Thought of the day...

 There are those in the future that will make Chairman Mao look like Will Rogers. 

Think about it.

Short story: "The Conductor"

 

"The Conductor"

“I feel weak; I need to sit down,” said Phil, moving to an easy chair, noting that it was near 9:00 AM.

“Come on man, it’s time to leave, get up,” a voice came from a stranger who seemingly appeared in his living room.

“Who are you?” said Phil.

“Never mind all that – it’s time to go.”

“Uh, yeah,” said Phil, rising from the chair, unable to resist the compulsion to leave, following the stranger to the front door.

Crossing the threshold, a blinding light filled his vision for a moment, he and the stranger having entered into what appeared to be nothingness, devoid of substance, yet illuminated, even the place on which he stood having no discernible form.

“Where are we?” asked Phil.

“We are nowhere,” answered the stranger, “This domain does not exist anywhere, in space or time.”

“What are you saying?”

“You don’t realize it do you, that’s typical.”

“Realize what?”

“You are dead.”

“What?”

“You heard me the first time, no point in repeating myself.”

“But I can talk, I have a body.”

“All for continuity and appearance, nothing more,” said the stranger.

“But – ”

“No buts, you are dead – all that you knew is gone.”

“I have a business to run, employees, a ten million dollar inventory, it’s tax time for Chrissakes!” exclaimed Phil.

“Not any more, none of that exists for you.”

“This can’t be real – I’m dreaming,” said Phil.

“No, this is your reality now, that isn’t,” said the stranger, “Look, perhaps we should sit down and talk, in transition this sometimes happens.”

“Transition - sit down – where?”

“Here,” said the stranger, a pair of comfortable chairs appearing from nowhere. “Sit.”

Sighing and overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness, Phil took a seat.

“This is not a dream, you are dead, and that’s the way it is,” said the stranger, looking him in the eyes.

“But my work, the store, I must get back there.”

“Let it go, you cannot get back, ever, it is gone.”

“What of Larry, Bob and Vickie, what of my store?”

“What of them?”

“Well, do they still exist?” asked Phil, concerned for his friends.

“In their contrived realities, yes they do exist, but you are no longer part of their reality.”

“They are real?”

“Of course they are; they always have been.”

“So I could get back, as they still exist,” said Phil, trying to employ logic in a place where logic only applied to the transition. “There was a physicist named Everett that wrote – ”

“No, no, not at all, Hugh Everett, he was wrong on that - let it go, there is nothing to be done.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand, you are dead, and for most, if not all, it is time for transition.”

“To what?”

“To your next reality, should you decide to choose that; I wager you would have no desire to remain here or to transit to my level.”

“Your level?”

“I have elected to be a conductor, I grew bored with standard transition, too much trouble, at least for now.”

“What do you mean, I am Phillip Morgan, and that’s the only reality I have ever known.”

“No, no, no,” said the conductor, shaking his head, annoyed, “That’s part of it yes, but at transition you become whatever individual that the doors lead you to, with no memory of your past existences,” a long hallway of seemingly infinite length, lined with doors, appearing behind them.

“Then why do I remember it now?”

“When in nowhere you retain your memory until you transit through the threshold of whatever door you choose. That is how you are able to transit.”

“So all the stuff I was told about religion and god do not apply?”

“What god?” asked the conductor, “None of that sophistry applies here, or anywhere else for that matter.”

There is no god – how, I still don’t get it – then tell me why we exist,” said Phil.

“Oh boy,” said the conductor, “It depends on how you define existence – I guess; we’ll sit here for a bit and I’ll explain it to you, not that it will matter after you transit.”

“Why?”

“You won’t remember this, but I’ll explain it to you anyway, I’ve done it before for others.”

“Okay, tell me.”

“Very well, it’s been so long in real time that there is no one who really has the answer to existence, but for lack of a better explanation, we are non-corporeal beings who “live” vicariously through what are termed avatars that we become when the transition is made.”

“Avatars?”

“That’s what they’re called, your Phil Morgan existence was nothing more than an avatar, through which you enjoyed a life as him – that is now over and it is time for you to transit to another avatar.”

“But why?”

“It’s the way the universe works. You are free to remain here forever if you like, though even the term forever does not truly apply to nowhere.”

“No, why can’t I remain as Phil Morgan?”

“You are not Phil Morgan even now – and in the “time” if you want to call it that, in which we have talked, all you knew has passed into oblivion.”

“It has?”

“In relation to us, it never really existed anyway,” said the conductor, “It was only a construct, a realm that we exist in for those who make the transition.”

“You mean this boring place is the true reality?” asked Phil, it finally dawning on him.

“No, this is nowhere, a place where some like myself choose to remain, at least for a time, to serve as conductors for others to make the transition. Further, the concept of actual reality is only a theory, all there seems to be is what is termed existence, that is, our consciousness.”

“There is no reality?”

“Who knows; reality is what you make it.”

“Do you have a name?” asked Phil, his mind reeling.

“Of course I do,” the conductor said, “I go by Lotinmas Apenn V’lento Knejeb, my given name, the name that I held in my last iteration.”

“Iteration?”

“My last corporeal existence as an avatar.”

“I’ve never heard such a name.”

“Not where you came from, considering that in my past iteration I was a physician residing on the fourth planet of an orange star in what is known to you as the Whirlpool Galaxy, on a planet called Earth.”

“That’s the same name as my planet,” said Phil.

“Yeah – most of them are called Earth it seems, for whatever reason.”

“Really?”

“Uh huh, a few are called Terra, but the vast majority are called Earth.”

“I wonder why?” mused Phil, the fact that he was dead rushing back into his mind while they conversed.

“No one really knows, but there is a theory that long in the past, we were corporeal, originally developing on and coming from a world called Earth, or Terra, and those places into which we transit are based on that.”

“Like the eternal return?”

“Exactly.”

Both were silent for a while, Phil occupied with reflecting on Vickie, who had been his girlfriend. “Uh, Lotinmas, so, you think that in the distant past, we actually were like the avatars?” He was surprised that he could remember such a name, but it came to him easily.

“Probably, though it has been so long one cannot be certain.”

“What of this place – what is it?”

“It is nowhere; further, there are many nowheres, probably an infinite number of them, each nonexistent in space or time, but existing, nevertheless.”

“Are they all like this?” asked Phil.

“This is whatever you want it to be,” said the conductor, the area in which they were sitting now becoming a sunlit bank by a pond, with the hall of doors still in the background.

“An illusion?”

“All is illusion, as real or unreal as anyone wants it to be, the only true reality seems to be our consciousness.”

“Cogito ergo sum,” said Phil.

“Yeah, Descartes got that one right, if nothing else.”

“You know of him?”

“Of course, but not as the Descartes of your Earth, but the one of mine.”

“The same name?”

“Of course not, on my Earth his name was Urentun, but the philosophy is the same; the underlying principle seems to appear in all iterations of existence.”

“How would you know the name Descartes, from my Earth?” asked Phil, narrowing his eyes.

“Here, in nowhere, the total knowledge of the universe is available to all conductors. That is how I know our history and what transition is; how do you think I can talk to you in English? I have never heard of nor have I spoken one word of the language until I came to conduct you.”

“I guess that makes sense, sort of,” said Phil, looking to the pond.

“Great, so what do you want to do?” asked the conductor.

“Regarding what?’ asked Phil.

“Well, are you going to sit here, or get on with the transition?’

“I need to think about it for a while – to ascertain my position.”

“What position – you’re dead and are nowhere – you can hang around here or proceed to the doors, those are your choices.”

“You said that nowhere is whatever one wants it to be, correct?”

“Yeah – what of it?”

“I could recreate my life here, and continue with it.”

“Yeah, you could, but you would find it boring.”

“Why?”

“I’ve done it,” said the conductor.

“You have?”

“Yes, but you will find that there is no challenge in doing so, as you control whatever happens, consciously or not. That is one of the reasons that I decided to become a conductor, for even existence as an avatar is a contrived existence, like what you are envisioning, and for me, this is reality.”

“How long have you been a conductor?”

“As our existence goes – for a very long time.”

“Why?”

“Is that all you can say – why?” asked the conductor, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Phillip Morgan, having enjoyed his past life, and not yet accepting of the fact that he was dead, thought the idea of recreating his past life was an intriguing prospect. He could simply continue with what he was familiar with, the concept of change anathema to him, as he had no point of reference, other than his past life.

“Uh, how would one go about it?”

“Go about what?” asked the conductor, looking to what passed for a sky.

“Recreating my life?”

“You really want to try that?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, just think about it, I’ll be waiting.” With those words, the conductor vanished, leaving Phillip Morgan alone, sitting next to the pond.

“Think about what?” Phil said to himself, still sitting in the chair. Suddenly, the pond scene vanished and he was sitting in his living room again.

“I did it!”

Rising from the chair, he looked about, his house appearing exactly as he had left it. He smiled. “Well, I guess I’ll head the store and open up, looking to a wall clock that read eight-thirty.

Traveling to his business within minutes, he put a worn brass key in the lock and turned it, opening the door. Quickly turning off the alarm, he turned on the overhead fluorescents and headed to his office. Opening a door marked “Phillip Morgan, Proprietor”, he headed to his desk and took a seat.

 

Cloning Norma

 The following is another story that flowed out of my warped mind, for readers to enjoy, laugh at, or despise. I wrote it in a few hours a while back.

Just remember folks - like Dark Resurrection, it's only a story...

***

Cloning Norma

“I simply want to see if it can be done,” said Jonathan Barnes, a brilliant, eccentric, borderline deranged, independently wealthy medical researcher and forensic pathologist, leaning back in a leather recliner, a vodka martini in his right hand.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” asked his wife Alice, also a pathologist, standing to the side in their living room next to a fireplace. “Sure, it’s a novel idea, but there is no way to get into the crypt without being caught – aside from that, she’s been rotting in there for 59 years!”

“There must be some good DNA left in her, hell, we can yank out some of her teeth and use those if we need to. She also has a pelvis full of marrow and osteoblasts if we have to go that far.”

“No; both would have been denatured by the formalin long ago,” Alice retorted.

“Not necessarily, all we need is a hearse and some money to buy off the security guard – I already talked to him and he even said he would help us.”

“You mean all YOU need,” said Alice.

“No, I mean us - who else is going to drive the hearse so we can get the body out of the cemetery?” asked Jonathan.

“How much will the guard cost us?”

“I’ll hand him ten grand, with that kind of loot for an hour’s work, we’re sure to succeed!”

Later, Dr. Barnes met with George Reiss, a security guard employee of Westwood Village and Memorial Park, Los Angeles. “Here’s the money,” said Barnes, handing him an envelope containing $10,000.

“All in hundreds, good,” said a greedy Reiss, counting his money, “I’ll be there on Sunday night at three AM, and I’ll have the crypt open and the casket ready to pull.”

“Right, see you then,” said Barnes.

Soon, Sunday night came, with the doctor seated in a late model Cadillac hearse, his wife Alice behind the wheel.

“If this screws up – they’ll lock us up in rubber rooms and throw away the keys,” Alice spat as they headed for I-405 North from Interstate 10 West.

“You worry too much Alice, the cemetery is deserted at 3:00 AM.”   

“It’s as if we’re ghouls,” Alice replied.

“If you’re going to make an omelet, you have to break some eggs.”

“We are not making an omelet, we are stealing a corpse!”

“Hardly, no one owns her, so who is the victim of our theft – the cemetery?” retorted a sardonic Jonathan as they headed down Santa Monica Boulevard toward Glendon Avenue.   

“Have you ever considered that what we are doing is unethical, not to mention illegal?” asked Alice.

“Ethics are irrelevant speculation, they’re nothing but a bunch of shit,” said an amoral Jonathan, Alice sighing at his cynical reply.

Alice drove the Cadillac into the cemetery, arriving at an open-air mausoleum called the Corridor of Memories. George was sitting on a stone bench near the crypt, smoking a cigarette.

“Evening, doc, you’re right on time.”

“Yep, let’s get this show on the road,” said Barnes, opening the rear of the vehicle and pulling out a collapsible aluminum funereal dolly.              

George and the doctor rolled the dolly down the concrete walkway toward a corner where crypt 24 was located. The resourceful security guard had already opened it. An ornate black casket with a layer of dust was therein, containing the rotting remains of none other than Marilyn Monroe.

“Let’s get that thing out of there,” said Barnes, locking the wheels of the dolly directly in front of the crypt, he and George pulling and sliding the casket onto the dolly. A desiccated lily was on the lid of the oblong box; Jonathan grabbed it and tossed it into the crypt without a second thought.

“An easy way to make 10 grand, that’s for sure,” remarked George, replacing the stone crypt cover, marked with “MARILYN MONROE 1926-1962”, afterward reinstalling the cover rosettes and retainers.

“Yep, they’ll never even know she’s took a powder,” replied Barnes, as the fiendish pair made their way to the hearse with the funereal dolly, the dusty black casket securely in place.

Pushing the collapsible dolly and casket into the hearse, Barnes shook Reiss’ hand and opened the passenger side door. “Thanks again,” he said after moving the electric window down.

“Anytime doc, call me again if you need me.”

“Right-o,” Barnes replied before he and Alice, along with the hijacked remains of Marilyn Monroe, drove off.

Coming up the ramp to I-405 South, Alice asked, “Why did you pick Marilyn Monroe and not someone else?”

“She was in a crypt; it was easier, we would have had to dig up Farrah, she’s at Westwood too.”

“Farrah Fawcett?”

“Yeah, I would have loved to use her, or even Lee Remick, but Farrah’s six feet under and Remick was cremated.”

“Why are we doing this anyway?” asked Alice as they headed home.

“Why not – it’s science Alice – what better things have we to do; I thought it would be fun to see if I could clone somebody. We have our paid volunteer to carry the clone, it’s time to put her to use.”

“Jonathan, you are so fixated on the idea that you could clone someone, you didn’t stop to think if you should clone someone. What do you think Marilyn Monroe would think of what you are doing?”

“Marilyn thinks nothing due to being consciously challenged; ethics don’t apply to bodies, and if she was anything like me, she’d think it’s a splendid idea!

“Why - we know it will work, look at Dolly the sheep – been there, done that.”

“That’s different – Dolly the sheep is not Marilyn Monroe.”

“As if there is a difference.”

“Well there is a difference – Monroe is a human, not a sheep.”

“Was a human, both were animals, mammals in particular,” Alice replied, as they exited I-10 East.

“We have not cloned a human before,” said Jonathan.

“That we know of, and it’s not like you are going to get a Nobel Prize for this.”

“You don’t know that, maybe I will.”

“More like a prison term,” she retorted as they pulled the hearse into their spacious compound with their home and private lab.

The next day, with the casket secure in a utility room adjacent to the lab, it was time to open it. Donning greens, face shields and gloves, they walked in, Jonathan switching on the lights and an exhaust fan. “Let’s open her up,” he said, sliding a latch on the side and opening the lid.

The corpse was in remarkable condition, with a veil over the body and another dried out lily clutched in Marilyn Monroe’s rotting hands.

“Well I’ll be damned, she’s in really good shape, what do you think Alice?” asked Jonathan, looking to his wife.

“Yeah, she’s another Medgar Evers, but a ripe melon, nevertheless,” Alice replied dryly, as the room filled with a bizarre, pungent, sweetish stench of formalin and nitrogenous amines, the products of decomposition. Reaching in and touching the face of the long-cold cadaver, she felt very little give, and added, “She’s turned into a glorified soap bar, Jonathan.”

“That’s to be expected; what we’ll need to do is obtain the DNA, do an assay, find usable genetic material, and then dismantle the cadaver,” said Jonathan, looking at the corpse of Monroe as if she was an old Chevrolet to strip for useful parts before sending it to the crusher.

“There’s no way we will get her jaws open, saponification has turned her into a block of adipocerous tissue,” Alice observed.

“I agree,” said Jonathan, pressing a knife into the cadaver’s cheek, and feeling quite a resistance. Pressing harder, Monroe’s head snapped off and rolled to the side of the casket. “Goddamnit!” he exclaimed, “Hold her skull and I’ll pull the lower jaw off.”

A dutiful Alice holding the skull, the jaw snapped away, nylon thread ripping through the lower lip of the corpse and now hanging from the upper gums. Jonathan held the lower jaw in his gloved right hand, crumbly adipocere falling into the casket like stale breadcrumbs.

“Son of a bitch,” a frowning Jonathan observed, looking at the upper and lower jawbones. “Fuckin’ mortician knocked out all of her teeth to get the gold and silver.”

“Typical,” said Alice, “One of the perquisites of the funeral industry.”

“Well, let’s take a break for a bit, then we’ll come back and pull her pelvis for assay,” said Jonathan, both exiting the room and closing the door.

During the break, Barnes and his wife conversed regarding the procurement of DNA from the decaying remains of Marilyn Monroe.

“Since the teeth are gone, what if there isn’t any usable DNA in her pelvis or thighbones?” Alice mused, having an iced tea and a roast beef sandwich.

“Then it’s back to the drawing board I guess, there’s always Sandra Dee over at Forest Lawn,” said Jonathan, taking a sip of black coffee, enjoying an Italian cold cut sub.

“She’s a lot fresher too,” Alice replied.

“Yeah, she bought it in 2005, I think.”

“Is she in a crypt or a grave?”

“She’s in a crypt, if we need her it won’t be a problem,” said Jonathan.

Soon, Marilyn Monroe was dismantled, a determined Dr. Barnes saving the pelvis and thighbones for genetic assay.

The other remains of Monroe were now strewn about the open casket haphazardly. Portions of nylons, a scarf, a desiccated torso with arms, clad in a green blouse, part of a head with bleach blonde hair, and toothless lower jawbone lay in the upper part of the casket. A pile of adipocere tissue cut from the pelvic area and upper legs lay on a discolored and decomposing skirt, sitting on rotting rubber padding beneath the torn and discolored cloth liner. The remnant of one buttock was clearly visible, as was a section of upper pubic mound, complete with brown hair. A pair of disconnected lower legs clad in nylons protruded over the other end of the casket, a pair of discolored high-heeled shoes still on the feet.

Having prepared the pelvis for genetic assay, the deranged physician awaited the results, noting with satisfaction that the DNA extracted was intact, with perfectly preserved bone cell nuclei in suitable condition for “cloning extraction and insertion” as he called it.

“All right Dr. Frankenstein, we’ve got the DNA, how are we going to get rid of the rest of her?” asked Alice, pointing to the utility room containing the remains of Marilyn Monroe and her casket.

“Like this,” said Jonathan, opening a closet door in the utility room. A blue plastic drum and various chemicals were on a shelf next to the drum. “I’ll unload the casket into this drum, add concentrated hydrochloric acid and water to reduce the bones, and then neutralize the mixture with sodium bicarbonate. After that, I’ll use this.”

He pointed to a one-quart bottle of Roebic K-37 septic tank treatment, sitting next to carboys of hydrochloric acid and a box of Arm and Hammer baking soda. “This will reduce Marilyn to a completely liquid form for convenient disposal via the sewer. The clothing and casket liner can go out for the garbage man, as can the casket, once I cut it up, or we can simply burn it in the fireplace.”

“Yeah, that should work, good plan,” Alice replied. “By the way, Jennifer Moore will be here tomorrow morning for her ovulation harvest.”

“Ah yes, our young incubator. Hopefully she responded well to the gonadotropins; I want to get as many ova as possible from her for this, as the first clone implantation may not take.”

Later that evening, the remains of Marilyn Monroe were unloaded from the casket and dumped into the blue drum. Using a hose, Dr. Barnes proceeded to fill it with around thirty gallons of water, to which he added two gallons of concentrated hydrochloric acid. Looking into the drum and seeing the floating remains being attacked by the acid, he said, “Adios, Marilyn.”

Putting the rotting clothing and shoes in a garbage bag, he ripped out the casket liner and bagged it as well, sitting it out in cans for the garbage men to collect the following morning.

“So, she is dissolving?” asked Alice after Jonathan put out the trash.

“Yep, Marilyn is melting away to nothing like the Wicked Witch of the West,” Jonathan answered, “The acid is working better than I expected. I should be able to neutralize it tonight and then add the K-37.”

“Oh goody,” said a smiling Alice, relieved that the remains of Marilyn Monroe would soon be leaving their compound quietly, via the sewer.

While Monroe’s remains assumed liquid form in her blue plastic drum, Barnes’ patient Jennifer Moore arrived the next morning for “super ovulation harvest” as the eccentric physician called the procedure.

A still somewhat sedated Moore afterward rested comfortably in a specially prepared and equipped recovery room, with Alice attending to her needs. “Jonathan wants you to remain in recovery until tomorrow to assure there are no complications from the harvest,” she said to their patient, who nodded.

Late into the afternoon, Barnes and wife were in the lab, creating nine cloned ova.

Before they reach blastula stage, I can divide these cells to create even more clones,” a smiling Jonathan observed with satisfaction.

“Why bother - what do you plan to do with them, create an army of Marilyn Monroes?” asked Alice.

“It would be interesting to do, wouldn’t it?”

“No Jonathan, it would not be interesting. It would be idiotic, or even insane – I think the world had enough with one of her.”

“It’s just an idea Alice. I’m heading to the utility room to saw up her casket,” he replied. “I’m also going to pump the drum dry and rinse it.”

“What do you intend to do with the pieces of the casket?” asked Alice, no longer concerned about the dissolved cadaver.

“I was going to throw it out, but I think we can just burn it all up in the fireplace to save time and bother,” said an unconcerned Jonathan, adding, “Call over to the Tasty Wok and have them send over some orange chicken, shrimp fried rice, shrimp chow mein and some egg rolls; please ask Jennifer what she wants.”

“Right,” said Alice, the doctor walking off to the utility room to perform his latest task.

A Black and Decker electric chain saw quickly reduced Monroe’s ornate black casket to more manageable form, Jonathan filling a large, wheeled trash can with small chunks of oak. “This will burn very well,” he observed with a smile, closing the lid and wheeling it over to a corner of the room. Quickly sweeping up sawdust from the casket, he dumped it into the blue drum containing the liquefied Marilyn, both to be pumped into the sewer for disposal. He walked over to the counter and plugged in a portable Milwaukee sludge pump, placing the intake hose in the drum, and the outlet hose in the utility sink. Throwing the switch, the drum was quickly relieved of its contents, rinsed, and then placed next to the trash can full of wood.

Conversing with Jennifer the following day in the lab, the doctor inquired if she was prepared for clonal implantation.

“Sure, as long as I’m getting paid like this, I’ll have as many clones as I can,” she replied, having been paid $100,000 dollars for her services as an incubator.

“Excellent,” said Jonathan, taking her blood pressure.

“It’s a helluva lot better than whoring myself out on Sepulveda Boulevard in the evenings; I’ve got student loans to repay and want to save up some money for a down payment on a house,” added a pragmatic Jennifer.

“Good, I will inform you when an embryo will be available for implantation, within the next four days,” said Barnes. One would be implanted, the others frozen for possible use if the first implantation failed, or with other “incubators”, if they were needed.

Free room and board in the compound would also be provided for Moore once the pregnancy was certified, so the doctor could monitor all aspects of his audacious venture.

On a warm summer day nearly eight months later, in front of horrified fans, the cover of Marilyn Monroe’s crypt fell to the walkway and broke into three pieces, exposing her empty tomb.

The following week, The National Enquirer bluntly asked:

“DID MARILYN MONROE REALLY DIE, OR WAS IT ALL AN ELABORATE HOAX?”

A photo of Monroe and Joe DiMaggio was beneath the headline.

Ponsler's Revenge...

This is a short titled "Ponsler's Revenge" that I started years back and never quite finished.  I just went over it - it's rough, but I hope you enjoy it. 

 "Ponsler's Revenge" 

 Once the “Democratic Socialist” government fell, there was little for anyone to do other than survive until the Legal Junta consolidated power over what was left of the country. Southern California was in complete anarchy after the massive quake. Most of the southwest had elected to secede from the Union and join the Sovereign Nation of Texas, comprising the former U.S. states of Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, and Colorado. 

 Richard Ponsler, a 53-year-old physician with degrees in medicine and psychiatry, was, after years of brutal physical and psychological torture in solitary confinement by sadistic jailers, released from DHS/FEMA Concentration Camp 122, on the fifth of March. 

 Dumped outside the gates with other prisoners, a legal identification, a brass key, and a credit script for $100,000 USD in his hand, he proceeded to walk toward the city. A changed man, he had learned from his liberators that the “Freedom Brigades” of the United States Federal Government had murdered his entire family four years earlier. 

 Looking to the newly minted, laminated ID card, he noted he had been assigned an apartment, 78 Southside Drive, Building 2, Apartment C, in which to live on the outskirts. Having let his hair and beard grow during his confinement, he looked more like a latter-day hippie than a man who would be later given control of a facility dedicated to the destruction of those who had betrayed the American people. 

 “I must cut off this annoying shit,” he said with firm resolve, brushing graying brown locks from his face, walking on alone, as others discharged with him, their minds destroyed by years of impalpable terror, stared back at the DHS/FEMA camp, as if it were their only home. 

 Entering the city hours later he said, “I need a cigarette and a good shot of booze,” years of Richard’s unjustified confinement not sating the lure of tobacco or alcohol. 

 “We cash Legal Junta checks here!” exclaimed a sign draped over a sign that once stood over a Circle K.

 Walking into the store, he approached the counter and presented the check. “Can you cash this script?” 

 “Hand and it to me and I’ll see, I’ll need a photo ID too.” 

 Richard handed it to the clerk with his identification.

 “Sure, it’s only a hundred thousand, just endorse it,” said the clerk, handing the check back with a pen.

 Signing it, Richard handed the check back to the clerk, watching him counting off 100 thousand dollar bills and handing them to Richard as if they were only old twenties, along with his ID. “Want to buy anything?"

 “Yeah, I’m hungry, let me look,” said Richard, starved to near death from years of having been served the bare necessities of life at DHS/FEMA 122, moving to the frozen section. 

 Grabbing three burritos, he put them in a microwave oven and headed to another refrigerated case, grabbing a liter of soda. “I have three burritos in the microwave, and this,” said a tired Richard, putting the container on the counter, “Give me a pack of Marlboros, and a half gallon of your cheapest whisky.” 

 “Sure, here’s the liquor,” said the clerk, grabbing a 1.75 liter plastic bottle of bourbon. He sat it on the counter. “That’ll be $969.23.” 

 “What are you saying? A thousand fucking dollars, for this?” 

 “Uh, yes, the dollar was devalued again last Wednesday,” said the oblivious clerk, pulling a fresh pack of Marlboros from above his head and putting them on the counter. 

 Inflation, thought Richard, frowning and producing a brand-new thousand dollar bill sporting the image of Grover Cleveland. Fucking bastards at the DHS/FEMA jail ripped me off, a hundred grand isn’t worth a thousand bucks these days. 

 Heading to the microwave, he pulled open the door and grabbed the still half frozen burritos, heading from the store to his assigned residence. 

 Unlocking the entrance of 78 Southside Drive, Building 2, Apartment C, he entered, reaching to his right for the light switch. 

 Nothing happened. 

 He dove for the floor, his packages falling to his feet, expecting the sounds of machine gun fire to sound in his ears before his death. 

 “Fuck!” said Richard, raising his head as the lights finally came on, revealing an empty, gray-carpeted apartment devoid of furniture. 

 “Goddamnit,” he said, rising from the floor, closing the door and grabbing for his scattered purchases like a man going for a lifeline. “What a miserable existence this has become,” he said, pulling a cold beef and bean burrito from the bag, ripping open the package and gorging himself on it, meat of any kind something he had not tasted in over three years. Inhaling the first, he grabbed the second, and opened the soda, taking a deep drink from it after it had foamed over. 

 “Ah,” he sighed, exhausted from his twenty-five mile walk, “Time for a smoke, and some booze,” he added, tearing open the Marlboros and pulling a cigarette from the pack, lighting one. He coughed after the first puff, not inhaling as deeply on the second. “God how I missed that,” he said, opening the plastic bottle of cheap bourbon and drinking deeply from it. 

 Two hours passed. Falling drunk from a sitting position to the bare floor of the unfurnished apartment, Richard lapsed into a deep and welcome sleep, his rest now devoid of sadistic jailers who had seemingly loved to wake him up as soon as he dropped off from complete exhaustion, surrounded by the repetitive noises of unrelenting torment, courtesy of the unremitting ‘song’. 

 “Doctor Richard Ponsler, please wake up and talk to us,” came an unknown voice, shaking him awake just after sunrise. 

 “I am, uh, Richard Ponsler, a citizen of the United States of America. I am an apolitical man. I am a physician; I harbor no ill will toward those who now rule the United St – …” said Richard by rote. 

 This reaction was thanks to the hundreds of beatings the United States Government, the supposed defenders of liberty, had given him for over three years of solitary confinement, on orders of the “Democratic Socialist Party”, all other parties, Democrat, Republican, Libertarian and smaller organizations having been declared illegal after the downing of Air Force One and the assassination of the Vice President nearly seven years earlier. 

 “No friend, I’m Sergeant Lane, serving the Legal Junta, we are not your enemies. I repeat, we are not them, please wake up and talk to us, we need you, your experience and your expertise,” said the voice.

 “Experience and expertise, in what, man – who the hell are you, FBI or CIA thugs sent to kill me?” asked Richard, rubbing his eyes. 

 “No, I am not FBI, CIA, nor am I a thug, I am sent to you from the Legal Junta.” 

 “Oh yeah, the Legal Junta, and who are they, Chairman Mao’s stepchildren?” 

 “Chairman Mao? Who’s he?” 

 “Probably your grandfather - who the fuck are you?” asked Richard, focusing on his latest tormentor. 

 “I said I'm Sergeant Lane, now, answering the first part of your original question, well, uh, your expertise in medicine, psychiatry, and, uh, your experience with torture, are needed by the Legal Junta, considering what you went through at DHS/FEMA camp 122,” said Lane, a tall, blond, thirtyish man, while Richard looked to him, still rather drunk. 

 “You’re kidding, right?” Richard asked, dizzy, moving to his feet, staring the man in the eyes. 

 “Not at all,” said another uniformed man, walking in to the apartment, “I’m Major Dillinger, a sworn representative of the Legal Junta. We know of your expertise and history, and we’d like to offer you a position with us.” 

 “Yeah, why would you do that pal, I’m an enemy of the people, or haven’t you heard?” 

 “Please, Dr. Ponsler, rather than discussing the technicalities of our offer here, I suggest that you accompany us, have a fine breakfast with us, and then we can discuss the details of the matter.” 

 “And if I refuse to go with you?” 

 “That is your choice, you are a free man under the Legal Junta; the Constitution has been restored - you may decline if you like without prejudice or reprisal,” said Dillinger, “But I think, if you will talk with us for a while, you will find our offer very intriguing.” 

 “Major Dillinger you say, are you of any relation to John Dillinger?” asked Richard with a slight smile. 

 “Yes, he was a distant relation of mine, and if you recall he didn’t care much for the old government either,” Dillinger answered, returning the smile, a man in his mid-fifties with graying temples. 

 “Okay, what the hell, it’s not like I have anything to do here anyway, let’s go,” said Richard, looking to the unfurnished apartment in the bright sunlight. 

 A short time later they arrived at and entered a restaurant, the original signage covered with a tarp emblazoned with “Hot Food Here”. Taking seats at a table, the three men and their driver were greeted by a young, pretty waitress, she handing them menus and glasses of water. 

“Coffee this morning, Major?” she asked. 

 Dillinger looked to the group, and said, “Yeah, coffee all around, bring cream and sugar too.” 

 The girl jotted the order down on a slip, then turned and left. 

 “Uh, I haven’t noticed much damage around here from the war,” spoke up Richard. 

 “We’re some of the lucky ones doctor,” said Dillinger, “New York and at least another hundred major cities are leveled, not to mention LA, but at least that was from the quakes. Fuckin’ Federals used every damn option they could to hold on to power, no matter how unprincipled – incendiaries, poison gas, carpet bombing, even neutron bombs, you name it, they used it. I venture they meant to kill us all.” 

 “Christ almighty, you’re kidding,” said Richard, “I never heard of that.” 

 “You were in a torture camp for three years with no news, word has it they didn’t have CNN or FOX at 122.” 

 “No they didn’t,” said Richard with a frown. 

 “Come on, don’t get so somber on us doctor, we all lost people in the war. I used to be a family man, now I’m a bachelor with no children.” 

 “How many were lost?” 

 “Estimated US population is perhaps 140 million citizens as I speak. Those bastards killed more people than Stalin, Mao, Hitler and Pol Pot combined. In the name of freedom, freedom for them that is, they killed anyone in their path, crackers and whiteys, niggers and spics, gooks, half-breeds, drunken Indians and anyone else who resisted their power, including their children too,” said Dillinger. 

 “Good Lord,” said Richard, incredulous at the revelation. 

 Their coffee arrived. “Your order today Major?” asked the waitress, placing a bowl with packets of sugar and tiny containers of half-and half on the table.

 “Bring us the usual fare Sandy, four New York strip steaks and eggs, medium on the meat and over easy on the eggs; with a generous side of toast, sausage and hash browns, all around,” said Dillinger with a wave of his hands, adding as he looked to Ponsler, “That sounds good to you, right doc?” 

 “You bet, with ketchup and A-1 too?” asked Richard, forcing a smile, his mouth watering at real food. 

 “Of course”, said Dillinger. 

 After breakfast, Richard sat for a moment, using a napkin to clean egg yolk and steak sauce from his beard, his tongue annoyed by three broken, dead and now rotting teeth in the upper left of his mouth having caught shreds of steak. 

 “Goddamnit!” said Richard, “DHS/FEMA bastards fucked up my teeth, where are the toothpicks?” 

 “Here, you know, your beard’s a foot long man; you look like Rip Van Winkle,” said Dillinger plainly, handing him a toothpick dispenser. 

 “I swore I would never cut it until I was released from that DHS/FEMA hellhole,” said Richard. 

 “I’d say you missed your opportunity last night.” 

 “No I didn’t, I had no shears, nor did I have a razor with me,” Richard answered, reaching for his coffee.

 “Now that we’re here and have met, that problem should be easy to cure, along with your broken teeth, now, getting to the point, I told you of what those bastards did to yours and ours – you want a crack at them?” 

 “Who?” 

 “Get with it doctor, we have over a thousand of those traitorous Congressional bastards in custody at DHS/FEMA 122, some from the very top. After lengthy discussion, and having learned of your survival, we, as representatives of the Legal Junta, would like to offer them to you, free gratis.” 

 “For what?” 

 “For requisite disposal at your pleasure, to be conducted in whatever fashion you, doctor, may deem suitable for them.” 

 “You’re telling me some of them are here – the ones who authorized the murder of my family? 

 “No, I am telling you they, the authors of your family’s destruction, and my family’s destruction, over one thousand of them so far, with more to come, are presently incarcerated at DHS/FEMA122, your former prison. We are offering you the opportunity to take your revenge upon them.” 

 “Revenge, Major - revenge is a dish best served cold.” 

 “And so it shall be, provided you elect to join us, the Legal Junta has authorized us to follow your orders, and yours alone, as a field commissioned full colonel of the Legal Junta.” 

 “I was never in the service.” 

 “I’d say you were, there were POWs that never went through what you did, and survived, that is. That makes you a veteran – we’re just formalizing it,” said Dillinger. 

 “What of my sadistic jailers, what of my revenge on them?” Richard asked. 

 “The entire staff of 122 was summarily executed shortly before you and the others were liberated.” 

 “Oh well, so much for vengeance upon mine enemies,” mused Richard, “Though I imagine proxies will suffice for what I have in mind.” 

 “So you are with us?” asked Lane. 

 “I suppose, with proper support,” said Richard cautiously, a sardonic grin on his face. 

 “Very well, by the authority vested in myself, Major Ronald Dillinger, duly given by Legal Junta leader, Edward Scanlon, acting President; I, upon your oath, will then appoint you as US Army Colonel Richard Ponsler, Commandant and First Executive over DHS/FEMA camp 122. Raise your right hand and swear the oath, once you are sworn, you are our commanding officer, via the orders of the acting President.” 

 “An oath to what?” 

 “To God, and the Holy Bible.”

 “Fuck that Major, I’m not a believer of any kind. Therefore, I suggest that find yourself another man to do your bidding,” said Richard, rising from the table, Sergeant Lane looking to Dillinger. 

 “You’re not a believer in God?” asked Lane. 

 “No, I never have been - and especially after all this. I will not be a hypocrite and pretend that I believe in anything, regardless of my desire to make my tormentors pay. I will not swear an oath on a mythical entity that I do not believe exists,” said Richard, turning to leave. 

 “Hold on for a moment doctor,” said Dillinger. 

 “Hold on for what?” asked Richard, turning to him.

 “Would you swear on something else?” 

 “Such as?” 

 “Your personal honor as a man?” 

 “Sure, I want all those bastards dead, I’ll swear to that on my honor.” 

 “Will you swear loyalty to the Legal Junta, on your honor, and follow their directives?” 

 “Yes, and no, Dillinger; sure, I’ll kill their enemies for them, with utmost pleasure and by any means available, provided they are my enemies too, but I reserve my right to dissent on any other matters.”

 “Explain,” said Dillinger, his hands folded, sitting at the table. 

 “After disposing of known traitors as I see fit, I will only honor the original Constitution of the United States of America, authored by James Madison – and specifically, the Bill of Rights.” 

 “Agreed, granted, your demands are granted, doctor.”

 “Oh yeah, how easy it seems to be on your word Major Dillinger, if so, then put your humble supplication in writing, on a document signed by that Legal Junta acting President Scanlon fellow, or whatever you really call him or yourselves, and I will accept your offer of commission. Until you do that, I’m heading home to my empty apartment to get drunk – and wait for you clowns to kill me either before or after I arrive there.”

 “That is not our intention friend, you are misjudging us doctor,” said Dillinger. 

 “Friend? I see no friends here, only smiling, unknown opportunists like I saw in the past, and I don’t give a shit what you say to me. I say your words are lies, nothing more, just another sick game authorized by the United States Federal Government to break me.” 

 “No, I swear to you on my honor that they are not lies,” protested Dillinger, “Doctor Ponsler, we need those like you – those who have endured horrible torture at the hands of men who had no regard for human dignity or – “ 

 “Fuck off, Federal screw,” said Richard, “Go ahead, prove my point, and shoot me in my back with a 9mm as I leave. I won’t fucking care as I cannot fight back; I haven’t had possession of a gun in over three years. I’ll simply be dead and gone – so go fuck yourselves and the horses you rode in on.” 

 With those words, Doctor Richard Ponsler left the restaurant and headed back to his empty apartment.

 The waitress returned and announced, “Here is your guest check Major Dillinger; for this morning’s meal for four, that will be $28,949.73, including a $1,200 gratuity for me. Cash, check or Junta cards are accepted.” 

 “Put the food and your tip on my Junta card Sandy,” spat an angry Dillinger, she taking the card and heading to the cash register. “Goddamnit, why can’t Ponsler see that I’m telling him the truth?” 

 “Well, Major, he’s been through a lot and his entire family was murdered by the Democratic Socialists,” said Sergeant Lane, “Honestly, I cannot imagine that any man, even someone like Ponsler, could make it out of 122 sane. Just look at the poor bastards we had to haul off that simply stared at the place after they were released.” 

 “That’s a goddamned brilliant observation on your part man, so have I. My family, they were machine gunned by Federals in Omaha four years ago. My wife, three daughters and my namesake; now tell me something I don’t know,” spat Dillinger. 

 “I’m sorry sir,” said Lane. 

 “Yeah”, said Dillinger, looking out to the parking lot, watching as Ponsler trudged off. At sunrise, knocking on the door of apartment C, Major Dillinger awaited a response. 

 “What the fuck do you want from me Dillinger, why didn’t you simply burst in and kill me to get it over with?” asked Ponsler, having pulled the steel door open so hard that it crushed the doorstop and smashed the knob through the sheetrock wall. 

 “Look Richard, you may be so fucked up from your terrible experiences that you are beyond any use to anyone, but I swear to you that we are not your enemies, and only desire to give you a chance to get your revenge on those who were responsible.” 

 “I never said you could call me Richard. Do you know what you are saying to me man, if I had my chance at revenge there would be nothing left of them, they would be executed by slow torture and their remains fed to dogs and pigs. With the hate I have, it would take years for me to exact my revenge on them. So, Major Dillinger, how many are there for me to kill, a thousand? Ten thousand? A million?” 

 “I beg your pardon Dr. Ponsler, there are perhaps a few thousand that survived the purges, but we are offering you that chance for your revenge, if you will only allow us to.” 

 “Granted. You know my terms, abide by them.” 

 “Yes we do, and we have. Here are the documents, faxed from back east via what is left of the Internet, look for yourself. The electronic watermark from the Pittsburgh White House is 2048K encrypted, and cannot be counterfeited. If you like, I will show you the hash keys.” 

 “What - the Pittsburgh White House?”

 “That’s what we call it – it’s a white mansion in Shadyside; DC was leveled, even the Washington Monument is gone.”

 “Shadyside?” 

 “It’s a neighborhood in Pittsburgh,” said Dillinger, handing Ponsler the documents.

 Perusing them, Richard said, “Yeah, these appear real, though I do want to see the electronic copies and the hash keys.” 

 “You are familiar with encryption, doctor?” asked Lane. 

 “What’s that supposed to mean?” retorted Ponsler, looking to the sergeant, “Yeah, I’m a physician, but I’m also familiar with computers. Are you looking for a way to trip me up, or are you afraid what you are telling me is absolute bullshit and I’ll find out?” 

 “Sergeant Lane, let me handle this, Ponsler’s paranoid, and rightfully so, I don’t blame him for doubting us,” said Dillinger. 

 “So, good cop and bad cop. I think both of you are pigs.” 

 “Look Dr. Ponsler, we haven’t killed you yet, and if I was working for the former Federal government, I would have killed you already, probably out of sheer boredom and went on to someone else. I assure you, the communiqués are real, so, are you with us?” asked Dillinger. 

 “That all depends on one thing.” 

 “I know - on if you believe us, after what you have been through, we need those like you to make an example of those who dared to deny the civil rights of the American people,” said Dillinger. 

 They keep saying “former”. Without one mistake – it’s time to give them a chance, for good or ill. “And you, and your handlers, want me to command DHS/FEMA camp 122?” 

 “As Colonel Ponsler, commandant for disposal of the enemies of the United States of America, most notably, the traitors of Congress and the Supreme Court.” 

 “And I can do anything that I want to them?” 

 “You have carte blanche from the Legal Junta, do as you want, gas them with cyanide, boil them alive, have them slowly beaten to death, or burn them at the stake; break them on the wheel, impale or crucify them if you like.” 

 “Interesting. I have other things in mind for them; very well, after I see the hash files, and the matching keys, you will have a deal,” said Richard, offering his hand. 

 “You’ll see both within the hour, thank you Colonel, once we review the needed data, I’ll see you for duty tomorrow morning at sunup,” said Dillinger. 

 “Say, Major Dillinger, do you know of any place I can get a decent haircut and a shave?” 

 “Sure, it’ll run you about a thousand, there’s a barber shop around a mile from here, I’ll cover it if you like,” said Dillinger. 

 The next morning Dr. Ponsler was driven via limousine to the gates of DHS/FEMA camp 122, accompanied by Major Dillinger and Sergeant Lane. 

 Exiting the vehicle, Ponsler said, “You said I have carte blanche on our project, correct?” 

 “Absolutely,” said Dillinger. 

 “Alright, I want 20,000 square feet of this godforsaken dump cordoned off and made absolutely inescapable, divided into 10 connected sections with separate, integrated observation posts for each. The facilities are to be equipped with ceilings twenty feet high, all carpeted in gray, walls and ceilings painted gray, and low couches upholstered in gray vinyl as well. I also want private dining, toilet and shower facilities, all colored gray, to be installed in all ten sections.” 

 “Done, it’ll take a month,” said Dillinger. 

 “I’m not finished with my orders Major Dillinger,” said Ponsler, “The entire facility is to be equipped with a high powered stereophonic amplifier system, and a stroboscopic lighting system installed in such a fashion as to prevent sabotage by those who are to be incarcerated here.” 

 “So, what are you going to do, talk them to death?”

 “No Dillinger, I’m a much too sophisticated man to entertain myself with anything as crude as that, such antics would be unspeakably dull, wasting my time speaking to them. No, I’m going to use something much more effective – I’m going to kill them by using a melody, one melody, like they tried to do to me. I also want a case of cigarettes and four cases of Wild Turkey provided as well, until such time as I require more of either.” 

 “You intend to kill them with music?” 

 “Well, actually, in the end I predict that many will simply die from seizures induced by brainwave synchrony with the music. Others may kill themselves, or perhaps even each other, after having been forced to listen for weeks to the same repetitive melody, as psychedelic lights play upon them at irregular intervals, while they are surrounded with all the comforting trappings of life.” 

 “That can actually work?” 

 “Oh yes, experiments have shown that even animals can be affected by a repetitive melody, and will eventually expire due to exposure to such stimuli,” Ponsler answered. 

 “Okay, I get it, sort of like Ravel’s Bolero; what do you want the cigarettes and bourbon for?” asked Dillinger. 

 “Not something as good as the Bolero, but something quite similar - the same terrible melody I was forced to hear for years. The smokes and booze are for my personal use, to be enjoyed by me while driving my imprisoned charges insane to the point of death, suicide or killing each other. While passing time, I want to smoke cigarettes and drink whiskey while monitoring them, so I can relax and enjoy watching them die. I also want a team of qualified, dedicated assistants to assist me in facilitating the demise of those condemned.”

 “Okay, all that you have requested will be provided Colonel. By the way, it’s time for your appointment with our dentist, Captain Fowler,” said a somber Dillinger with a raised eyebrow, looking to the doctor.

 “Very well, get on with the work Dillinger, and prepare the facilities within the month; I’m eager to get started with my personal version of torture. They thought they could torture me,” said Ponsler, “I’ll show those fucking bastards what torture really is.” 

 “Yes Colonel, the facilities will be finished to your exact specifications within a month.” 

 Later Ponsler and Dillinger headed to a dental facility on a US Army base just outside the city. 

 “Hello Colonel Ponsler, how are you today?” asked Dr. Fowler, showing Richard to the dentist’s chair.

 Smirking and ignoring the superficial courtesy, Ponsler took to the chair, the dentist examining his mouth. “Three badly broken teeth, eleven cavities that I can see, and you are in dire need of periodontal cleaning,” said Fowler after a few minutes. 

 “Yeah, I’ll agree with that,” said an annoyed Ponsler after the dentist had moved his instruments from his mouth. After a series of xrays and a superficial cleaning done by a hygienist, the dentist returned. 

 “Alright, to begin with restoration, I’ll just inject a little Novocain into your upper left gum and then we’ll get to work,” said Fowler, preparing to move a syringe into Richard’s mouth. 

 Slapping Fowler’s hand from his mouth in anger, Ponsler exclaimed, “Why do all you clowns use such idiotic terms like Novocain for sodium channel blocking specifics? For Christ’s sake, such ancient anesthetics haven’t been used in America for dentistry since the 1960s, they aren’t hypoallergenic!” 

 Fowler frowned and looked to the tiled floor of his office, staring at a plastic syringe filled with Xylocaine HCL, the needle bent. 

 “I’m very sorry, what are you trying to say to me, Colonel Ponsler?” 

 “Who do you think you’re talking to, I am not just Colonel Ponsler, my name is Doctor Richard Ponsler, I hold Ph.Ds in medicine and psychiatry; I also hold a Master's in organic chemistry.” 

 “Oh. Novocain is the generic name dentists use for modern Lidocaine.” 

 “Yeah - you call yourself a dentist? It’s usually called Xylocaine these days, precursor Novocain or Procaine was a wonderful drug. The antiquated specific as you allude to sent some people to unwelcome deaths, from anaphylactic shock mind you, sitting dead as stones in dentist’s chairs as sirens blew all around. That’s why the FDA ordered it replaced with Lidocaine HCL in the ‘60s,” Ponsler retorted. 

 “Who in the hell do you think you are?” asked an indignant Fowler. 

 “Who am I? asked Ponsler, leaning up in the dental chair, "I’m a man who expects a medical professional to be accurate in his descriptive nomenclature. Who the hell are you – some smooth talking Army quack masquerading as a dentist?” 

 “You arrogant son of a bitch – I ought to rip your teeth from your – “ 

 “Shut up and take care of the man’s dentition Captain Fowler or I’ll have your ass court-martialed for insubordination to a superior officer,” said Dillinger as he entered the office, Ponsler moving back into the dental chair. 

 “But sir – ” 

 “Just do it man – I’ll talk to you later about it,” Dillinger said with hands out, glancing at Ponsler while he spoke. 

 “Yes sir,” replied Fowler, returning to his work. 

 After eleven amalgam fillings, three root canals and meticulous molar restorations using stainless crowns, a smiling Dr. Ponsler left the dentist’s office for the last time a little over a month later, heading to his newfound job – as Commandant of DHS/FEMA Camp 122. 

 “The work is completed?” asked Ponsler on an early afternoon, while inspecting the facility and finding himself very impressed with the attention to detail.

 “Yes Colonel,” said Major Dillinger, “We have many people waiting for your, uh, treatment, or such as you would have it called.” 

 “All tracks are ready on MIDI, in Dolby stereo?” Ponsler looked to a JBL loudspeaker assembly perched 20 feet above, positioned behind a perforated metal screen to protect it from damage. 

 “Yes they are, from an endless loop to slightly over thirteen seconds in length,” said Dillinger. 

“On eighty separate redundant MIDI devices, two thousand nine hundred seven variations in all, on the same theme, the one you requested.” 

 “Compressed air horns are installed too, for announcement?” 

 “Yes sir.” 

 “Excellent,” said a smiling Ponsler, recalling the repetitive musical theme that had tormented him for over three years. I’m immune to it, due to evolutionary variation or undiagnosed insanity; I actually like it now – and I’ll get them with it, he thought. 

 “Shall we send them in?” 

 “How many do you have?” 

 “1626 are now in custody, most from Congress and the Supreme Court, from the crooked politicians and their henchmen down to their janitors,” answered Dillinger, “It’s amazing so many of those bastards survived once the Legal Junta ordered the summary executions.”

 “Many are top officials no doubt?” 

 “Obviously, as they were the most cunning; we even have the Speaker of the House and the Senate Party Leader. All have been treated well and are in good health.” 

 "Splendid; they won't be in good health for long once I am done with them. When I call, send the Speaker and the Party Leader, whatever that is, to my office. I want those two first, for the trial run of my procedure. Keep the other bastards confined in the prison section until the trial run is completed.” 

 “Shall do,” answered Dillinger. 

 “Get my dress officer’s jacket please,” said Ponsler to an assistant after he entered the Commandant’s office.

 “Yes sir,” the assistant replied, returning shortly thereafter. 

 Donning the jacket and tightening his tie, Ponsler sat down and pressed a button on his desk. “Send them in.” 

 “Hello, friends,” said Ponsler with eyes narrowed, as two top former US government officials were ushered into his office. “I’m Colonel Richard Ponsler. Your names please?” 

 “You must know my name, everyone does,” said a woman arrogantly, “Diane Parrish, Speaker of the House of Representatives, United States of America.”

 “The United States as it was no longer exists, your words say nothing to me madam. I’m sorry, but I’ve been out of circulation for the past few years, and your name is sir?” replied Ponsler blithely, looking to both.

 “Roland Davis, Party Leader of the United States Senate,” said the man, looking to Ponsler. 

 “Party Leader; Democrats or Republicans?” asked Ponsler. 

 “Neither, we are Democratic Socialists, the only legal American party,” said Parrish, as Davis nodded in agreement. 

 “Indeed, would either of you care for a late lunch?” 

 “I’m hungry,” said Davis, a frowning Parrish looking to him. 

 “So I should take that as an affirmative?” “Yes, for Christ’s sake,” spat Parrish. 

 “Learn your place in my facility Madam Speaker,” retorted Ponsler, hardly able to contain his malevolent intentions, “I rule unopposed here at DHS/FEMA 122; I’m trying to be nice to you.” 

 The trio proceeded to a luxurious lounge that Ponsler had ordered created a month earlier, taking their places at seats, both congressmen having a feeling of foreboding. In minutes a spread was placed before he and his first victims, waiters bringing various courses.

 “Colonel Ponsler, why are we being held here?” asked Speaker Parrish bluntly, looking up from her meal.

 Before they could take one bite of food, Richard Ponsler, overcome in his lust for revenge, hurled his forkful of steak to the floor in disgust. 

 He then slapped his laden plate from the table, spilling food on the floor and spat, “I’m fucking tired of this ridiculous charade! You’re an arrogant cunt Madam Speaker - you and this fawning cocksucker Senator Davis are to be the first subjects in a series of scientific tests to determine the lengths of human endurance at the hands of a man such as me.” 

 “Such as you?’ asked an arrogant and unintimidated Parrish, she more of a man than Davis could ever be. 

 "Yes, such as me – you, evil bitch, and those like you are the monsters who slaughtered my family in Lakewood Colorado and ordered my unremitting torture for over three years, at this very camp – DHS/FEMA 122, in which you are now imprisoned.” 

 “I don’t understand, what do you mean, Colonel Ponsler?” asked Roland Davis, feigning ignorance, then flushing - the identity of Dr. Richard Ponsler now dawning on him. 

 “You know my name you vicious sonsofbitches, both of you were on the joint committee authorizing Operation All Stop - and I hereby sentence you and your fellows to the same fate I was sentenced to!” 

 With those words Speaker Diane Parrish and Senator Roland Davis were dragged from the lounge by guards without having one taste of their lunch, forcibly deposited in a drab room of gray, silence their only companions in the dimly lit room. 

 “Ponsler is a dissident rounded up by the FBI after we took down Air Force One,” said Davis to Parrish as he rose to his feet, sitting on a gray bench. “I read it in a Senate brief a few years back.”

 “Don’t be so patronizing of him; I know, he’s the physician/psychiatrist that DHS/FEMA couldn’t break by any method; he was liberated by the goddamned Legal Junta,” replied Parrish, looking to him from the carpeted floor, “We killed his family too.” 

 “We did?” 

 “Yes, and now he will get his revenge”, said a stoic, resigned Parrish, wondering as to what her fate would be. 

 “Revenge?” 

 “Richard Ponsler, MD is a monster – we made him into one – may God help us.” 

 “What god?” asked Davis. 

 “No god, anywhere, can save us from him. He knows our procedures, and he survived,” answered Parrish, “He will destroy us”. 

 With those words, after the blast of a horn, a loop melody started and blared for nearly two hours from speakers in stereo, their ears ringing from the volume, their eyes smarting from the psychedelic light show.

 “Why is he doing this to us?” asked Davis after the music stopped for a short moment, then resuming for another seventeen minutes, strobe lights blinking on and off. 

 “It’s the same damn thing we did to him, and I think he’s enjoying it,” yelled a clearly distressed Parrish over the noise, looking up to a Plexiglas enclosed observation station containing a stoic Ponsler, absorbed technicians behind him, looking on intently, holding a cigarette, the same music and light blaring into his ears and eyes without any apparent effect. Noticing noise protection muffs over the ears of the technicians, and polarized glasses covering their eyes, she added, “Ponsler’s either Superman, or he’s totally insane.”

 “Probably both,” yelled Davis, his ears ringing, looking to the booth. 

 “Digging that sound, guys?” said Ponsler over the microphone, a sadistic grin on his face. 

 Within ten days, Speaker Parrish and Senator Davis were reduced, first from arrogant elitist criminals to tearful, whimpering cowards begging for mercy, then to screaming madmen, and finally, babbling morons.

 Ponsler resumed his shift at 07:00 on a Thursday while the relentless music blared, watching as Davis finally collapsed and expired from a brain hemorrhage as he left the communal shower, fully clad, having attempted to use the noise of the shower to drown out the unrelenting, repetitive music. 

 “Well, that’s one down, only 1500 or so to go,” announced Ponsler to no one in particular, taking a sip of coffee as the music droned on, a track now playing the unmistakable tones of a Mellotron. 

 Moving into a soundproof area adjacent to the observation booth, he looked to a monitor displaying Davis and Parrish. 

 Speaking into a digital recorder, he remarked, “Subject Davis has collapsed at 08:11, cause unknown. Subject Davis has not moved since collapse – death may have occurred, probably due to induced waveform synchrony and attendant IA phenomenon noted in earlier subjects antecedent to this study. Subject Davis became disoriented hours before collapse; auditory hallucination evident according to earlier observation, conjectured that subject still heard melody in mind when external stimuli absent. Subject Parrish has apparently entered a passive schizoid state; her face is blank, though her body is moving to the rhythms of the melody as predicted, illustrating induced waveform synchrony effect on limbic system. Both subjects began avoiding sustenance, but not hydration approximately 72 hours ago; parallels are noted with this physician’s personal experience with regard to nutrition and hydration. Studies indicate that if subject Parrish survives another 48 hours, she will resume ingesting, based on past subject experiences, regardless of mental state; it is conjectured from past studies that subjects revert to a non-sentient state, ingesting from animal instinct only. Verifying EEG and PET scan recommended for subject Parrish, should she survive the next treatment period; removal, IV nutrition and thiopental drip will be standard procedure for verification analysis studies. After analytical procedures, subject is to be returned to treatment regardless of mental condition until such time as her demise occurs.” 

 Pressing an intercom button, Ponsler said, “Bring me a rare T bone steak, 2 jumbo eggs over easy, two sausage patties, four slices of toast, a pint of milk, one quart of orange juice and a bottle of A-1. Also bring me a pot of coffee, two packs of cigarettes, a shot glass, and a bottle of Wild Turkey”. 

 “Yes, Colonel Ponsler, the usual, coming up, sir,” came the reply. 

 Richard Ponsler never noticed that he ordered the exact same meals every day for the past week, the same breakfast, a foot long Italian cold cut, vinegar and oil for lunch, and broiled chicken breasts, mashed potatoes and gravy, broccoli, and blueberry pie, for dinner. The shift he had created for himself was from 07:00 to 21:00, with only three half hour breaks for eating, and of course, sipping Wild Turkey bourbon, neat, two ounces at a time. 

 When his shift was over, Richard would go to his quarters, shower, and head to bed for sleep, which always came in fits. While he attempted to sleep, dreaming of his family being killed and three years of torture, technicians would clear his observation booth of empty coffee cups, shot glasses and cigarette butts.

 Dr. Richard Ponsler was insane, incurably but functionally insane, and his insanity facilitated his ability to torture his former tormentors to death without the slightest remorse. 

 “What’s going on Mister Roth?” asked Ponsler of a technician, coming on to his shift in the observation booth at 07:00, the unremitting melody playing with no apparent effect on him, another body now on the floor of section one, a pair of attendants checking for a pulse and signifying the negative. 

 “Speaker Parrish just died – suspected brain hemorrhage, like Senator Davis. There wasn’t time for and EEG or PET scan study on her, she died before resuming ingesting. Autopsy is scheduled for 09:00; Davis’ autopsy was completed while you were asleep – massive cerebral ischemia, with attendant necrosis of brain tissue.” 

 “Splendid, that was predicted in my oral essay, probably due to waveform synchrony; send in the next batch of those cocksuckers this afternoon.” 

 “It’s 100 of them this time, right?” 

 “Exactly, that will be fun. Send ten subjects to each section, and activate remote feeds to the central monitoring console. This time we’ll get supporting diagnostic data, by removing the earliest affected for intensive scrutiny,” said Ponsler, lighting a cigarette.

 “Yes Colonel,” the technician replied. 

 I beat it, and they didn’t, thought a smiling Ponsler as he took his seat, taking a sip of hot morning coffee, looking out to section one. “Shut down the melody until further notice,” Ponsler said into a microphone, the tune stopping within a second. 

 Major Dillinger arrived at 08:10, heading to Ponsler’s station. “So, your method kills them within ten days,” he said, looking to Ponsler. 

 “Yes, and I suspect from my studies that I could destroy someone like you just as easily,” said Ponsler, looking to Dillinger as if he were just another subject.

 “Look, doc, we got off on the wrong foot, I am not your enemy.” 

 “No, you are not my enemy Dillinger, but I have no friends, either.” 

 “I would like to be your friend.” 

 “I shall consider your offer,” said Ponsler.