”, Esme whooshes. She answers, asks the other party to hold, and hands me the technologically advanced raprod.
“What?” I bark into the device. At US$7.00/minute, I’m not wasting time on pleasantries.
“Dr. Rocknocker?” came the reply.
“Who the fuck else would be at this 28 digit number?” I thought, exasperated. “Yes, this is he. Your dime, start talking.”
“This is Major Zargo Mergewer of the Kurdistan Militia. We have some trouble here. Insurgents have set alight two wells in our Notbya Field.” came the reply.
“Who else have you called?” I asked.
“We’ve talked to ‘Security Chief’ from Canada and ‘Working Shoes & Medium-sized Water Fowl International Well Control, Inc.’ They cannot be here for nearly a week. I know you’re currently in the Middle East. Can you help us?” was the reply.
“First, my contract…” I said.
I am an unrepentant mercenary. Make no mistake. I wish for others to know this full well from the onset.
“Yes, yes! Anything you want! Can you help us?” said the frantic Major.
“I’ll send you my contract. Sign it and return. Then we can talk. Until then, give me some field specifics. I’ll get on the blower and arrange for materials and personnel. What size wellheads were you using? OK. I’ll need well schematics. Here’s the hotel fax number. Burn it up with all the data you’ve got.” I ordered, no time for nonsensical banter. This is business time.
I could have them Email, but this way I’d already have hard copies.
I finish up with “I’ll get to work on that while you sign and return my contract. I guess I’m on it. GO!”, I said.
“Thank you. Thank you. This field is so important to my…” I cut him off.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The longer you yammer, the more oil burns. Move it. I hope I don’t have to ask twice once I’m in-country, Major…” I said ominously.
“Yes. Yes. The legendary American can-do! Yes!” as he rings off.
“Well, Esme, my darling. Your wishes have been answered. Pack me light, I’m headed to Kurdistan. I get to go blow the shit out of an oilfield. Isn’t that lovely? Oh, Yesss.” I smiled.
“That’s my cheery pyromaniac!”, Es exults, “Now, let’s be careful out there. Of course, I’ll have to go shopping and send the girls a few Fourth of July presents to make up for our absence. A deserted wife needs some mad-money…”
I hand her my latest company Gold-Pressed Latinum Americium Express card. It has no limit, express nor implied.
“Try not to break the bank,” I said and I hugged her tightly before I headed off to pack.
While packing, I hear the familiar warble of the sat phone again. Esme grabs it as I’m upstairs trying to decide which hideous Hawaiian shirt I should wear on the plane.
It’s a tossup between the Zombie Chili-Head motif or the ‘FUCK COVID-19’ emblazoned shirt I recently had tailored here in Dubai’s garment district.
“COVID it is.” I chuckled. I’m not flying commercial. It’s either military or a charter.
“ROCK! It’s the Agency!” Esme yells from downstairs in our suite.
“Damn”, I think, “That was quick.”
I toddle downstairs and motion for Esme to prepare my usual talking-to-the-agency drink.
“I’m parched, m’dear. Could you do the needful?” I ask.
Esme smiles, probably thinking of the shopping trip she’s already planned. She gives me the thumbs up and heads to the minibar.
“You do know we have a phone in our room, right?” I ask by way of saying ‘hello’ to Agents Rack and Ruin.
“We couldn’t risk a busy signal”, Agent Rack chuckles, “We just had to hear your melodious voice.”
“Sure, and what other lies have you for me today?” I ask.
“Since you are only an adjunct to the Agency, Doctor, we cannot legally forbid you to take this contract.” Agent Ruin adds in.
“Only an adjunct?” I say, pained, “I am wounded. Here I thought you were genuinely interested in me as a person.”
“We mean you’re not a full agent…yet”, Agent Rack replies.
“Let us thank whatever deity was involved with that decision…” I snicker back at US$7.00/minute.
“However, Doctor, you have proven yourself to be of…service to the agency. Your dossiers and reports have been much anticipated reading material here. In fact, we’d like you to give a colloquium on note-taking and dossier filling upon your return to the US.” Agent Rack relates.
“Are you sure you can afford my honorarium?” I ask, only half in jest.
“Most assuredly. However, if you have your person ventilated while attending a contract, I’m afraid you won’t be much use to us any longer. That would be most unfortunate. We thereby request that you do not take on this agreement. It’s too risky, even for the bulletproof Dr. Rocknocker.” Agent Ruin adds.
“What’s the big deal? I’ve been in war zones before. I wear my body armor. I am now a fully functioning cybernetic organism. What do I need to fear? I’m only going in for money, blowing shit up, and helping out those in their time of need…if the price is right…”, I add.
“Yes, Doctor. Well, we’ve been hearing some most distressing communiques from that region. Regarding drug running, kidnapping, and extortion. True, It’s been only to members of private security forces, but still…” Agent Rack continues.
“Yeah, and they’re by definition, covert. I’m about as covert as a case of the clap. It wouldn’t bode well for any group to try and fuck with a Doctor of Geology, especially one on a mercy mission.” I add.
“I can see that we’re shouting up a drain spout in Afghanistan”, Agent Rack sighs, “So, if you cannot be dissuaded from attending this little soiree, please delay your departure until we can get a package to you.”
“Oh? Goodies?” I ask giddy as a schoolboy.
“If you insist.” Agent Ruin sighs.
“OK, but one question. Which of you do I refer to as “Q” from now on?” I chuckle.
“Doctor. It both infuriates and gratifies us that someone like you can be so smart yet so stupid at the same time. “ Agent Rack notes.
“All part of my chameleon cloaking device. Just a guise I assume to keep adversaries at bay. Act goofy but all the while, have a much deeper understanding and awareness than your protagonists. “ I say.
Agent Rack and Ruin are stopped cold by this pronouncement.
“So, you mean that this is all an act?” Agent Rack asks, only half in jest.
“Of course. I mean, isn’t is obvious? Or obviously it isn’t?” I reply.
I felt good after they rang off knowing I gave them a pair of muscle tension headaches.
“Don’t cross swords in a gunfight, Agents.” I snickered.
Well, I couldn’t get a flight out until the next afternoon. Military charter to Baghdad, Iraq, overnight there, and meet Dr. Rolf Erdölmann at the Babylon Rotana hotel. He’s to be my second-in-command.
Rolf is a German Ph.D. Petroleum Engineer that I’ve known for over 40 years. When I’m going into some dicey situation, I need his expertise, size, and command of languages. German, Dutch, Arabic, Urdu, Pashto, and several local dialects. He’s the only Expat I know that’s spent more time in the Middle East than Esme and me.
Anyways, we’ll meet there and await transport to Erbil, Kurdistan. Probably fly, perhaps overland. We’ll work out the preliminary materials needed for the job, add 25%, and have them trucked into the oilfield.
I already have a list of high explosives and associated materials I want there. I don’t need to wait on a box of blasting cap boosters or sheets of asbestos. I want all that shit there before I set eyes on the prize. Once there, I plan to get to work, clear off all the junk, blow out the wells, and be back in the bar sipping highballs before tiffin.
And we take tiffin pretty durn early in these parts, buckaroo.
I’m all packed and ready to go, even though Esme thinks I should reconsider my flight Hawaiian shirt. Once I explain that it’s a military charter, she shrugs her shoulders and just gives up.
“How long will you be gone this time?” she asks me.
“Unsure, my dear”, I say, “But I have my satellite phone. I’ll call you daily.”
“About that.”, Es remonstrates, “I might go over to Ethel and Lumpy’s place for a few days.”
Ethel and Lumpy are two of our closest friends that actually like living and working in Dubai.
“That’s fine,” I say, “Just leave most your stuff here so you don’t have to drag all our kit back and forth.”
“Oh, I can do that?” Es asks.
“Конечно. Of course”, I reply, “The room’s already paid for until the end of next week. Doesn’t mean it has to be occupied.”
“OK then”, Es brightens, “You don’t mind…?”
“Oh, heaven forfend. “ I say, “Go, stay with Ethyl & Lumpy. Have a good time. Me? I’ll just be working out in some Middle Eastern shithole. No. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. No, really…”
I recoil from the impact of a well-aimed pillow.
“Arschloch”, my darling calls to me.
“Me and no other,” I reply. “You can’t live without me.”
The night passed quickly as it tends to when one goes to bed early because one is bored beyond comprehension. At in-room breakfast the next day, over Greenland coffee, Earl Gray tea and full English breakfasts, with authentic Scotch eggs and black puddings, there was a ring at the door.
“I’ll get it since I’m more or less dressed,” I told Es as she made no stirrings to move other than to add a bit of jam to her tea.
“Dr. Rock…nicker?” the gray-clad courier at the door asked in some incomprehensibly accented form of English.
“Rock Nocker?” I ask.
“I suppose. Sign here.” He asks.
“For what?” I ask back.
“A package for you from the US. It’s coming.” He says.
“Odd. I don’t hear any heavy breathing.” I chuckle back as I sign.
“What’s with the hand?” he asks.
“Industrial accident. New fingers. Wanna see?” I ask as I wave them under his nose.
“No sir!”, he backs into the hall as a crate slowly makes its way down the corridor.
“Set it inside here”, I direct.
I give them a more than an adequate tip and shoo them out of the room. I make certain they’re down the hall and out of sight before I close the door.
“Who was it, Rock?” Es asks.
“Rack and Ruin’s Care Package”, I reply.
Es rushes in.
“May I?” she asks, as she loves opening packages.
“Go nuts”, I reply. “But first, let’s drag it over to the living room. Going to need a bit of space to sort out all this guff.”
The box was large, but light. It was a snap to carry to the living area and lie it down on the floor.
Esme hit that crate like a beaver in an aspen glen full of new shoots. It never stood a chance.
“Excelsior!” I exclaim.
“Is that what that packing material is?” Esme asks.
“Yeah. Funky stuff…Any notes?” I ask. “Careful with those boxes. Might be live atomically-mutated scorpions and tarantulas knowing these characters.”
“Oh, here. An envelope.” Es hands me the letter. She extracts box after box and sets them over to the side.
“Dr. Rocknocker”, the letter begins, “Please find enclosed a variety of devices which you might find of use on your next contract. These are for your use and yours alone. Do not let them fall into the hands of ‘others’. Please familiarize yourself with their uses before you leave Dubai. Most have specific directions for self-destruct if needed. Regards, Agents Rack and Ruin.”
“Well”, I said, “I’m finally getting the recognition I deserve.”
“What is all this stuff?” Es asks.
“Beats me.” I reply, “Let’s find out.”
We spend the next day familiarizing ourselves with the number of devices and gimcracks and gizmos supplied by my friends at the Agency. My, but some of these are very clever. All will be useful but in very specific and decidedly dicey situations. I won’t go over the contents of the crate here, but rest assured, most of these will make their presence known at the proper time in the narrative.
After re-packing, ordering room service dinner, another re-showing of the latest Jurassic Park movie, and a few dozen laps in the hot tub, Esme and I are in the land of Nod. I have to be up, that is, wheels up, at 0530 the next morning. It’s going to be a 2.5-hour flight but figure on another couple-three hours to clear passport control and security.
“Fucking assholes”, I grouse, as I sit in my suite in the Baghdad Rotana hotel. “I know there’s such a thing as security, but I didn’t think it was going to include a prostate exam and high-colonic.”
I am very security conscious but I still bristle when a bunch of ignorant, semi-literate power-drunk knuckle-draggers with sidearms figure it’s OK to scrabble and scrounge through my luggage. I’ve got precision and highly expensive scientific equipment in there, you assholes.
“And that’s my medicine, you tits. Hands off my emergency flasks.” I caution them.
That causes some grunting and gabbling in unknown tongues.
“And hands off the cigars, you Vermicious Knids!”, I exclaim. “They’re legal, they’re mine and they are fragile. They break. Just like my sanity, you wall-hung retractable mobile slurrifiers.”
Try as they might to intimidate me and obtain some graft, once I flash my red Diplomatic Passport and threatened them in good old pissed-off American; they back off, stamp my papers, and allow me passage.
“Enema sockets,” I mutter to no one but the mini-bar. At least it’s stocked with top-shelf libations; unlike the last time I was here and all the booze came in old Extra Virgin Olive oil bottles.
Kowtowing to local religious mores. Can’t get a ham sandwich nor a bacon double cheeseburger around here for love nor money.
“Malsaĝaj bastardoj!” I shout at the Jacuzzi.
I’m on real edge this time.
It’s only 1000 hours, I’ve been traveling through or over 4 countries and been through customs and passport control and I haven’t had as much as a Greenland Coffee yet.
“Well”, I say to the chandeliers, “Time to fix that little problem right now.”
“Much better”, I sigh quaffing a glass full of iced potato juice and lime soda.
I don’t know why I’m so much on edge this trip.
It’s nothing really that much out of the ordinary. Well fires. Big deal. Clear and clean. Blow ‘em out. Get paid and accept accolades. Have a drink, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.
Maybe Rack ruined it for me. Maybe Ruin got me all racked up.
I can’t quite put my finger on it…oh, fuck. Need to plug in my charger and get my other digital set charged up.
“Now, where was I?”, I wondered aloud.
After another two or five cocktails, I’m feeling much better.
I have my mobile office all set up and have made up my field notebooks with a brand new cipher. Ginned up several blank dossiers, and one for Major Zargo Mergewer, in which I’m certain my agency buddies would hold a very high interest, indeed.
I’ve sent my list of the necessary personnel and let the local oil company either fill it with my suggestions or obtain locals with the requisite skills. My list of explosives and adjuncts are being assembled and will be on location when I arrive.
Dr. Rolf will be arriving later this afternoon, so after I call Esme and fill her in on my current disposition, I head down to the Absinthe Cigar bar.
I take along my field notebooks as I need to make some quick updates and a decide to take along a couple of the devices Rack and Ruin so thoughtfully sent to me before I left. Time for field tests, besides, these could actually supply some much-needed humor.
“We’re not open”, the bartender relates.
It’s 1135 hours.
The sign says: “Open 1100-0000.”
“Sign says you open at 1100 hours,” I reply.
“Only when there are customers.” He replies.
”Well, my good man; it’s your lucky day. I’m here, and I’m a customer. Double Wild Turkey Rye and what beer do you have on tap?” I ask.
“No smoking”, he says, pointing to a sign with a pictogram of a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray.
“Good thing there’s no red slash and I don’t smoke cigarettes,” I reply. “Now, again, what beer you have on tap?”
“Go away. We’re closed.” He says and turns to leave.
“Um, Scooter. C’mere. I hate to ask, but you do know I’m a rather reputed guest of this particular hotel, don’t you?”
“Yeah? So?” he spits.
“You heard of the fires out east?” I ask again.
“Yeah? So?” he snarls.
“Well, I’m the Motherfucking Pro from Dover brought here especially to snuff out those fucking fires. And I don’t expect to be spoken to by the bar crew like some gormless swine. So you either get your fucking manager out here instantly or get me my drinks before I find out where your soon-to-be-unemployed-ass lives and I post you a fucking letter bomb.” I snarl with the severity of an Alpha Gray Wolf with a short temper and a bad case of lumbar lumbago.
He stands for a moment puzzling when from the backroom someone walks out and whispers something into his ear. He stiffens appreciably, eyes go dinner-plate wide, and he looks at me with a combination of fear and trepidation.
I suppose me sitting at the bar flexing my techno electro-digits had nothing to do with his quick change of demeanor.
“Double Wild Turkey 101 was it? And a draft, sir?” he asks.
“Rye, if you please. And let’s make it easy. Something local, a pint, my good man.” I say as if nothing untoward had happened.
My double-shot appears instantly, along with a flagon of weak looking, slightly foamy, yellowish fizz water. Farida Lager, the prince of the Iraqi brewing tradition. A sip. Resin, pine tar, and a bit of a citrusy hop aroma. A clear yellow head disappears almost instantly. Medium sourness, light sweetness, umami taste. Fizzy, lively in an undead sort of way. Sort of tolerable, sort of drinkable beer, sort of nothing very special. Especially after a few weeks in the desert.
However, I do believe the company horse suffers severely from diabetes.
“Bartender”, I gasp, “Something heavy, please. Guinness? Anchor Steam? Sheaf Stout?”
They had Baltika Brew El Polutemniy (Dark Ale) from St. Petersburg, Russia, on tap.
Compared to the previous beer, this was liquid ambrosia compared to used dishwater.
I fire up a cigar and the bartender may have looked askance but said nothing. He did say, however, thanks to the listening device that the Agency had procured for me, to the person who arrived previously, that “it couldn’t be that person. I was so old and gray.”
“Fuck you, Scooter,” I thought, as I listened in on their conversation, clear as a bell, from across the 60’ totality of the bar.
“No, that’s him. He even said he was the MF’ing Pro from Dover. Look at that hand. Those black fingers. No, that’s him. For sure. Don’t cross him, he’s got connections in high places.” The other says with a swipe of the index finger to the nose.
The sign that the person being talked about could be very nasty and/or very connected and/or very dangerous indeed. Best to err on the side of civility, just in case.
I’m so dangerous people in the general area risk shrapnel wounds as I go to pieces.
I suck down the dark ale and polish off my shot. I raise a left index finger and motion over to my new friend.
“Listen, we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Doctor Rocknocker, and you are?” I ask as I extend my non-cybernetic hand in pseudo-friendship.
“Um, I’m, ah, Nabu-nazir, sir”, he says, trying mightily to avoid shaking my hand. “Apologies for before, I didn’t know the ah…time.”
“Ah. OK, Nabu, was it?” I said, “Good. I’ll only be here a day or so, so let’s just make like we can tolerate each other. I’m sure it could actually be worth your while if you catch my drift.”
I left a note at the check-in desk to tell Dr. Rolf to meet me in the bar when he arrives. Like I really had to leave such a dispatch.
“Alright, another round, if you please, Mr. Nabu. And please, buy yourself one on my tab”, I said.
“Thank you, sir.” He says, “But I don’t drink.”
“Pity. Being thirsty all the time,” I replied. “Don’t even drink soft drinks or coffee?”
“Well, yes”, he replied.
“Then, you do drink. Splendid. Have one of your favorites on me and please, another round.” I said.
He smiled wanly and wandered off to fill the order.
“Hyper schmuck,” I grumbled under my breath. “I hope this is not a harbinger of things to come.”
The bar adds a few patrons as time does what it usually does and drags itself forward. I busy myself making cryptic notes, playing around with some of the devices I was gifted by Rack and Ruin, enjoying a cigar and a toddy or eleven.
“Mr. Nabu”, I call after 3 or 4 hours, “ Another round, if you please.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he snorts.
Of all the things in this world that are most akin to throwing fuming gasoline on an open fire, these words are closest.
“Scooter”, I ask, “How old are you?”
“I’m 22”, he snorts again.
“I see”, I replied, “How many countries have you visited? How many technical degrees do you possess? How many jobs have you held that require extreme experience and technical expertise?”
“Ummm…”, he umms.
“I have three, working on four, advanced STEM degrees. I’ve worked more dangerous jobs than you’ve had hot dinners.” As I waggle a 3/5ths handful of orthotic digits his way. “I’ve lived and worked in over 45 countries around the world in my near thrice-longer than your life. I do not think for an instant your opinions are more valid or desirous than mine. Now, get me my drinks before I start to lose what left of my patience. Savvy?”
The empty shot glass in my left had exploded into a series of barely contained high-velocity shards.
“Yes sir! Yes sir!”, he startles and runs off to get me my drinks.
“Shitheels,” I grumble. “What the fuck is it? Is this job the one I should have backed away from? Damn, I hate second-guessing myself…”
To be continued…

That reminds me of a story.
I was sitting in the Charles H. Lounge of the Seoul Four Seasons Hotel, in the patio section, of course, drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side, with Tiger beer chasers, hiding from the brutish realities of this intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty, CE.
After a record-breaking stint in Best Korea, brushes with officious and covert undercover agents, an impromptu bacchanal that got us ejected ass-first and in the nick of time out of the country; I was due for a spot of rest & relaxation.
But not this enforced, ‘pandemic’ incarceration nonsense. OK, I’ll forgo my impressions of this little global overreaction and just wait for the high-pitched wails of "OK, Boomer!” to die down.
Suffice to say, we’re on the right-hand side of the bell curve and this little piece of nonsense is slowly going the way of all previous pandemic plagues. It’s burning itself out and no matter what the mask-wearing, Purell-soaking, bubble-wrapped cadre believes; it would have done so if people had done precisely nothing other than employ and exercise common-sense symptomatic medicine.
Well, you may think that quite the broad statement; and it is. But you see, I have this little thing called ‘science’ on my side. There is no control study group so that everyone jumping up and down congratulating themselves on ‘flattening the curve’ is spouting nothing but 100% USDA-grade horse, bat, and bullshit.
They don’t know that, in fact, they can’t. That’s why I dismiss them and their lack of scientific proclamations.
I, at least, have the benefit of analysis of the previous history of nearly a dozen similar outbreaks in the last 110 years which have all followed the same bell-curve. Some were worse, some were not, but all followed the same etiology. Many had vaccines developed after-the-fact. That kept them in line until the next virus Andromeda Strained its way into view. Well, that’s viral pathology for you. And no amount of mask-wearing while you drive alone in your car or distancing your socials will change that rock-solid fact one iota.
Which was why I was so surprised when a very dapper looking individual, an employee of the hotel evidently, sought me out while I was in the bar waiting for commercial jet aircraft to once again fill the air so I could once again ply my global trade.
“Dr. Rocknocker?” he asked.
“Yes?”, I replied between puffs of the massively damn fine Oscuro non-Cuban cigar the hotel somehow procured for me during my enforced overlong stay.
“I have this communique for you. I was told to deliver it personally.” He said, without so much as a quip or sneer.
He was bearing a small silver platter, about the size of a competition Frisbee™, but not near as aerodynamic, exhibiting a small envelope emblazoned: “Doctor Rocknocker. FEO”
“Hmmm”, I hmmed.
“’FEO’. ‘For Eyes Only’. This could be fun.” I mused.
I went to reach for the envelope, when the courier, resplendent in his sharp, snazzy suit sneakily backed away a step or two and said: “Sorry, Sir. I must first see your identification.”
“Fine, fine.”, I replied, “But first I want to see yours. Quid pro quo.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“It means I’m pretentious,” I replied.
He was obviously confused.
“It means I need to see your ID before I show you mine. I need to ascertain that you do indeed work for this hotel and are not some sort of insidious secret agent of a dark, rival foreign power.” I noted shady and sincerely.
He produced a hotel ID card. Thus satisfied, I capitulated and allowed him a peek inside my red Diplomatic Passport, complete with its really awful picture of me inside.
It wasn’t the camera nor the photographer’s fault. I admit it was mine alone.
Thus satisfied, he presented the tray to me and I took possession of the envelope. I left 5,000 KRW, South Korean Won, on the tray in its place.
Thus satisfied; he smiled, executed a small bow in my direction, and withdrew without a further word.
“Well”, I chewed it over, “That was weird even by today’s standards.”
I stuffed the envelope into the pocket of my incredibly garish, and newly tailored, Hawaiian shirt. Here in Seoul, in the garment district in such places as the Myeongdong Market, Dongdaemun Market, and Lotte Department Store Myeongdong, I was able to locate many, many fine shops just loaded to the gills with bolt after bolt of incredibly horrible, polychromatic, and nausea-inducing textiles. The perfect fodder for new Hawaiian shirts.
I purchased several meters for each new shirt, as I took a well-fitting and comfy Hawaiian shirt, with all my new cloth samples, to a local tailor. There, he could reproduce the existing shirt in the media of the new textiles which I had procured.
The result was a quintet of the most appalling, comfortable, and insidious Hawaiian shirts on this side of an explosion in a paint factory. That was next to an abattoir. That burned down. And swirled into the remains of an ice-cream factory that had been abandoned due to lack of sales. Along with the dairy and stockyards next-door.
They were awful. They fit perfectly and comfortably. They were perfectly awful. I intended to get more, but first, let’s see what Mr. Secretive Envelope has to say.
I open the envelope at the bar, well away from prying eyes, and the card inside simply stated: “Dr. Rocknocker. Sir, please be in your room at 1800 hours local time to accept an important phone call.”
No “From”.
No “Thank you.”
No “Live long and prosper.”
Just this enigmatic card and the overly polite exhortation for me to be somewhere for a bloody phone call.
“Well, me ol’ mucker”, I thought between puffs of my cigar and slurps of my drinks, “Here we go again.”
“When, how, and where did this old Baja Canada boy take the wrong turn in life to deserve this?” I pondered.
I decided that I required a little more old thought provoker, called the bartender over, and bought him and myself the next round of drinks. Several, actually.
Back in my suite, it was rapidly approaching 1800 hours local time. I couldn’t figure out who might be calling. I already talked to Esme back in the states. She was staying with her mother back in Brew City since it was still lockdown-central back in the Sultanate and the girls, both being ‘essentials’, were working.
I spoke with Rack and Ruin and they claimed innocence.
But, then again, they always do.
“No idea, Doctor”, Agent Rack related, “However, whoever it is, we know you’ll update their dossier or create new ones if the situation demands.”
“Hell, Racko”, I replied, “These could be nefarious uber-stealth agents from a dark and dismal land out to silence me before I spill the beans on whatever they don’t want beans upon spilt.”
“You flatter yourself, Doctor”, Agent Ruin laughed as he chimed in. Little did I know this was a conference call. “You’re important to many, but not that important.”
“Well, hell’s fire”, I said, assuming the martyr position, “Here I go and give you all that good, deep undercover intel and this is how you repay me.”
“Yeah, right”, Rack interrupted, “We had to have your reports cleaned of cigar ashes and rings from vodka and whiskey glasses.”
“Well, there’s a novelty”, I replied, “Considering I send all my reports electronically.”
“Yeah”, Ruin chirps back in, “And if we figure out how you do that…”
We all had a good chuckle. They admitted that they weren’t behind the forbidding phone call and Esme was equally innocent.
“But, Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack reminded me, “We will need updates as soon as new data are available.”
“Y’know, guys”, I said, “With all this global lockdown nonsense, I must be about the only one feeding you new and constant data. I think that deserves some form of recognition in the line of duty. Preferably monetary.”
“Once a mercenary…”, Agent Ruin continued, “…always a mercenary. We shall see. You already got your stimulus check, correct?”
“Oh, jolly joke, Agent!”, I swore mildly, “You know that we’re exempt from that. Expat, out of the country; out of sight, out of mind? Except every 15 April.”
“Not to us, Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack crooned. “Just to some of our cronies over across the way at the IRS.”
Remind me to be nasty to my agency contacts the next time we meet.
I rang off, poured myself six fingers of iced Old Thought Provoker, Oriental Division, as it was rapidly approaching call time. I needed the few minutes to get comfortable, fire up a cigar, and assume my position at the desk of taking phone calls and notes for dossiers.
Precisely at 1800 hours, my room phone rang. I let it ring a few times to show whoever was calling that I wasn’t that anxious about the whole situation.
Finally: “Hello?”
A monotone voice replied, “Is this Dr. Rocknocker. Late of the Middle East and Baja Canada. Now in unsolicited lockdown in Seoul, South Korea?”
“Yes…”, I replied, “But since you’re the one calling me, you must already know that. What’s, uh, the deal?”
“Please hang up and answer the phone when it will ring in exactly five minutes. Thank you for your understanding.” As the robotic voice called off with a click.
“OK. Shit. This is getting too weird.” I considered. “What the flying Philadelphia french-fried fuck is going on here?”
Well, five minutes later, I had my answer.
“RING!”
“WHAT!?!”
The tone simmered down once the gentleman on the other end of the line explained what indeed was transpiring.
“Dr. Rocknocker…”He began.
“Call me Rock, it’ll save everyone time.”
“Yes, indeed. Fine, um…Rock, I am Dr. Purshottama Mirchandani of the Alang-Sosiya Ship Breaking Yard in the Indian state of Gujarat.”
“I see. Hello, Dr. Mirchandani. How may I be of service? What’s cookin’?” I said, thinking enough of this cloak and dagger bullshit.
“Yes. Right”, he continued, clearing his throat, “I represent a consortium of individuals, primarily Japanese and Indian, who have executed a Memorandum of Understanding to try and bring education, safety, and sensible protocols to the Indian ship-breaking industry.”
“Interesting.” I replied, “And how does that concern me?”
Dr. Mirchandani tells me that India recently passed the "Recycling of Ships Act, 2019" which ratifies the Hong Kong International Convention for the safe and environmentally sound recycling of ships,
“Doctor”, he continued, “Traditionally, ship breaking is an extraordinarily dangerous, toxic, and very hazardous undertaking. It was customarily done with a surfeit of manpower and a lack of education and safety. We propose to reverse that situation.”
“Admirable”, I said, “And still, I am wondering why we are talking.”
“Doctor”, he continued again, “We know that much more can be done, more cheaply, more efficiently, and more safely with explosives.”
“Ah!”, I said as the penny dropped, “Now I think I have a bearing on the conversation.”
“Yes, indeed”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “We have been searching around the world for those educated and certified to handle explosives as well as capable of training and willing to do so. The candidate will have to have experience with noxious gasses, high-pressures and temperatures, hazardous conditions, and multiple cultures of a workforce; with varying, ahem, ‘degrees of education’. Every time we enquire, in several various industries, your name comes up. From Russia to Japan, South America, to Central Asia. We saw that you were last in North Korea, so you’ll please excuse our need for security and seeming subterfuge.”
“Yeah, that was a bit of a hoot.”, I had to admit, “So, Dr. Mirchandani, you got his attention. You’re talkin’ to the hookin’ bull. What do you propose?”
“As we were told to expect. No flowery dialogue, right down to business. Fine.” He replied, “We’d like for you to travel to India, inspect the yards, and do what you think necessary to implement the use of explosives in ship breaking, to develop safety protocols, and train the workforce. Would that be of any interest to you?”
“Well, Doctor”, I replied, “Since we’re being all upright, forthwith, and personable about this whole arrangement, I can tell you that (1.) Yes, I am somewhat interested, (b.) I am available right now, for the foreseeable future until this virus nonsense burns itself out and (iii). You’re going to have to agree to my terms before I lift a single stick of TNT.”
“As we were foretold”, Dr. Mirchandani said. I could almost hear him smiling. “We will send you, by courier, a packet with the proposed project prospectus. If you find it acceptable, please submit, in triplicate, your terms and conditions.”
“Nah.” I replied, “You guys handle the reproduction. I’ll send my T&C as well as my contract. You make the needed copies. We green?”
“Green, Doctor?” he said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Are we in agreement? We on the same page? We smokin’ the same hookah? You diggin’ me, Beaumont?” I said.
He laughed heartily, “Oh, yes, Doctor. The American sense of humor. Most impertinent. Oh, yes, we are very green.”
“I await your curried bundle”, I said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s way past Happy Hour and I’m behind schedule.”
“Yes, of course, Doctor.”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “You will have our prospectus by this time tomorrow.”
“Groovy.” I replied, “Looking forward to it.”
He laughed again, said good-bye, and hung up.
“Yeah. Here we go again” I said to no one in particular as I chose a ghastly new shirt, grabbed a cigar, and headed for the lounge.
Later, I told Esme of my next little job.
“Shouldn’t be too long. At least it gets me out of this fucking hotel and back in the field.” I said.
Es agreed and was pleased that now she could stay in the states a while longer and not worry about going shopping with her mother. Hell, I was gainfully employed and working while the rest of the world was under lockdown.
The parcel arrived the next day and was hurried to me in the bar. Just how they knew where to find me remained a mystery.
I zip it open and there’s a very, very official sheaf of papers for me to digest. I take it, my cigar, and drink over to a booth in the back in the corner in the dark, away from prying eyes. This is official shit. Time for security and introspection.
OK, fairly standard sort of project. Teach people how not to kill themselves, with and without explosives, and safely reduce large sea-faring craft to smaller bits. Actually, it sounds like it has the potential for some real fun. Plus, I get to blow up ship-loads of shit.
Now, I have a go at modifying my usual pirating-forms, ah, contract, to conform especially to this particular situation. This is so much more fun than doing taxes, I muse. I get to go all carte blanche here, but no too far overboard. They let it slip that I was Numero Uno on their hit parade, so that little slip is going to cost them.
Hey. It’s business.
I spent the better part of that night and into the wee hours of the next day modifying my typical contract. There were some new things added, at which they may balk. However, they want me to ramrod this little project for them; the contract, besides being iron-clad, is more or less non-negotiable.
Once finished, I run it past Rack and Ruin and get their input.
“Jesus, Doctor”, Agent Rack said, “Are you wearing an eyepatch and have a parrot on your shoulder?”
“Ah, you’re just jealous”, I snickered back.
“Fuckin-A, Bubba”, Agent Ruin retorted.
I see I’ve trained my agency boys well in the vernacular of the industry.
They had no objections and were pleased with the new intel. Of course, now I had to provide dossier-filler on everyone above the rank of Tea-Boy for them.
Thus sated, I sent the contract back to Dr. Mirchandani. I collapsed in bed and slept the sleep of the wrongfully sleep deprived.
I fully expected to be awakened by a phone call.
I wasn’t.
Shower, shower scotches, and down to breakfast. Still no call.
Back to the suite and go about updating my field notebooks. New code here, new dossier entry there. It’s almost noon and still no call nor Email.
“Fuck it”, I said. I grabbed the latest issue of the Journal of Explosives Engineering, grab a bottle of Korean high-octane hooch, a couple of cigars, and draw a nice, foamy bath in the Jacuzzi.
“If that doesn’t generate a phone call”, I said as I settled back in the frothy foam, “Nothing will.”
A few hours later, and still no call.
“Ah, well”, I commiserated with myself, “Looks like they had champagne tastes and a near-beer budget. Guess I was too pricy for ‘em. Oh, well. Go cheaper. Think hiring a professional is expensive? Wait until you hire an amateur.”
The phone began to rig at that very moment.
“Yes?” I said into the raprod.
“Dr. Rocknocker?”, the voice on the other end of the telecoms device inquired.
“Yes?” I said, slightly annoyed. Who else would be at this number?
“This is Dr. Mirchandani.” He said.
“I surmised as much”, I replied, “How may I help you?”
“Um. Yes. Your contract”, he continued, “It’s very, um, explicit.”
I’ve had my contracts called lots of things: “Piracy via paper”. “The ramblings of a crazy man”, and “Outright legal theft.”
“Explicit” was new.
“Yes”, I replied, “I suppose it is. Beyond that, any further observations?”
“Yes. Dr. Rocknocker”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “However it’s explicitness, we agree. When can you begin?”
“As soon as you can arrange a flight for me, minimum Business class, from here to there,” I replied.
“We can have an Air Force plane at your disposal this time tomorrow. Will that suffice?”
“What kind of plane? I’m not keen on aging Russian transports.” I said.
He bristled a bit, but I knew of the Indian Air Force. Many of their planes had instruments that were marked in Cyrillic.
“We were able to arrange a Gulfstream G700 for you. It is normally reserved for star-class military individuals. But, this was an unusual situation. Will that suffice?” he asked.
“It’ll do, “ I replied, “I will need, as per my contract, transport from the hotel to the airport and in this case, directly to the aircraft. You sort all that out, and I’ll pack.”
“Yes, Doctor”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “Everything you desire done will be done.”
“Good”, I replied, “Cable me the itinerary and I’ll be ready to go. In the meantime, I’ll send you a list of equipment that I will require upon arriving. Will that be acceptable?”
“Of course, Doctor”, he said, brightening somewhat, “I look forward to meeting you.”
“Same here, Dr. Mirchandani”, I said, “Now, when I send my list, no short-sheeting me. I need the best supplies available. We’re not making chapattis here. I am the best only because I work with the best. I’ll also need an assistant. One educated in the geological sciences, and a speaker of English and Hindi. We green?”
“Army green!”, he replied.
Not my favorite shade, but I guess it will just have to do.
I had a few hours, so after a ski-ball tourney down at the lounge, I’m later in my suite, going over explosives companies catalogs. Say what you will, but going from primitive, near-dial up internet connections in Best Korea and the lightning-fast, rip-your-lungs out fiber-optics here in the south is like going from the Neolithic to 2001: A Space Odyssey.
I pondered and paused. I leered over some new devices and got to know some old friends, many in new togs. I was going to cut apart ocean liners, VLCCs (Very Large Crude Carriers), ferries, military transports, and ships of many shapes and sizes. I am going to be training a crew of locals who will in turn train more locals. I’m not going to be in-country long, a week or two max. I not only want the best, but I must also have the best.
Like Grandad always said, “Shoot once; you might not get another shot.”
I finally shut down my laptop at 0200. I was tired. Really bone-deep tired. I had a 15-page email that I transmitted to Dr. Mirchandani.
“Damn.”, I thought as I prepared to hit the rack, “Just the bare necessities. I hope we can find more once we get in-country.”
The next morning, I showered, had only two shower beers before breakfast, packed, and went down to the restaurant. It’s going to be a long, flighty day and I don’t like to eat much on days like that.
So I had a couple of Greenland coffees, a brace of buttered scones, and a nice light Maduro cigar from the hotel’s walk-in humidor.
“That’s right”, I remembered, “I’m going straight to the plane where they’ll doot my passport and take my luggage. No duty-free this time. Best stock up before I hit the airways.”
Back in the room, after last-minute calls to Khris, Tash, Esme, and my Agency buddies, I was waiting for my call that my ride to the airport was here. I was already essentially signed-out, as I wasn’t the one paying for the suite. The UN and other such agencies would be handling that.
I decide to call a bellhop and have him transfer my luggage downstairs, where I would await my ride. I officially checked-out, tipped everyone who had made this part of the trip most enjoyable, and sat outside, under the veranda, awaiting transportation to the airport.
OK, here’s the drill. It’s a balmy 21⁰ C. I’m in Cargo shorts, ‘“Protest Dinoflagellates” Mesozoic Society Against Perverted Practices’ T-shirt, ghastly Hawaiian shirt, field vest, field boots, Scottish knee-high woolen socks, complete with tassels, and my Black Stetson.
Yep. Field clothes. Check. Ready to travel.
Oh, I also had a large, very dark, very ominous looking cigar lit. Plus, the bartender topped off my emergency flasks, so I was sampling one or more of them while I whiled away the time.
A large automobile pulls up to the hotel. Gray in color, no distinguishing decals, totems, or stickers. The white license plate displays a few numbers and a series of black stars.
It wheels up to a hurried stop, and a uniformed individual of obvious Subcontinental heritage pops out. Another shady looking character sits behind the vehicle’s steering wheel.
“You. Yes, you”, he points to me.
“Yes?” I reply.
“You are the ‘Dr. Rocknocker’?” he asked in quick, clipped, and very British-tinged Indian tones.
“Yep. ‘The one and only.’” I drawl in reply.
“Your luggage. Will go into the boot of the car. We will be leaving.” He snaps.
“OK, sure. But be careful, I’ve got some seriously delicate scientific apparatus packed within the luggage.” I reply.
“I will wait while you put your luggage in the car. We are in haste. Hurry. Now!” He snaps again.
“OK, look Colonel Chuckles or whoever you are.” I snap back, “Let’s just take a little assessment of the situation. You are sent to collect me and my luggage for transport to the aircraft. Correct?”
“Yes, yes, yes”, he snaps, “Now hurry and load your gear. We must leave.”
I sit back down and re-fire my cigar. He goes positively crimson with barely contained rage.
“What are you doing?” he literally screams, “We have a tight schedule. You must…!”
I stand up and get right in his face, which is a bit difficult as I’m easily 25 centimeters taller than him.
“NO! YOU must…”, I replied in kind, “…shut the fuck up and listen to me. You got that Colonel Chickpea or what the fuck is your name. You never even introduced yourself.”
He stutters, stammers and sizzles; but remains crimsonly silent.
“OK, here’s the deal, Herr Mac”, I tell him, “I’m the hookin’ bull here, or haven’t you had the chance to read my contract? Your government, at levels so high above yours they’re orbital, contracted me for this job. As such, I am the boss and what I say goes. Errand boys like yourself don’t get the chance to order me around. In fact, no one on this little trek does. Now, go ask the nice Bell Captain, one Yi Kyung-Jae by name, to find a bell boy or porter to load us up. After that, we can be off. But rest assured, I’m not one of your minions and you try pulling rank on me again, and you can explain to Dr. Mirchandani why the fucking plane arrived back in India empty. You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”
He sputtered but realized he’s crossed swords with someone who brought claymores to his butter knives and complies.
After I tip the bell boy nicely for loading my gear carefully into the limo’s trunk, I stroll over to the rear door and go to grab the door handle so I can slide inside.
Colonel Chickpea, or whatever his name was as he’s not yet introduced himself, goes noisily apoplectic.
“Your cigar!”, he rages, “It is forbidden.”
“Not for me, asswipe.”, I calmly replied, “Call your bosses or read my contract. I’ll wait.”
I was going to slip my cigar into a special travel tube I always carry. It quietly and without any fuss extinguishes your cigar and safes it until you decide to relight it to enjoy again. I wasn’t about to get in the limo with a lit cigar.
Until that point.
I stroll over to one of the seats out in front of the hotel. I relight my cigar and Yi wanders over asking if he could get me anything.
“Well”, I reply loudly, “Since we’ll be here a while, I’d like to see the wine list.”
Colonel Chickpea is as close to a personal volcanic eruption as I’ve ever seen in a specimen of his species.
“YOU! WILL! ENTER! THE! CAR!” he literally screams.
“Sure, chuckles”, I reply calmly, “Right after I have a look at this wonderful wine list Yi just brought me.”
Colonel Chickpea realizes he’s fucked. He can’t out-stubborn or out-rank me, and he hasn’t obviously read my contract. Plus I might just be telling the truth.
“I……apologize.”, he finally says meekly. “Please, into the sedan, we need to meet your transport.”
“Well, now. There ya’ go”, I smile, “That didn’t hurt too much now, did it? Sure. Let’s make like a baby and head out.”
I slide into the spacious back seat and greet the so far silent driver.
I tap him on the shoulder and ask him if my cigar would be a bother. He grunts a monosyllabic negative.
“Colonel Chickpea? Cigar bother you?” I ask.
“No.” was the only reply.
“Good”, I reply, “As long as one of us is being reasonable”.
I didn’t light the cigar. I’m funny that way.
It’s about 40 miles, give or take, from the hotel to Inchon International. I just sit back, figure it’s going to take about an hour, and decide to continue the article I was writing for Bastards and Blasters Bimonthly.
I pull out my notebook, emergency flask #2, and tappy-tap-tap away.
The ride to the airport was in total silence, save for my typing and sipping from my flask. The traffic wasn’t too terribly bad, as the Cheap Mexican beer virus lockdown idiocy extended over here as well.
We exit the main drag for the airport and instead of heading to departures, we head to Air Cargo.
Past this checkpoint, past another, into the warehouse and air customs district. We pull up alongside a nondescript, weather-beaten shack. We slide to a stop and Col. Chickpea tells me this is customs. I am to take my passport so it can be stamped. My luggage is not to be searched, thanks to my contract and Diplomatic Passport.
I wander over to the shed and see there is one military type sitting in the lone chair behind the lone desk in the place. I knock first and I hear a grunt of “Enter”.
So I do.
“Passport!” the unsmiling character behind the desk commands.
I handover the red leather-encased document.
He flips it open after looking at the Cyrillic on the cover and being slightly confused.
“You are…Doctor…Rocknocker?” he asks.
“Yes.”, I reply.
“Do you have any identification?”, he asks.
“Look in your right hand,” I reply.
He bristles somewhat. I answered truthfully. He knew that as he didn’t ask for “any other identification”. He was going to raise a ruckus when he sees my whole-page special UN North Korean visas in my passport.
“You traveled in North Korea?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. Five fun-filled weeks”, I replied, “At the behest of the Untired Notions and Best Korea’s leader supreme.”
He stiffened visibly. He stamped my passport, stood, saluted, and handed my passport back with surprising alacrity and politeness.
“Doctor.”, he said, “Thank you for your time. Pleasant journeys.”
“Thank you”, I replied, “Let me tell you, of the two Koreas, I prefer the south.”
He smiled and nodded.
Nice chap.
Back outside, the limo driver was leaning on the car, smoking a cigarette. Colonel Chickpea was nowhere to be seen. There was another Indian military fella standing next to the car.
“Doctor Rocknocker?” he asked, as he walked toward me, hand extended.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied and received a hearty handshake.
“I am Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, your liaison for this part of your trip. I will be accompanying you to Gujarat. However, time is of the essence, and we’re running slightly late, so if you would please get in the car, we’ll be off.”
“OK.”, I replied, “Major… ahh…”
“It is a mouthful”, he smiles, “Please, ‘Major Nak’ will be fine.”
“Groovy. Call me Rock”, I said as we shared a handshake once again.
In the car, we were whipping past commercial airliners that haven’t moved for the last 6 weeks. This virus business is killing international air travel. It’s really going to take a global toll once it’s all done and dusted. Luckily I have a fully functioning immune system and can still travel.
“Major Nak”, I asked as we zipped past a Meraj Airways 747 that needed a good wash, “What happened to Col. Chickpea or whatever his name was who brought me here?”
“Ah, yes.”, Major Nak replied, “Lieutenant Dhuleep’s behavior was noted. I am replacing him for the remainder of your trip. You see, I have read your contract.”
“I see”, I replied, noting the only one to rat out the rambunctious Lieutenant was the silent driver, so I need to open a couple of new dossiers.
“I’d like to know the name of our driver. He’s been very polite and I wish to commend him in a letter I wrote for Dr. Mirchandani.” I asked Major Nak.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” He assured me.
“Oh, I think I should note exemplar conduct and deportment as well as that not so. His name?” I asked again.
Major Nak looked rather uncomfortable. The car slowed to a stop. The driver slews around in his seat.
“I am Aryabhata Ranganekary of The Indian Research and Analysis Wing, Doctor. Please convey my regards to Agents Rack and Ruin the next time you should talk together. Happy trails.” The driver says.
I am flummoxed.
The car starts up and we drive the last mile and a half in silence.
We pull up alongside an exquisitely appointed and brand new looking Gulfstream G700. It’s a beast of a private jet. Twin engines, tasteful white and blue exterior, and just a small circle of five black stars betray it as something not fresh off the showroom floor.
The trunk lid pops on the limo and my gear is whisked away to the cargo hold of the jet before I could get out of the car.
“Careful with that, it’s…oh, never mind…” I say as my gear disappears.
I walk over to the driver’s window and give a slight tappy-tap. It rolls down.
“I’ll give Rack and Run your best, Agent Ranganekary”, I say and hand him one of my best cigars. “Please, enjoy.”
He smiles and shakes my hand. “Do not forget, Doctor. Hello to Rack and Ruin. It’s been years.”
“No worries, mate,” I say, and with a tip of the Stetson, he departs.
I’m escorted onto the jet. It’s plush, lavish and all of this is entirely wasted on me.
“Have a seat, Doctor. Any actually. You and I are the only passengers.” Major Nak notes.
This is one of the few times in my career that the passengers on the flight will be outnumbered by the flight crew.
I pick a plush seat on the left-hand side of the jet. Major Nak chooses one opposite. A pair of stunning, nubile, young Indian misses arrive. They help me sort out the in-cabin storage and put my carry on gear safely away but readily convenient.
The captain, co-pilot, navigator, and security agent, I suppose, come aboard and greet Major Nak and myself personally. They promise it will be a smooth flight.
“Normal flight time for this trip is 7.5 hours. We’ll be flying above 50,000 feet at Mach 0.90, so we should be able to shave that to 6.5” Major Nak informs me.
“That works for me”, I reply, “I may be a seasoned world traveler, but the less time in the air, the more I like it.”
“You will enjoy these hours.” Major Nak assures me, “You are but the second VIP to travel in this aircraft. The first was the General Vishnu Heravdakar of the Indian Armed Forces.”
“I am honored”, I said and gave a little clasped hand bow.
“Very good, Doctor. Can I interest you in a drink?” He asks.
“Only if it’s large, cold, and free,” I replied with a chuckle.
“Rushpa!” He calls.
One of the Indian cabin crew magically appears.
“A drink for our guest. And one for myself as well.” He orders.
She smiles, executes a quick little bow, and hurries off to the galley. Moments later, a very tall, nicely iced vodka, lime, and carbonated citrus cocktail is finding a home in my hand.
“As per your contract.” Major Nak smiles.
“I didn’t specify what drink I required.” I protested.
“Your reputation precedes you, Doctor.” Major Nak says, “Aish'!” which is the Indian equivalent of cheers.
I reply “Salaamat'!”, which is an Urdu equivalent of ‘Cheers!’, a term which I use in the Sultanate from time to time.
He looks surprised that I know this and begins to rattle off in machine-gun cadence Urdu something or other indecipherable.
“Sorry, Major”, I say, “But that’s the extent of my Urdu.”
He laughs and says that he was saying how unusual it was for some ‘gora’ to speak Urdu.
He goes on to explain that ‘gora’ means ‘white’ and is not meant to be derogatory.
“Oh, no problem, Major”, I say, “I’ve got a really thick skin, yaar [mate].”
Major Nak laughs, “You’re going to fit in perfectly.”
Before half my drink as gone, we were wheel-up and headed south. I have to comment again, I have never seen international airports this quiet, and I’ve been I some in countries with active shooting wars. This viral business is taking a serious toll, and I don’t mean just in human life. Though, that is a regrettable statistic, but not novel.
Anyways, we’re whooshing to Angel’s Eleven and according to the readout on the bulkhead of the cabin, we leveled out at 54,000 feet above mean sea level, at an airspeed of Mach 0.87.
We were cookin’ now.
I’m looking out the window and seeing the tops of clouds and not much else. I smell smoke and turn to see Major Nak lighting up a Gold Flake King cigarette.
I’d have never thought to fire up a heater in a plane, much less one nudging the sound barrier at over 10 miles altitude.
“Oh, Doctor”, he says, “If you’d like, I’ll arrange an ashtray for you.”
“Please,” I said, slightly confused.
“Vijaya!” he barks. One of the other of the pair of cabin attendants materializes out of nowhere.
“An ashtray for our distinguished guest.” He orders.
She departs with a smile and a slight bow. She returns with a standing ashtray that somehow locks into the floor and hands me a new drink.
“I saw your drink was almost finished.” She purrs.
“Thank you” I said, “Aapaka bahut bahut dhanyavaad.” [आपका बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद।,Thank you very much.]
She beams and retires to wherever they store the cabin crew on these flights.
“So, Doctor, tell me. What brings you here?” Major Nak queries, obviously making small talk as he’s already admitted to reading my contract.
We spend the next 5 or so hours just chewing the rag, talking things over. I gave him a play-by-play of my experiences over in Best Korea. He laughed so hard at the way we spent our last night in-country, I thought he might wet himself. That he was not so covertly trying to match me drink-for-drink I think might have helped elicit his raucous response.
We had a choice of Western or Indian food as an in-flight meal. I like Indian food, but sometimes, it doesn’t return the favor. I asked for the Western meal, and Vijaya asked me how I’d like my steak.
Well, that was weird on several levels. But since they offered, I replied, “Blue, please.”
It arrived blue as blue can perfectly be on a 2” thick T-bone. There was grilled corn on the cob, small, whole buttered parslied potatoes, and camp beans on the side.
Of course, a fresh drink accompanied the meal.
Major Nak decided to take a nap right after tea. I didn’t want to wake him. Poor soul.
He was just too high-strung...
To be continued…