Tales of the Incredible Hoke Robertson

An interesting thing happened to me a while back …

Last month I was hired as a consultant to the DARPA EHEB project. As everyone knows, one of the Defense Advanced Research Agency or “DARPA” projects is the Extreme High Energy Beam (or “EHEB”) which has had its ups and down over the years. When the Secretary of Defense calls and asks you for help you generally say “yes.” Thus I was fortunate enough to have been hired by Uncle Sam to help iron out some of the problems with this cutting edge technology. It just goes to show you that any hobby, even one that involves the study of the effects of super-heated plasma on the behavior of charged coherent particles can end up being of benefit to someone.

I of course enjoy helping out others as part of my Masonic obligations especially when the need relates to a topic with which I am familiar. I recall all those late nights back when the internet was brand new when helped those Cal Tech and MIT student study for their exams. Even the best and brightest can get a mental block over the application of quantum physics to gravitational effects on light waves. Some of those poor students struggled with the upper division math and were as desperate as a Greek trying to figure out a budget. But I digress.

The next EHEB test was to be conducted on Diego Garcia; the island in the Indian Ocean, not the electrician who lives three doors down from me. Although my friend Diego could certainly help with some of the electrical hook-ups, the 1500 ton beam propagator would wreak havoc if placed on him, and even if just next to him it might vaporize his full mustache if not his entire body. But I digress. The only way to get to the island of Diego Garcia is a series of flights starting at LAX with connections to Papeete, Tahiti; Christ Church, New Zealand; and Jakarta, Indonesia.

On the long flight from LAX to Papeete I of course periodically stared out the window from my very comfortable Business Class seat, sometimes lost in calculations relating to the amperage fluctuations in the EHEB power supplies; sometimes catching up on my reading of new U.N publications. As everyone knows, the planet Venus can actually be seen during the day if one knows where to look. At one point I noticed that the faint but discernible glow of our neighboring planet seemed a bit too much to my right. Putting to good use my previous work with the Jet Propulsion Lab on the astrophysics associated with getting a spacecraft to a particular spot at the outer regions of our Solar System, I used my Leatherman tool foldout sextant and estimated that our flight path was about 0.23 degrees off. Not a big deal under the old VOR navigation systems, but significant by today’s standards. When you are travelling 4,113 thousand miles this error would place you 13.731 miles or so off of your destination.

I knew it would take too much time to get permission to contact the crew and show them the error, so instead I took out my tablet and hacked into the GE Aviation Systems QR7 of the Boeing 777. It’s a simple trick to access the systems. As anyone with an iPad knows, you just bounce a satellite call off the Boeing main satellite coordination platform. As the signal reflects off the platform it alters its frequency and it then matches the normal maintenance signal by which Boeing keeps in constant contact with the systems of each plane. We’ve all done these sorts of things when playing around with our personal devices.

Once in, I rebooted the navigation computer and it re-calculated the flight path; this time correctly. As I was doing this, I heard some poor passenger had a cranky baby and its crying seemed to be upsetting those around her. We’ve all been through this sort of thing and sometimes patience runs a little thin on a long flight. I showed the mother my Physician ID and then took the baby. As all mothers used to know, holding the baby face-down with one hand on its rear and the other gently on its chest and neck (supporting its head of course) will cause any baby to stop crying. It works every time as it initiates a genetic response tricking the baby’s autonomic nervous system into thinking danger is present. It’s similar to the mother cat gripping the kitten by the neck to transport it and always results in a quiet offspring. As I passed the now quiet and smiling baby back to the mother she gave me one of those “I think I married the wrong guy” kinda looks. I was going to offer her my more spacious Business Class seat but as that would result in me sitting next to her obviously peeved husband I forwent this small act of chivalry.

I was traveling under a faux passport in order that the New Zealand Customs Agents would not recognize me. The statute of limitations for espionage in that country is a robust 12 years so I had three more years left before I was safe. Who would have thought that routing some material hacked from one of the four computers in North Korea through fiber optic cables running through New Zealand would expose me to charges of espionage in both countries? The only good thing about the whole incident was the virus I left in the North Korean computer that after seven months would cause the Pyongyang air raid sirens to go off every time someone turned on the PA system at the central parade dais. I’m sure everyone heard the obnoxious sirens tooting when Kim Jung Un tried to speak at his inauguration. The good Lord teaches us to love our enemy, but that commie sure riles me.

The only real tricky part was getting my custom made 7mm auto-magnum pistol through the New Zealand security screening. Luckily I had the Memory Game app on my iPhone. I had devised that app after completing my doctorial thesis entitled “The Effects of Differing Electromagnetic Wave Lengths on Neural Transmitter Efficiencies.” I set it up so when the X-rays of the machine hit the iPhone, the app was triggered and caused the phone to emit one of those UHF bursts that will momentarily trigger old memories. The screener thus missed the outline of the pistol in my carryon while she was thinking of perhaps some old boyfriend or Will.i.am of the Black-Eyed Peas. I myself suddenly harkened back to that vexing incident in the cage match in the Siberian prison. Thank goodness the Memory Game app comes with a warning so that it won’t be used in any inappropriate manner. I was of course doubly protected as I still used the ol’ standby method; the materials in my 7mm mag were structured so that the densest part of the frame was the exact shape of a 19th Century Meerschaum pipe. When a screener sees the pipe shape, their cognitive abilities will refuse to let them see the outline of the gun at the same time. It’s the same principle as that black and white picture where you either see a skull or the Victorian lady, or the old poster from 1968 where you either saw George Wallace in a dress or Malcolm X embracing Colonel Sanders.

The layover in New Zealand was a few hours and so after helping the janitor clean up two of the Men’s Rooms I was able to finish editing the final score to the new Star Wars movie John Williams had sent me. Of course most of the work was done by him, but he does like to bounce new melodies and rhythms off me given that I am one of the few people who can play the violin, keyboards, pan flute and jazz oboe. It’s easier for me to “hear” the various complimentary or conflicting sounds than those who write music mainly on the piano. You might remember Mr. Williams at the Academy Awards in 1981when, after receiving the Oscar for Best Score for Indiana Jones said; “and thanks to Hoke for all his help.” Not necessary but very much appreciated.

Once through the New Zealand screening, I got on the Royal Brunei Airlines flight to Jakarta. As all experienced travelers know, each flight on this airline racks up significant “bonus” points on one’s Bass Pro Shop card given that the Sultan of Brunei owns that chain of stores. Thus, by patronizing this top notch airline I can get discounts off all my archery needs as well as support the various wildlife conservation programs Bass Pro undertakes each year. And of course, Royal Brunei Airlines has the best water buffalo jerky hors d’oeuvres on the planet!

The flight was uneventful until one of the stewardesses (who I had previously dated) recognized me and prodded me into conducting an impromptu concert using the keyboard app on my iPad. It seems no matter where you go everyone loves Bach, the Moody Blues and Echo and the Bunnymen. I’ll never forget that night when Puspawati Bangsaloo (the stewardess) and I skinny dipped in the Sultan’s koi pond! I never knew any woman could hold her breath so long.

But I’ve digressed again. As I made my way through the Imelda Marcos Terminal in Jakarta I paused to admire the vast shoe collection on display in the food court; being especially drawn to the 1980 Air Jordans, a pair of which I was coincidentally wearing. Although Mrs. Marcos was the First Lady of the Philippines, she was of course born in the shadow of the mountain Gunung Besar, just northeast of the city Banjarmasin here in Indonesia. Her parents were very poor cobblers and when the Japanese invaded in 1940, food became extremely scarce. Her family and many others eventually had to resort to eating the leather of their shoes to survive until Gen. McArthur liberated the island of Borneo. Many believe it was this difficult experience which underlay her fixation to buy more and more shoes; a lesson to us all not to judge people too quickly. Anyway, although the Filipinos detest the Marcos’ to this day, the Indonesians still hold Imelda up as the epitome of success. Unfortunately, in the corner of the display case glass, someone had scratched “In Case of Famine Break Glass.” Not really funny to those old enough to remember the deprivations of WWII.

On my way to the Military section of the terminal to catch the flight to Diego Garcia, or “Fantasy Island” as the military personnel call it, I happened upon a family in the middle of a hushed argument as they were waiting in line at the ticket counter. Since I had just skimmed “The Idiot’s Guide to Bahasa Indonesia” I was fluent in the official language of this beautiful country and quite a few of the other 700 indigenous languages and dialects. The apparent father was berating his family in Betawi, with an occasional word or two of Mongodow. As certain as a Canadian guide detests his American hunter client, I soon discerned that the upset man was not the father and this was not even his family. He was a Cambodian Drug Cartel operative! As we all know, Cambodian drug smugglers are famous for kidnapping innocent people and forcing them to travel along as their families in order to deflect attention away from their nefarious activities. He was threatening them to keep up the charade and had probably put his drugs in their baggage in case they were detected. The young woman with him gave me one of those “I forgot my Starbucks gift card” kinda look of utter despair so I knew it was serious.

Given that my plane was leaving in just a few minutes, I did not have time to show the security guards or police my Interpol identification or to subdue the suspect myself (and deal with the paperwork!). Instead I quickly formulated a plan. I took a few granules of fertilizer out of the potted palm next to the Cinnabon booth, mixed them with some of the now ubiquitous hand sanitizer foam and a crushed up Tums which I always have in my pocket; I always have a roll of Tums in my pocket, not a crushed one. The alkali of the Tums and the nitrogen of the fertilizer bond as a nitroamine as the hand sanitizer evaporates. This residue is a simple imitation of the basics of C-4 explosive and would of course set off any bomb-detection “sniffing” devices, especially the ones used by the Indonesian government at all gate security entry points.

I did the old “side-step trying to get out of each others’ way” routine to make him pause and to distract him while I squirted the mixture onto his knuckles using an empty nasal spray atomizer into which I’d put the concoction. While I was cleaning my hands of the residue using the world’s best sterilizer (5-Hour Energy Drink), I heard the detection alarms go off and knew the Cambodian criminal had been nabbed. One can be assured that when a potential passenger sets off an Indonesian bomb sniffing device, the police will soon get complete answers to all their questions regardless of the initial level of cooperation of the suspect. “Phew;” I figured the faux family finally felt freedom!

The US military flights out of Jakarta do not use any of the normal gates or concourses of the Imelda Marcos Terminal which meant I had to walk across the tarmac to the big C-17 already warming up. A Master Sergeant of the US Air Force was in charge of checking everyone’s name on the flight manifest and making sure proper procedure was followed. The Master Sergeant would only allow boarding after each passenger was in proper order and standing on the striped line. Unfortunately, one of the passengers apparently suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder or OCD which “forced” him to stand with his toes almost abutting any line, but not touching it. Since the Master Sergeant wanted everybody “squarely on the line” we had what seemed to be an unsolvable problem. The rest of us passengers were forced to listen to a long exchange between the Master Sergeant and the passenger about what constituted compliance with the rule and the difference between substantive and procedural. The argument slowly devolved until hypothetical questions about being ordered to shoot non-compliant passengers were asked and answered. The Master Sergeant would not give and the passenger with the OCD could not give.

To solve the impasse, I borrowed an attractive female passenger-to-be’s black eyeliner and covered up a portion of the pesky line. I then told the Master Sergeant that the line was still there despite the eyeliner and then told the sufferer of OCD that because of the eyeliner, the line was actually narrower at that spot. Thus he could stand on the black eyeliner without touching the line to satisfy his impulses and the Master Sergeant could honestly say he was on the line. The Master Sergeant looked at me for a few seconds and gave me the blank stare of a McDonald’s employee asked to spell ‘Zorastrianism’ but then relented and we were all able to board the plane as long as we walked in a straight line. Although the American military is the wall protecting the freedoms of the world, they can sometimes be a slave to procedure. We all remember the time when the Secretary of Defense intoned it was necessary to pay $745 for a hammer because “we needed a hammer with a smaller handle so it could fit in the utility drawer of the B-1 bomber.”

Once on board we all got into our seats of the C-17. As everyone knows, the C-17 is mainly a cargo plane but it does have fold down seats in the rear to carry passengers as needed. No offense to the military, but these seats are to Royal Brunei Airlines Business Class seats as an abacus is to a Cray supercomputer. In order to ease the discomfort a bit, I used the ratchet mechanisms from the unused tie-down straps to convert each rigid seat into a recliner. It was relatively easy using the saw, Phillips screw driver and pliers of my Leatherman tool. You’d be surprised at the number of loose screws inside a military C-17. When the Airman First Class acting as the steward saw what I had done he gave me the stunned look of someone who’d just watched his 5 year throw the car keys into the neighbor’s yard where the pit bull named “Shredder” lives. However, my fellow passengers all seemed to be quite satisfied and extremely grateful.

The flight from Jakarta to Diego Garcia covers 2,364 miles, so with a cruising speed of 515.74 miles per hour it only takes about 4.5 hours. In this relatively short time I was able to get to know many of my fellow passengers. Some were also working on the EHEB like me, some were here for other consulting purposes and still others were base personnel returning to their normal duties. It turned out the gentleman with the OCD was an Egyptian-American engineer from the University Michigan at Flint named Pharohee Rhosian. His expertise was in water purification systems. He was on his way to help figure out why the base tap water had “a hint of guano” flavor and to be available if problems with the EHEB coolant system arose.

Another passenger was the attractive lady mentioned about who at first glance seemed to be perfectly normal. She was also on her way to work on the EHEB project. Her name was Harran Fawda and she was a physicist specializing in electro-magnetic field containments. Harran’s creamy dark skin, thick auburn hair and flashing eyes made one automatically think of a Djinn’s choice of how to fulfill some guy’s second wish. However, I soon noticed a small tattoo on the inside of her upper thigh which was a small stylized fish hook and the Arabic words “No Fish for You.” Show tunes went off in my head as I realized she was an adherent to the little known Islamic sect, the Samakali!! As anyone who has taken 9th Grade Historical Divergences of the 5 Semitic Languages knows, the Arabic word for “virgin” rhymes with the Arabic word for “sturgeon” (just as they do in English and Ugaritic). An 8th Century translation error in some dark cave in Mittani resulted in this sect believing that upon reaching Paradise they would receive 72 sturgeons and not 72 virgins which of course greatly decreased the number of potential “faithful” and pretty much limited the adherents to out of work fishermen, their families or subscribers to Dr. Oz’ latest “30-Day Diet.”

Religious intricacies aside, the Samakali jihadists were trying to rid the world of anyone who ate protein as they believed it was an affront to their eventual heavenly reward. You all may remember back in 1983 when a sleeper cell of Samakali had infiltrated a Vegan book club and then murdered every employee of the advertising company that had come up with the Charlie the Tuna campaign for Starkist. The Government tried to hush up the entire affair by blaming the deaths on a sushi demonstration accident but the truth was finally revealed at the 1987 PETA convention in Amarillo, Texas where some of the gruesome pictures of filleted bodies were shown.

Where was I? I made sure I did not reveal my discovery about Harran’s terrorist connections and spent a very enjoyable couple of hours discussing containment fields, magnetic pole oscillations and famous Arab fishermen of the Persian Gulf. I soon came to appreciate her talents as an undercover agent realizing that any normal man probably had little chance of resisting Harran’s charms. Luckily my years spent studying how Catholic priests resist temptation served me well. Even so, when Harran got up and walked to the little girl’s room I was momentarily transported back into that undreamed of and indescribable haze when I was in Fourth Grade and Lynn Hubbard tossed her long blonde hair and gave me a “yeah; it IS” half-smile.

It also turned out that Harran was some sort of darts throwing champion and was not shy about telling everyone how she could hit virtually any object with her tossing skills When she loudly stated “It’s all in how you hold it in your hand” a few of the male passengers quickly excused themselves and headed for the lavatory. As she related her many “actual experiences proving” these abilities, I’m afraid my expression was like someone meeting a lost relative and then detecting that horrible unwashed body smell emanating from them. Just before we landed she confidently predicted “I’m sure I’ll be able to demonstrate some of my talents to you during out stay.” I gave her the old “Sean Penn smile for the paparazzi” and silently agreed with her prediction.

We of course eventually landed on Diego Garcia’s long runaway and were told not to look at or take pictures of the two F/A-117Stealth fighters and the small deployment of F-22 Raptors which were neatly lined up along the flight line. I smiled a bit at the caution given that I had helped Lockheed Martin iron out the problems with their pilot helmet problems. As everyone knows, the pilot’s helmet for the F-22 Raptor projects computer generated images of the “outside” world no matter which way your head turns just as if you had X-ray vision. This allows the pilot to “see” in any direction and even through the plane so no enemy threat might be out of view. The initial idea was doomed to failure because the engineer involved, though he didn’t know it at the time was both color blind and slightly dyslexic and thus could never get the proper wiring done. Although colorblind myself, I helped him by simply numbering the wires instead of color coding them and by putting the order of connections on separate pages so the dyslexia would not jumble everything. Sometimes the simplest solutions are the best. When I figured out the problem and helped fix it, the engineer gave me one of those looks like an Adventist minister coming out of a strip club only to find the local TV news crew there doing a report on hypocrisy.

After being shown to my sparse quarters I met the young second lieutenant with whom I would share the room. He was just out of the academy and tended to act a bit superior as they so often do. Initially he gave me one of those “doesn’t this wog know I am a British Officer” kinda looks of assumed superiority. No matter I thought, such confidence was necessary in times of war even though a bit off-putting in normal life. I had no problems with him after he watched me disassemble and then reassemble his iPhone making it now able to project a holographic image of whatever was on the screen. A simple endeavor for those who keep up with the tech industry, but slightly impressive to someone who had recently spent 300+ class hours studying Baron von Richtofen’s contributions to aerial combat. On watching me do this easy upgrade, his expression turned to one of those looks of amazed realization on a British Officer’s face when rebels in the Sepoy rebellion were about to detach his head from his body.

After settling in, those of use brought in for the EHEB project were collected and taken to the office of the Commander of the Base. The Commander was the archetypical colonel; short of height, a bit too chubby, a sparse moustache, an impeccable service record and an IQ somewhere just below normal. His typical expression showed his disdain for anyone not in the military. He greeted us with a “Welcome to Diego Garcia. If you do what you are told and don’t make trouble we will get along just fine.” Just then we heard his secretary yell from the outer office “Colonel; your new Lego set just arrived! It’s the one with the Vic Morrow tribute!” An awkward silence ensued.

The Colonel regained his self-importance and continued: “Now, all personnel are required to attend 1.5 hours of Diversity Training before being allowed to work on base. In order to save time, our “Officer in Charge of Diversity, Self-Awareness and Moral Rationalization” has concluded that sitting in on the next meeting of the Communal Organization Mobilizing Mistreated Ilois Expatriots will constitute fulfillment of this requirement. Thus we were all herded into the conference room already containing the Central Committee of that august body. The Communal Organization Mobilizing Mistreated Ilois Expatriots had the unfortunate acronym; COMMIE which most US Government personnel avoided mentioning at all costs. As we “visitors” took seats around the perimeter of the conference room, we were all presented with a miniature replica of the Ilois battle baton, complete with a tiny drop of red paint on its tip to imitate imperialist blood. Soon a Captain in the Air Force began by reading the minutes of the prior meeting.

Though I’m sure most people already know, some background is appropriate. The Islands of Diego Garcia were originally uninhabited but eventually a permanent population, now known as the “Ilois” took hold. They were descendents of the early French explorers and the imported slaves/servants. When the US took over the base from the British after WWII all the inhabitants were delicately deported. Once our culture took a sharp turn to the left in the 1960’s and began to feel bad about things every other culture was still doing, a long process began by which the not-really original inhabitants were to be returned to their not-really original homeland. A long list of demands were submitted and negotiated after Bill Clinton signed an Executive Order in 1993 that the US would henceforth begin discussions with all native populations to return all lands previously occupied by them. This Order is commonly known as the “Benedict Arnold Edict” by the military and the “Enlightened Entropy” order by the State Department.

Anyway, the current status of the demands were as follows: (i) continued funding of COMMIE Central Committee expenses- AGREED; (ii) monthly lifetime payments to each COMMIE member of $37,000 all routed through Central Committee- AGREED; (iii) lifetime health coverage for all Central Committee members- AGREED; (iv) lifetime free airfare to any location including $4,000 per diem for all Central Committee members- AGREED; (v) security details for all Central Committee members and funds for political security forces-AGREED; (vi) abandonment of all US military bases, both foreign and domestic- STILL UNDER NEGOTIATION; and (vi) conversion of US political system into self-sustaining socialist republics- PENDING APPROVAL. Luckily, the implementation of the eventual agreement would not need Congressional approval due to a footnote in a 1997 Supreme Court decision inserted by Justice Brennan after peering into the penumbra of the Fourth Amendment during his monthly Wicken gathering.

The meeting soon broke down after one of the EHEB personnel asked why the 37 members of COMMIE needed a political security force after which the questioner was roughly escorted out by the MP’s. Of course Harran Fawda’s late appearance brought the meeting to a standstill when everyone stopped talking and every head in the room followed her exquisitely slow progress. While still staring somewhere around her hip area, one COMMIE member mumbled something about wanting to add one more demand to the 25 year old list.

As the meeting/negotiations stumbled forward I noticed that Harran was periodically using her cell phone and making eye contact with the Chairman of the Central Committee, Jean Mugaruza D’Lectic who was doing the same, though having a hard time reading his phone given his extremely thick glasses. Already onto Harran’s ill-motives, I concluded she had enlisted Monsieur D’Lectic into her cabal! I surreptitiously took out my Leatherman tool and folded out the mini-microwave dish arm. Hooking this up to my cell phone I was able to intercept their communications. They were using the Snapchat signal to make sure each message was only temporary so no record remained on their devices. These foreign fiends always fail to fully fathom American faculties and I simply tapped into the local cell phone transmitter’s temporary storage to get a complete download of their evil e-communications. Any Fifth grader with a X-Box could do the same.

It turned out they were planning to sabotage the EHEB test later today. It wasn’t clear exactly what Harran was going to do, but the Chairman of the COMMIEs was going to create a diversion by killing the rest of his Central Committee compatriots and blaming it on the base Honor Guard. I was somewhat shocked that a revolutionary movement could be taken over by a person with selfish, ulterior motives which were contrary to the well being of his people and the cause. When this was all over, I hoped the State Department would learn a lesson and be a bit more cautious when seeking out and supporting future revolutionary movements even though their support of the Russian, Chinese and Cambodian revolutions had turned out so well and with so little conflict.

The meeting ended with a joint but nonbinding resolution that George Bush was responsible for honor killings in India and Pakistan and we were all allowed to begin our work. I thought better of presenting some historical context for the honor killings and simply distributed a few cards with the link to my recent paper entitled “Cultural Developments of Asian Subcontinent Classes.”

Once at the EHEB hangar we jumped right into the work and I began to relate my initial conclusions about why the EHEB could not maintain a coherent beam for more than a few seconds. I had speculated that the coolant system for the containment field had been contaminated with the lead in the old pipes. The poor quality water from the ancient desalinization system (the natural water supply was insufficient to handle the current population) had eroded the old pipes such that there was now substantial lead in the water. [This incidentally explains the bad taste of the water given that the high lead content in bat guano gives it its distinctive odor.] Anyway, the lead does not go into solution given its lack of ability to create an ionic bond, rather it will only go into suspension. With this unequal mixing of the lead in the water, the coolant system for the EHEB was not removing the heat evenly and different portions of the containment field were different temperatures; thus the problems.

Anyway, a simple oxygen bubbling system would take out the lead (forming lead oxide), the water would be “pure” and the EHEB containment field could be maintained. During my discourse on this theory, Harran was not so nonchalantly walking around the large beam generator and closely eyeing the beam alignment control panel. Discerning her probable intent, I suggested Mr. Rhosian could easily install the bubbler and then told him I was concerned about plasma pressure gauge near the control panel; taking perhaps an unfair advantage of his disorder. As they began rigging up the bubble system I estimated they would be done in an hour and the next test of the EHEB could go forward as planned. I excused myself as it was approaching noon.

Without much time to prepare, I hurried along and picked up whatever I could find along the way and began developing a plan to frustrate the fiendish foreign foray of the frightful final moments of the fated COMMIE Central Committee massacre. There wasn’t much to use, but I was able to pick up off the ground one old sneaker, a pair of broken glasses, and an empty wine bottle still in its wrinkled paper bag. I also had just enough time to pause at the front of the base PX and put my last three quarters in a “Jawbreaker” machine securing that many of the hard candy/gum.

Normally, regular members of the US military would be more than enough to handle any situation, but as color guards never carry any ammo in their ceremonial M-1A rifles, I figured they might need some help given the devious plot. Just as I rounded the corner of the base Gender Repression Annex I saw the both the Color Guard at attention in front of “Old Glory” and the COMMIE’s Central Committee clustering around them and starting to make noise! I quickly espied Monsieur D’Lectic behind the small crowd as he was slowly moving away from them, but goading them on. In the middle of one of their chants of “It’s more OURS; much less YOURS” D’Lectic shouted “Attaque du souillon salope” (which good taste prevents me from fully translating) and raised his previously hidden AK-47 rifle. I sprang into action.

As I yelled to warn the smartly dressed Color Guard I clicked into hyper mode. It was just like that time in 1968 at the Democratic Convention when I had to get the large wedding cake from the delivery van to the Belvidere Hotel; passing through the middle of the worst riots of the week. It may seem odd now, but Ms. Fonda and Mr. Hayden were very specific about the time and location of their nuptials and thus the delivery of their cake. Luckily, my keen hearing had picked up the peculiar “ticking” from inside the Ayers Bakery cake and I was able to remove and disable the bomb some miscreant had placed therein, probably to injure those two stalwart Americans. Just think of how things might have been different if they had met their maker so early in life? Food for thought. Oddly, Fonda and Hayden never made it to the designated location and so now that I think of it they were never in danger from the bomb. Huh?

Where was I? Knowing that the traditional Ilois battle cry included a deep inhalation before their dreaded “winkeeeee-DINK” scream, I flung the three Jawbreakers at the leading attackers. Just as I planned, the gumballs were sucked deep into their esophaguses (esophagi?) and all breathing was halted. Like Leonardo DiCaprio after giving Kate Winslet his last breath, the three slowly sank out of view (metaphorically) and were no longer relevant to the story.

I then threw the empty wine bottle in front of D’Lectic. His partial French heritage kicked in and he naturally lowered the rifle as his eyes dilated and his throat went dry upon catching sight of the oh-so-near wine bottle. Genetics and ill manners always seem to prevail! The remaining but ill-prepared Ilois of the Central Committee were gesticulating at the Honor Guard like Maori warriors in front of a camera but doing little if any damage. I silently moved behind D’Lectic and in the confusion replaced his thick reading glasses in his front pocket with those I’d found on the ground. Thank God I studied pick-pocketing during Magic Camp so many years ago during that lonely summer in Las Vegas.

Upon recovering from his automatic urge grab any wine bottle within reach, he took out his glasses so he could see where to aim. His vision now completely unusable, he squeezed the trigger uncontrollably which emptied his magazine harmlessly into the soft earth. Before anyone knew what was happening, I blew up the paper bag and popped it with a loud “bang!” As everyone knows all socialist movements in the world at noon mark moments of silence to commemorate the workers’ struggle with a cannon shot. Thinking this was such a cannon warning, all the Central Committee members dutifully stopped, silently turning to the northwest to face Lenin’s tomb. Unfortunately, D’Lectic finally saw me and figured the jig was up and fled to the nearby statue of Charles DeGaulle which, as it stood on a 5’X5’ piece of ground recently gifted back to the Ilois, prevented his arrest due to sovereign immunity.

Seeing this diversion at an end and the potential loss of life prevented, I ran back to the EHEB hanger to put a stop to the horrendous hi-jinks of the hierophant Harran! As I sped along, I texted my friend Jim Schools the information on a piece of property for sale near Grass Valley, California. He was considering a move to that area and needed the geotechnical data, fire district coverage information and current acoustics of the detached barn. Good thing my iPhone had the various emoticons for several quadratric equations associated with the reflections of sound waves. The only interruption in this was when I stopped to help some Air Force personnel’s teen who couldn’t figure out all the words to the Ting Ting’s song “That’s Not My Name.” Always glad to help out the polite, diligent and hard-working youth of our society.

I got back to the hanger with little time to spare! They were just powering up the Beam generator and monitoring the containment field now that the bubbler system was working. The hangar doors were open and the target clearly visible. I noticed that the F/A 117’s and F-22’s were only a few degrees off line from the target and so surmised that Harran was going to throw some object at the beam alignment control panel so that the test shot would vaporize the Air Forces’ most advanced planes instead of the intended target; a large piece of steel coarsely painted to resemble Sen. Ted Cruz. I suddenly remembered the U.N. Environmental Justice Report that noted the use of these planes during the recent conflicts had killed upwards of 100,000 “innocent” fish. Obviously, Harran was taking her vengeance on the objects of Samalki hatred: that which decreases their eventual heavenly rewards. Clever girl!

Everyone had or was putting on their eye and ear protection for the test but I was able to surreptitiously remind to Dr. Rhosian of the potential problems with the gauge and stated that I hoped the gauge would not get stuck. The beam powered up and the coolant system was performing admirably. Just as the countdown for the test shot approached its end, I saw Harran unscrew a large nut off a bolt and slowly began her wind-up for a toss. One hit on the large button of the beam alignment panel would drop the line of fire to that of the high tech planes. Just as I anticipated, Rhosian’s OCD kicked in and he began to repeatedly step up and then back to check on the gauge. Over and over he moved in and out, each time blocking Harran’s aim. This delay allowed me to unlace the old shoe I’d picked up. Quickly threading the shoelace into holes at the front and back of the worn-out sneaker, I bent the sole “backwards” so that the rubber sole became the bow and the shoe lace the bowstring. Using the ceremonial Ilois baton as an arrow, I shot true hitting Harran’s head hard on her left sphenoidale bone. The impact was sufficient to render her unconscious, but before she went completely under she noticed I had used a shoe to thwart her plans. The irony was not lost on her as the use of a shoe (as in throwing it at someone) was a serious insult in Mid-Eastern cultures, as our last President unfortunately found out. As she passed out she gave the grimace of defeat kinda look like a Black Lives Matter protester watching a policeman help up a small African American child who’d fallen down.

Last I heard, a thin and very thirsty Jean Mugaruza D’Lectic was still holding onto the legs of Charles DeGaulle so as to avoid arrest. Harran Fawda upon her recovery was able to talk her way out of any trouble as she had not actually thrown any nuts. I later heard she took a job with her sister Huma Abedin at the Clinton Foundation as the TDP personal assistant (Traveling to Distant Places) to President Bill Clinton. After a few more tests, a second EHEB propagator was being installed on a small island off the coast of North Korea “for further testing,” but that is another story entirely. HOKE ROBERTSON