z134

Zip and it’s gone

I’m a short man.

I’m 5″6’, so I’m not a ‘little person” but I am short.

When I was dating, I had many girls tell me they would date me if i were taller. Fast forward and I’ve been married 20 years and have three terrific children.

Taller guys sometimes pat me on the shoulder or otherwise treat me like a child. I’m in my 40s.

Aggressive women have often warned me that ‘they could take me.’ I’ve had drunk guys start fights with the ‘little guy’ in a bar or party. Literally just walk up and start talking trash. I had a personal boxing coach for years and although I was never a contender, I learned to handle myself really well.

When I assert myself, I am told I have a ‘napoleon complex’ – when I don’t, I’m ‘passive aggressive’ or a pushover.

I’ve been passed over for leadership opportunities for taller people, and I’ve actually been told that openly. A CFO told me that people don’t like to work for short men. Height isn’t a protected class and you can be discriminated against for it.

I have a great life. Terrific family, despite being raised in poverty, I have accumulated a decent amount of first generation wealth. I have a great career and i do what I love. I really have no complaints.

But my appearance has affected my life.

Conduct a search on the bus or train? Thai police ain’t stupid, guys.

They know pretty well that Thais know best. I would say out loud, “เชิญเลยครับ (Be my guest)!”

Be sure to make a scene so that all eyes will look at you, so, you have a lot of eyewitnesses- say this; “พ่อแม่ พี่น้อง ผมกำลังโดนค้นครับ ขอไทยมุงครับ- เป็นสักขีพยานครับ ว่าผมไม่มี บุหรี่ไฟฟ้า ไม่มียาบ้านะครับ!” (Ladies & Gentlemen, I’m about to be searched, gather around folks, please be my eyewitnesses that I’ve no ‘Vapes’ or’Yaba’”)

Let’s be serious.

Once you consent to a search, there are two scenarios you need to know-ONE**, you are confronting with a pair of phony police officers. If you’re allow them to put their hands into your backpack it will mean, you will be a victim of an extortion-you know what I mean.— You may read from the expert online how to get out from a search by the fake Thai police unscathed.

TWO**: It’s real search from the police, and you can’t say no as your tattooed face & both arms, bearded with moustache wearing ’Boss’ blue T matches a description of ‘gold shop heist robber’ Too bad that you’re in a vicinity of the crime scene nearby.

Be shrewd as a snake but keeping calm like a dove **(I borrow from the Bible)- ask their permission to see their palms and what under/ inside their sleeves. If possible, take a video during a seach with their permission as well ( they will allow)

With a **vape** in your possession could cost you up to 30,000 Baht *fine

**Yaba** in your possession is questionable as penalty of drug trafficking is harsher than possession of drugs… you can’t say that, ‘IT ISN’T MINE’

Thai police will typically insist, **I am the law**

What’s other choice when facing with the Thai police demanding a search?

Guys! In Thailand do as the Thai do.

Just walk away that is what Thais would do when the police want to search the backpack of anyone.

  • What are the consequences if you refuse?

The worst scenario, if you refuse a search—is going to the police station with them.

main qimg 384b9e0d69767ea510263a78339dd5e0
main qimg 384b9e0d69767ea510263a78339dd5e0

My company was about 9 months delivering my review. I had a great year and likely generated incremental ebitda of over $5 million. When I finallly got me review I was told I did a great job and I was getting the maximum raise – 5% on top of my $120k salary. I flipped out.

Two weeks later I quit. I knew I had a ton of leverage because:

  1. My company was party to a lawsuit and I was a key witness.
  2. The company was going to be sold soon and I was in a key position.

As expected, they asked me to stay and offered me a small additional raise. I demanded $250k, a 75% bonus, promotion to EVP, stock options, 1 year severance agreement if the fired me (plus bonus), and a year of benefits post employment. Told them I didn’t care either way.

It’s been 5 years. I’m still with the company and have been promoted to president. Timing is everything. If you have leverage use it.

Mohamed Rizalman bin Ismail, a Malaysian military attaché, entered one woman’s house and attempted to have sex with her.

main qimg b9a253d179713f0d3a39748571acd29b lq
main qimg b9a253d179713f0d3a39748571acd29b lq

He was promptly arrested by the New Zealand police and charged with attempted burglary and rape. Invoking his diplomatic immunity, Mohamed left New Zealand to his country Malaysia. Following the international furor, Malaysia agreed to send Mohamed back and waive his diplomatic immunity. This case was interesting because NZ and Malaysia don’t have an extradition treaty. Apparently Mohamed “volunteered” to go back to NZ and face the trial. He served 9 months of house arrest.

main qimg 9ec95c4af849e717d2a3693c75467ef3 lq
main qimg 9ec95c4af849e717d2a3693c75467ef3 lq

Majed Hassan Ashoor, the first secretary at the Saudi Embassy in India beat and raped his Nepali housemaids. When the Police got involved, Diplomat invoking immunity left the country. All was left, a few NGOs protesting against the diplomat.

Accused Saudi diplomat leaves India

main qimg ac8ae73f69219b0443f8d5f43bfe6304 lq
main qimg ac8ae73f69219b0443f8d5f43bfe6304 lq

Traffic accidents

These cases happen far more often than beating and rape. An American military attaché was involved in traffic accident. He was reported to be drunk. As a result, the motorcycle driver died. The Pakistani authorities asked Americans to waive his diplomatic immunity so that he can be tried. After refusal, he was not allowed to leave the country. After extensive negotiations and substantial payments to the deceased’s family was the case finally resolved.

US diplomat involved in Islamabad accident departed post ‘settlement’ | The Express Tribune

Another very similar case, a Russian diplomat was involved in fatal traffic accident, in Canada, while drunk. Due to diplomatic immunity, he was allowed back to Russia. Upon arrival, he was charged in Russian court with involuntary manslaughter and jailed for 4 years.

Former Russian diplomat guilty of involuntary manslaughter | CBC News

A new case is developing right now in Turkey. It has been alleged that a Saudi national was killed in the Saudi Consulate. If this is true, we reached new lows in diplomacy.

As you can see, diplomatic immunity can be waived only by the diplomat’s side. The host country, on the other hand, can prohibit the diplomat from leaving the country. It can also make an international incident and make life hell for the remaining diplomats. But in the end it is up to the diplomat’s country if it wants to be viewed as a country that allows its diplomats to commit crimes and get away with it. A matter of national prestige is an important matter to some, not all countries.


Article 29 of the Vienna Convention states: “The person of a diplomatic agent shall be inviolable. He shall not be liable to any form of arrest or detention. The receiving state shall treat him with due respect and shall take all appropriate steps to prevent any attack on his person, freedom or dignity.”

I got my Ph.D. from Stanford, so I was both a student and a teacher there, after attending a mid-level school that gave me a full ride for undergrad. No one in my family had been to a top-tier school, and there were no top-tier schools in the area where I grew up, so I had no idea what to expect. There were two things that shocked me most:

  1. The way that everything is set up to ensure the students succeed. Ins to any internship program you could possibly want. “Lecture series” classes that are really designed to give you weekly networking opportunities. Entrepreneurship competitions that will actually put multiple students in a room with venture capitalists to pitch their business plans. You name it. The campus, the resources, the professors, the programs — all of these things are great at Stanford, but they’re great a lot of other places, too. But where you really see a huge difference is all the extras, where the school provides every opportunity for you to get in touch with people who can make your career. It’s amazing. After I saw this, I would always 100% advise anyone who’s ambitious and academically inclined to shoot for an Ivy.
  2. Interestingly, the undergraduate students are not all super smart. They’re not unintelligent. But they’re not geniuses — not most of them, anyway. I wasn’t blown away, on the whole, by my Stanford students’ intelligence. Mostly, they just worked hard and they knew how to be students. They would communicate well, come to class and to office hours, be proactive about their grade and completing their work effectively. I find that’s the biggest difference between the Stanford kids and the students I’ve taught at the CSU’s and SLAC’s in the area — most of the students at those schools just seem like they never really learned how to be students, so they struggle when they’re easily smart enough to do well in the class. (Of course, most of them also have to work, while it seems like most of the Stanford kids don’t.)

Existence Tax: The Vig Plus 3%

Saturday, Jul 20, 2024 – 07:30 AM

Authored by Tim Hartnett via LewRockwell.com,

In the bad old days, before G-Men took down the mob, were urbanites getting a better deal? Does the betting man receive worse odds from state run lotteries than Vinny gave on the corner running numbers? Did businesses shaken down for “protection” have higher hopes of survival in mob clutches than in municipal ones? Was there more or less anxiety about making rent or the mortgage in 1974 than in 2024? Which is the greater fiscal peril, organized crime or uber-societal-organization? It has become a valid question.

Gangsters had fingers in a lot of pies. Credit card racketeers, waging the present battle against physical currency, demand a slice of everything out of the oven. They’d gladly have us believe that paying for anything, without their supervision and cut, equals a criminally tainted transaction. Mobsters found their pecuniary prevalence legit in its way too. Transactions that jibed with their economic codes they called “kosher.” Other trading activity inside their ambit was deemed transgressive. Parasites tend to sound tiresomely alike. The difference is that the above ground finance industry finds no place outside its ambit.

Street people’s encampments clutter cities all over the country. What pushed so many over the edge? And how many are treading that edge carefully now? We know that insanity is somewhat genetic, but scientific observation has yet to prove external factors can’t nudge innately inclined individuals into psychosis. Facts point that way.

Should we harbor suspicion of so-called improvements in the finance system? The Bush-Obama era housing crisis arrived after the government gradually amped up its influence on the mortgage market. Once mortgages became de-localized and Wall Street joined in default skyrocketed and losses went international. Isn’t the NYSE supposed to make markets safer and more efficient? Have we seen anything like that coming out of financial centralization?

The present squeeze goes on in commercial space. Businesses, particularly restaurants, are shutting down at disturbing rates. The biggest burden is rent. This goes on as city centers are awash in more empty commercial space than ever. Local government isn’t helping. While serenading us about how much they love love and hate hate, they stay busy inundating entrepreneurs with licensing fees, new taxes, permit demands and other hurdles that restrain new ventures from ever launching. If they somehow get going anyway the municipality lurks at every juncture. They’ll keep you from thriving when they can’t stop you altogether. Actions speak louder than words. What they “love,” in practice, is bleeding prey pale with revenue demands and entangling bureaucratic complications.

In 1977 the minimum wage was $2.30 an hour. You could get nearly four Big Macs for that amount then. When the minimum went up to $12 on July 1st, the same earner only got two and one third double-deckers for his money. Losing 1.3 sandwiches an hour takes a big bite out of a working class lifestyle. 10.4 Mc-grubbings per eight-hour-day to be exact.

One year after the bicentennial average rent in the US was about $160. An NYT article from 1973 said a family of four needed less than $12,000 a year to live “moderately” in NYC in 1973. The same amount must have been a somewhat comfortable living in flyover country. By 1977 average income was over $13,000. 47 years later, average rent is at least ten times higher. While only about 10% of the population earns $130,000 or more. Where did all the value go?

Clearly, production is out of sync with consumption. What is the variable? Crops still grow at the same rate. Cargo travels at the same speed. Bricks are laid at the same pace. Chickens plop their eggs with the same regularity. Is anyone in the economy getting more than their fair share?

Almost 103 billion in “official” currency was circulating in the US in 1977. As of today, that figure stands at nearly 2 trillion 340 billion. The population has increased by about 58%. The greenbacks flowing back and forth went up by over 2000%. Those figures describe a small fraction of the overall economy. Because banks can create spending power with credit, leaving out other fiscal legerdemain, hundreds of trillions are outstanding in fiscal reality. Federal tax revenue alone, will soon hit over 5 trillion so far this year. That’s over twice the official amount of currency in circulation.

The Big Mac went from 65 cents to $5.17 in that time span. That’s about 700%. Minimum wage rose by about 450%. Watching these fiscal details we know at once that sparse fractions of all that new money is getting to where it is needed most – while we have no evidence it lands in hands that have created actual value. With everyone competing for resources and finished goods, these facts equal a devastating pay cut for many making far above minimum wage.

The idea that people are taking out according to what they contribute simply doesn’t fly. We can start with where the money supply is expanded.

A century ago banks were more accountable. They could make risky loans, as they did for Fritz Heinze, but doing so could still mean hell to pay. The series of events that shook the fiscal foundations of South Manhattan in 1907 remain mysterious over a century later. By 2007, banks were getting bailed out and it was everyone else who paid. How we got there is an intriguing conundrum of modern finance.

Heinze was a mining engineer from New York who showed up in Butte, Montana in the 1890’s. The copper market was hot at the time. That rustic town was already swimming in East Coast toffs and class consciousness. Although born into wealth and circumstances, Augustus Heinze was above pretension and indifferent to “society.” He soon developed a smelting process that greatly expanded the profitability of low-grade copper ore. Rather than pocketing the plunder, his next step was cutting 2 hours off the miner’s workday. How did that go over in the part of Butte that ‘dressed for dinner’? About like The Declaration of Independence did with George III.

Fritz couldn’t have cared less. The airs put on at posh WASP tables left the man impatient and bored. He did his excess boozing in public places where a man who’d spent the day 500 feet underground was at the next stool. Guys who loaded trams rarely bought a round with Heinze in the house.

By 1895 he’d amassed the capital to purchase the Rarus copper mine. The new-coming city slicker literally hit paydirt. His holes were always filled with the best pick and shovel men Montana could provide. The swells he snubbed had to take what hired help they could get.

An officer fraternizing with the enlisted class was high treason to mine owners of the aughts. Heinze was held in a kind of hostile awe. Butte gentry were unaccustomed to a guy who dared not to care if they liked him.  What’s an enraged starched collar to do? We’ll never be entirely sure. Deadly measures were far from uncommon in late 19th century mining strife. What happened to Heinze is one of the murkier mysteries of the robber baron era.

J.D. Rockefeller’s brother, William, was a director of Anaconda Copper. That firm was run by people who’d never pop a cork with working stiffs. They were revolted by Augie’s effrontery. Their solution was one that has retained its financial force. Whether Heinze was bought out under duress, or sold out of his own volition in 1906 isn’t fully clear. What is known is that he returned to New York as a Wall Street plunger specializing in copper stocks. Using familial connections, and a personal fortune, Heinze got himself onto the boards of almost a score of NYC banks. When shares of United Copper were being shorted in a bear run, Fritz used his position to buy aggressively, borrowing heavily from the Knickerbocker Bank and other commercial lenders where he held sway.

By October of 1907 the Heinze brothers thought they had cornered the market in United Copper. They demanded the shares from traders who were contractually short – falsely believing the bears would be forced to buy from them. It soon became clear that these shares were not hard to come by. Heinze’s bullishness ended in catastrophic loss rather than profit. This meant that he would default on loans of millions from each of over 15 NYC banks.

The story, possibly apocryphal but true in effect, goes as follows. Knickerbocker was experimenting with 24 hour banking in 1907. The brainchildren of Wall Street met for dinner at an upstairs private dining room in Delmonico’s to discuss the coming cash crunch. Waiters for the event heard what was said in the meeting. They shared this knowledge with less connected patrons chowing down on the ground floor. A run on Knickerbocker began that night, by morning it had spread to every bank in town. The Panic of 1907 was instantly afoot.

Soon banks all over Gotham were out of cash to meet a seismic wave of withdrawals. In no time connected institutions from further out were tapped too. JP Morgan famously locked every player he could muster into his mansion’s library to discuss solutions. A plan was worked out and widespread depression was averted. But the financial hierarchy of south Manhattan was far from done. Their next step entailed placing the money supply and credit generally into the possession of elite governors.

This banking scandal ultimately resulted in the Federal Reserve Act that was passed December 23rd 1913. Whether it solved the problem or laid the foundation for larger ones has been debated since. Getting into the particulars of the statute became inconvenient with the legislature still in session so close to Christmas. ‘Fightin’ Bob LaFollette, gave in and failed to press for a more exacting bill he saw as necessary at the time. The ruckus over the bill’s details were mostly passed over as ‘conspiracy theory’ throughout the 20th century. That line held sway in economic academia for many decades. Scholarly reckoning always comes too late; there is little dispute the charter helped cause and make the Great Depression worse among “experts” today. We are commanded to defer to them with amps at 11. What they got wrong is reported by the same sources at about 2.5.

Left unexamined is why the Heinze brothers misunderstood who held what in United Copper in 1907. Why did they mistakenly believe they had cornered the market? These were highly educated, seasoned men in the world of finance. How far would William Avery Rockefeller Jr. go to settle a score with Fritz Heinze? Was he cleverly stashing available shares in ostensibly immobile accounts to set up an ambush? The first generation of the Rockefeller fortune was not known to take financial affronts lightly. Is it possible, or more likely probable, William Avery had the means and motive to manipulate the market into this unlikely position?

John D. Rockefeller Jr. married Abby Aldrich in 1901. Her father, Nelson Aldrich, was the driving senatorial force behind the Federal Reserve Act, although he left the Senate before its passage. The Rockefeller gang has been evangelizing the faith of centralization in everything for over a century. It started when JD Sr. practically accomplished that in the petroleum industry before the turn of the 20th century. If you think they were never capable of violent, gangland style treachery, fast your gaze on the Ludlow massacre of 1914.

Can we measure the effect of centralization in the financial sector? By 2013 it had almost doubled its share of the economic pie since 1980. When their take went from 5% to 9% in 40 years it had to come at a loss for others at the table. Did the Fed have a role in this? And what justification is offered for doubling the squeeze?  As the economy grows so does the money industry’s cut, just as any salesman’s commission rises as the sales price is higher. Is South Manhattan insatiable? What explanation, other than parasitic predation, fits here?

The idea of market liquidity and available credit is efficiency and a fluent trading place for financial wares. Theoretically, this is competitive and brings transactional costs down while driving transactional fluidity up. Have we seen any such thing? The NYSE and kin have become like those “clubs” everyone is forced to join avoiding rip-offs for groceries, lunch, medicine, movies etc. The difference is that Wall Street’s anti-rip-off club is exclusive. You are not invited.

Where are we now? Exactly in the same place as when mobsters skimmed off the top in Vegas casinos, but far worse. The difference is that you get clipped without ever placing a bet or owning a share of a betting parlor. The south Manhattan mob is, supposedly, worth nearly 10% of all the action. What other slices of the take have widened with government intrusion and centralization? The mob focused its shakedowns on high rollers. Higher Ed goes after every kid hoping to drag letters behind his name. They call themselves “non-profits.” Does the description fit the beast?Disciplines of a Godly…Hughes, R. KentBest Price: $4.97Buy New $9.41(as of 01:52 UTC – Details)

Finding university administrators at leisure is not a job for Columbo. Just head toward any resort, high-dollar fleshpot or country club where profiteers do their squandering. Educational altruists, financial “experts” and well-heeled bon vivants occupy the same weekend turf – as well as the same self-serving sphere of self-justification.

The Rockefeller family was the largest private benefactor of that ultimate centralizing scheme, the UN. The patriarch, William Avery Rockefeller Sr., was an infamous snake oil salesman and bigamist. He’s not the Rocky the family likes to advertise. They are prouder of efforts to get around the principle of one-man-one-vote and rule the world from the modern equivalent of a royal court on a planetary scale. Make a list of plans to place more bosses overhead and move them further out of reach.  The UN, CFR, WEF, Bilderberg, Trilaterals – you name it and the progeny of that greasy grifter is in on it. And who would they place in charge? The very soul-suckers with their fangs in the US neck pulsing at Wall and Broad.

We are not looking at an abstruse, undecipherable picture here. You can do differential equations, make “relative assumptions” and discuss monetary theory until you ascend to the meta-fiscal plane of Laputa. None of that supposed “understanding” leaves Joe Six-Pack with another square foot of living space or another Big Mac. Uber-economic organization, aka David Rockefeller’s so-called “more integrated world,” is a progressively feudalistic plot that – with the compliance of the un-fake-news industry – rarely experiences any setbacks.

Shrinking buying power has a very simple explanation: a prim and proper syndicate that is more ubiquitous and avaricious than any criminal mob ever.

In Geylang, in Singapore between Lorong 8 and Lorong 24 – there were plenty of hookers and lady boys (transvestites) called BAPO who solicited clients

main qimg 69664ef5e1983aadd574540e942ab8d0
main qimg 69664ef5e1983aadd574540e942ab8d0

Choo Chong Ngen, a 30 year old man gambled that Singapore would soon legalize all forms of prostitution and mandate safety for all the customers from STDs

So he purchased large swathes of land in the Land Auctions for a SONG

Nobody bid against him because nobody believed that land near prostitution areas wouldn’t rise in the slightest

By the late 1990s – CCN built Hotels, Shops, Goldfish bowls and Houses and sold them to businesses for a massive massive profit

The hotels roared with profits as the clients paid $ 20–30 for a 20 minute session which meant in 4 hours from 10 PM to 2 AM – a room could fetch 250 bucks which was more than the rate they charged in Hyatt or Marriott

I still marvel at how this guy managed to get ahead of legalized prostitution and mint so much money

I was fired by the owner of the company 30 days before I was to get a substantial bonus. The next week a person in my former department called me asking for help with an issue.

I texted them on their private phone that I knew the owner had them do that and that I was not trying to hurt them, but not helping the owner since I was shafted on my bonus.

30 minutes later I got a call from the owner saying if I would come in and fix the issue he would pay me for the day, I said pass, that I would fix the problem if paid for the month. He told me to go to hell.

The next day he called me back and said he would pay me for a week, I said no again, I would only come back if paid for a month.

He blew up again.

I knew if the issue wasn’t fixed very quickly the losses would add up. Two days later he had his secretary call and said he would pay me for a month but I had to get in there today.

I agreed only if a cashiers check was waiting on me when I walked in the door, because I knew the cheap bastard would stop payment on a regular check.

What the dumb SOB didn’t know was I was in the process of having him served on a wrongful termination suit and that paying me for a month constituted completetion of our contract and he would owe me the bonus.

I brought my attorney with me to the office, I picked up the check and went into the system and fixed the problem.

One other thing he didn’t know was that the issue was a recurring one that required attention and there wasn’t a universal fix, it would continue to come up and since I had no intention of giving the magic formula away I had created he couldn’t have someone else fix the issue.

End result I got my bonus plus all attorney’s costs which was equal to my previous year’s pay and he went broke trying to recreate a system I devised.

With me there after my bonus and raise, his profits would have been half a million a month, without me his losses were half a million a month. Greedy bastard never knew when he was ahead.

Some people like to kick the back of the seat in front of them when in a bus or airplane. A very, very nasty habit. Also a pretty safe one, as it seems people rarely turn around and ‘do something about it’. Even though that’s pretty much what you’re doing, isn’t it? You are broadcasting to the world: “I’m a major asshole, do something about it!”

Oh Fuck
Oh Fuck

Now imagine if you will, riding a bus. It’s one of those nice cozy night buses with curtains on the side of the windows that you can sleep in. You lean back a little and kick the back of the chair in front of you. No big deal, you do it all the time. Did it a million times before, and surely this won’t be any different. That weak little coward in front of you won’t say or do a thing, haha! You’re SUCH an alpha male, Lev!

Only this time, the president of your country, happened to ride the bus, incognito with a hoodie on to “experience how the common people ride buses”. Your country is Russia. The President’s name? Vladimir Putin.

Miss Margelene’s Silver Saloon

Submitted into Contest #24 in response to: Write a magical realism story that takes place in the Wild West. view prompt

Amanda Van Regenmorter

        The town woke to discover Miss Margelene’s Silver Saloon had sprung up overnight, tacked onto the end of their only meager road in gaudy glory. The western-most, barely settled settlement of Gomer’s Gulch could only be considered a town in the most generous of estimates, but the people who lived there, mostly foolhardy prospecting men and a smattering of desperate families, called it a town all the same.They already had a saloon, of course; a handful of men camped anywhere long enough always sprouts one. Theirs was called Rabbit’s, the owner’s nickname, but you’d be forgiven for thinking it was due to being such a dirty hole. Miss Margelene’s place, on the other hand, was the furthest you could get from Rabbit’s, figuratively speaking. Literally, it was two doors down. Rabbit’s was utilitarian: squat, flat-roofed, and barely held together by bent nails. Miss Margelene’s was downright beautiful, a sparkling shade of its namesake silver. The second story sported a gilded balcony over fluted columns, and everyone knew the name because it hung in big cursive letters, two feet tall, in front of the gabled roof.Dex rode in late that morning, the supplies he needed forgotten once he saw the silver saloon. Instead, he hitched up his horse and joined the crowd in front of Rabbit’s to speculate about their new neighbor. He stood out, a head taller and better washed than the others, but most mode room for him with a smile.“Rabbit, how much did I drink last night?” Dex asked.“Half as much as it’d take for a delusion like thissun,” replied Rabbit, who was short and squalid, like his bar.“And that’s iffen he didn’t water his horse piss down,” muttered someone.“This ain’t about my liquor!” said Rabbit. “Even kids can see that abomination. The question is how on earth those misfits got it up in a single day. Not even! Must’ve been lessun ten hours.”No one had an answer, but everyone knew which misfits he meant. In a town the size of Gomer’s Gulch, everyone knows every one of the comings and goings, let alone a coming as peculiar as last night’s. The caravan had arrived in the settling dusk, torches blazing up and down three covered wagons. Not covered with any old canvas either, but draped in rainbow arrays of silken cloth and garlanded with bells that tinkled with every step of the big black horses pulling them. They’d made camp just outside the town perimeter, dark figures tended horses and made a cook fire, but no townsfolk got close enough for a good look. When a band of ornery men decided to greet the newcomers, they turned back around with glazed expressions before they’d gone half way. Unable to elaborate, they simply said they’d changed their minds.“What in tarnation is that?” shouted a ruddy man riding in hard on a heaving grey horse. The man had a pointed beard, well-trimmed, and a six-point star on his chest, well-polished. His red-headed wife, Hannah, pale and pretty, was saddled behind him. While he dismounted and stared at the new saloon, Dex helped Hannah down and began with what little he knew.“Caravan came in last night, and -”“Shut your fool mouth,” the Sheriff said and spat at Dex’s feet. “And get away from my woman. You tryin’ to play at bein’ sheriff? Well you ain’t. You lost. Rabbit, what’s that building?”“Nobody knows, sir,” Rabbit said with a shrug. “Was here when we woke up.”

“What do you mean? Buildings don’t appear overnight – certainly not ones that fancy. Didn’t anyone hear them hammering? Don’t you sleep in your bar, Rabbit?”

“I do, but I didn’t hear a thing. Ain’t you s’posed to sleep in town too, sheriff? Keep your ear to the ground for trouble? Ain’t you s’posed to defend us from the bandits? They killed a woman last week -”

“Rabbits are the ones s’posed to keep their heads down, if they know what’s good for ‘em. Hows ‘bout the rest of you lumps? Anyone go in or out of that place? Who owns it?”

“No one’s been seen, but I have suspicions the owner is one Miss Margelene,” said Dex flashing a grin at the big sign, but he stepped away before his boots could be sullied again.

The sheriff scowled. He left his wife to tend the horse and stomped down to the new saloon. Dex, Rabbit and most of the men followed. Some children scurried along behind them.

The doors alone were taller than any other building in town and such a deep black they looked like an opening on a moonless night. The sheriff’s raised his fist, but it caught mid-air, hovered, before he gathered himself and pounded.

“This is the law! Open -” he demanded, and the doors opened, swung right out and swept the sheriff off his feet. He hit the dirt road hard.

No one laughed, not only because he might shoot, but because they were busy attempting to glimpse the interior while the black doors banged against the wall. It was more luxury than they’d ever seen, even the men from big cities. There were no windows, but long strings of lanterns bathed the big room in flickering light. The floors were herringbone parquet and the walls looked metallic, imprinted with crescent moons.  There was a bar to the left, cabinets of exotic liquors and pewter mugs behind a carved wood counter with a smooth, stone top. There was a raised stage to the right with royal purple curtains. The heavy tables were ringed with upholstered red chairs.

In the back a woman descended from an unseen second floor down a grand staircase. The men doffed their hats and made futile efforts to brush off dust and straighten shirts, but every eye stayed fixed on her. She looked ageless and more elegant than the saloon with carefully coiffed black hair and a ruffled Victorian gown.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Miss Margelene,” she greeted, voice melodious. She had a lilting accent, but it was hard to say from where. “We didn’t intend to open until tonight, but apparently the law is impatient. Can I be of service?” She stood centered in the doorway.

“Yes’m, I, um – I have some questions as to how this here establishment was, um – established,” the sheriff mumbled, tugging his badge.

“Of course, I’m happy to answer – tonight, during the grand opening. For you, sheriff, everything’s on the house. Unless, that is, we’re violating any ordinances? I so hope we’ve met the standards set by your lovely settlement.”

“Standards! How’s about a standard of fair competition and -” Rabbit began, but the sheriff elbowed him and he cut off with a wheeze.

“No ma’am, tonight’ll do,” the sheriff said and donned his hat. “You heard the lady, ya buncha oglin’ buffoons. Grand opening tonight! Now git!” He shoved away the men and kicked a boy in the pants. The doors swung shut behind him.

###

               Dex sped home, desperate to decide what to wear and scrub the ever-loving hell out of it. But more important, he had to tell Rowena everything.

Her modest ranch, home to the world’s finest horses in Dex’s estimate, lay a couple dozen miles south of the Gulch. He always figured the secret to Rowena’s success had to do with the fact that she herself was rather equine. Stately and athletic, even at her age, she never wasted a moment, but when her gray mane came down you could see the barely concealed wild streak. Dex grabbed an indigo shirt from his shack by the barn and hollered for Rowena while he filled her washtub and set to scrubbing.

“Lordy Dex, I know you like to be neat, but you washed your whole wardrobe last week!” she said, exiting the barn with her hair up and a saddle under one arm. “Where are the supplies? I appreciate you ran them bandits off last night before they rustled any horses, but they tore the fence terrible. Looks like one caught his leg though, there’s half a pair of pants hanging on the wire.”

Dex tumbled out the saloon story, and Rowena only interrupted to make him promise he hadn’t drank too much of Rabbit’s swill. Afterwards, he cajoled her to join him for the opening. She was busy, she said, and besides she hadn’t been to a saloon for five years, not since Fred passed, but Dex wouldn’t hear excuses. He hung his shirt to dry then pressed her until she agreed to go gussy up.

He readied the wagon. Rowena stepped out into the fading light of the half-set sun in an emerald pleated dress with earrings to match. He whistled until she clouted him in the chest.

“Shut it, purty boy. I’m old enough to be your grandmother.”

“Pshaw, you can’t be a day older than my mother,” he assured her. “And anyway, we make a purty pair, don’t we?”

###

 

Their arrival marked the first time they’d seen traffic in Gomer’s Gulch. It looked like the land had dumped out all the dwellers in a hundred miles to mill outside Miss Margelene’s Silver Saloon. The big black doors were shut again, and the sheriff was on guard with a crisp white shirt, black leather vest and a freshly oiled beard.

“Don’t think you’re gettin’ in Dex, even with your grandma girly-friend dolled up like a hooker,” he said when he caught sight of them. “I’ll throw her out right on top of you iffen you even try to get in.”

Dex drew himself up every inch, ready to defend Rowena’s honor, but she stepped in front of him, laughing.

“Little Stanley Sherman, is that you? I ain’t seen you since Fred tossed you outta Rabbit’s that night, playin’ at being a man, tryin’ start a gunfight. O’course, that was back when you only had a few scraggly hairs on that little chin to cover all your pimples.”

The crowd welcomed the distraction from waiting for the doors to open, but Dex watched the sheriff’s holsters. He tugged Rowena shoulder, but there was no stopping her.

“My, oh my. Can’t say I missed you, but what a surprise it was to hear anyone voted you for sheriff. Almost as surprising as seeing you still have that ugly beard.”

That was the last straw, Dex knew, but just as the sheriff’s fingers twitched, those black doors swung open and knocked him down again, this time on his face. The crowd, Dex and Rowena included, flooded in around him.

There must have been a couple hundred men and a quarter as many women, but the silver saloon accommodated everyone with room to spare. Servers, women in black silk blouses and pink frilled skirts, worked the bar and the floor. On stage, a trio of ladies sang a ditty about a showdown at high noon. Dex thought they shared a resemblance, but maybe it was only their sly smiles.

He snagged Rowena a seat and moseyed to the counter, but before he ordered, he noticed the sad-eyed sheriff’s wife next to him.

“Hello Hannah. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a saloon.”

“Hi, Dex. Couldn’t miss this,” she said. Then barely loud enough to hear, she added, “You should watch out. Stanley won’t stop talking about you since the election.”

“All good things, I’m sure?”

“Look at you, grinnin’ like a weasel in a hen house,” said the sheriff, cocking the pistol he had aimed at Dex. “You ain’t never gonna be sheriff, and you ain’t never gonna get the time of day from my girl.”

Dex drew the fastest he’d ever done, but he saw the sheriff pull the trigger and knew he was a half-second too late. He tensed, but the shot didn’t come. Miss Margelene did, swept in between them, skirts swaying, and Dex was terrified she’d taken the bullet meant for him, but she didn’t flinch.

“Not tonight, gentlemen,” she said, handing each of them a drink. Dex took the mug in his free hand then realized he was no longer holding his weapon. He looked down to find it holstered as if he’d never drawn.

“Thank you ma’am,” Dex said, sure that he owed her for more than the drink. He took a swig and found it was good beer, but unlike any he had tasted. There were strange undertones, maybe mint, he thought. But most strange, he realized, it was cold. Very cold, like the mountain snow he’d crossed coming to Gomer’s Gulch. When he tried to ask her about it, he saw Miss Margelene was drifting off with the sheriff.

Hannah looked distraught, but a waitress was soothing her, patting her back, and Dex figured she was better off here than her home anyhow, so he went to find Rowena. He turned down a couple dance offers on his way, the trio had switched to a romantic ballad, and he circled a couple poker games before spying Rowena, slow dancing with the general store owner. Maybe she was working on a deal for those supplies, he figured, and tossed back his drink, but when they spun around he nearly choked. He’d never seen Rowena beam like that, like a dozen years had rolled right off her back. At this rate, she’d have a new man at the ranch, and Dex would never be so glad to be put out of work.

The night unfurled, and, even with the sheriff prowling around, Dex had never felt better. The trio sang one merry tune after another; drinks flowed, delicious and cold; and even deep in their cups he never saw a soul turn sour, or get thrown out for lack of funds. In fact, he didn’t see anyone leave at all. Even Rabbit laughed, coaxing the bartenders to tell him where the spirits came from. Dex chatted with all kinds, old friends and people he’d only ever tipped his hat to, and they said warm words and told him they had voted him for sheriff. Dex knew they were only being nice, but still it made him flush.

When a waitress with a sunny smile and yellow curls spilling over her black top pulled him away from a game of darts, he let himself be pulled into a whirling circle of fuddled men at the saloon’s center. Together, they tried to keep pace with the jig a smaller circle of waitresses danced in their midst. Every so often, the women would stop and spin the other way, forcing the men to follow. Boots caught and tripped over boots, but the men laughed and tried to stay facing their favorite gal.

While the circle coiled this way and that, one woman pulled a silver scarf out from her blouse and danced forward. She wrapped the scarf around a burly man in a checkered shirt, and swiveled with him back to the center. The men hooted and whistled, and then each girl was going out, wrapping herself a man with her own scarf.

Dex watched and whistled too, until one raven-haired girl fetched the sheriff. Dex stumbled but kept step. His gorge rose when she gave the sheriff’s beard a tug. The circles kept moving, outer going fast to keep up with the girls and their captives.

The fellows in the middle smiled wide, jumping with the girls, a couple ventured to put hands on hips, but Dex saw the sheriff stagger, look left and right.

“Wait, wha-?” the sheriff sputtered and slowed. “Why us? Why-”

The man in the checkered shirt shoved into the sheriff. The music was morphing, volume louder, tempo faster, key minor. Dex heard the women in the center murmuring, indiscernible, saw blurred faces everywhere. He couldn’t tell anymore if he was dancing or the room was spinning itself round.

The women in black threw up their scarves and each exploded mid-air, burst into confetti, rained silver specs down to scattered applause. That is, until the pops and bangs kept going, more and more bursts of confetti until it was thick in the air and no one could see a thing. There were screams and then yells of ‘Smoke!’

Black smoke, heavy and perfumed like incense, poured down the grand staircase. It filled the room and turned everything as dark as the doors, dark as a moonless night.

###

Dex woke to Rowena slapping him hard across the face. He coughed and sputtered back to consciousness in her relieved embrace as the sun rose over the well-dressed bodies laid out on the bare patch of ground that had been Miss Margelene’s Silver Saloon.

It was the children, terrified and crying, that had shaken their parents awake first. As the adults came around they helped others up, parched and unsteady.

Once Dex was on his feet, he sent some kids to fetch buckets of water and rations. Then he saw the commotion and the little crowd gathering. He pushed his way through and found the six scarfed men from last night, sheriff included, naked and hogtied in silver chains, laid out in their little circle. Some tried to free them, others just laughed. The men didn’t look injured, except the sheriff, and it didn’t take Dex long to realize the bloody gash down his leg looked like it might match right up to Rowena’s barbed wire fence.

While the six men stewed in the small town jail, Dex led the swift investigation that turned up enough stolen property to expose their identities as Gomer Gulch’s notorious bandits, as well as the suspicious duplicate ballot boxes in the sheriff’s possession.

However, he never did find the sheriff’s red-headed wife, Hannah. Neither she nor the silver saloon was ever seen again, but on moonless nights he dreamed of her, smiling on stage in a black shirt, singing about the life she left behind.

Without a doubt, America is the biggest threat to world peace.

America has fought in dozens of wars and conflicts since China opened up to the world in 1979. China, on the other hand, has fought no wars at all — not a single shot fired!

America instigated the proxy war in Ukraine and is now trying to start another proxy war in Taiwan or Philippines.

China has proposed peace plans for both Russia-Ukraine and Israel-Hamas. America has shot them both down.

America wants war. China avoids war.

(Visited 181 times, 1 visits today)
5 2 votes
Article Rating
Subscribe
Notify of
guest

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

1 Comment
Oldest
Newest Most Voted
Inline Feedbacks
View all comments
mtness

Related to your recent creAitons:

https://nitter.poast.org/generatedsimage/status/1847799352355402225
“I’d love to know the Prompt that throws out this character.”

Best regards, MT

1
0
Would love your thoughts, please comment.x
()
x