‘R—Rum.’

‘Going to a party, are we? You’re at the wrong place, buddy,’ says the man. He inspects the paper wrap before placing it on the ground. Then gives his captive a quick pat-down, finding no weapons. ‘What the hell-ya doing here?’

‘I—I followed you.’

‘Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know.’

‘I—I’m looking for someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Some guy—’ The barrel presses painfully into his skull. ‘B—By the name, Rodger.’

‘By the name Rodger. Well, that really narrows it down,’ scoffs the man.

The journalist realises he needs to explain. ‘Miller, no Rodger Muller, something like—’

‘Müller?’ The man fiercely asks. ‘What do you want with him?’

The journalist attempts to turn, ‘L—Look—’

The pistol shoves his forehead against the weathered wood. He desperately blabbers, ‘I—I’m willing to pay for info—’

‘Not at eleven o’clock, oh-night, ya not,’ declares the man. He cocks the hammer on the pistol and coldly says, ‘Goodnight, chump.’

‘NO!’ screams the journalist. Wanting to throw up, visions of being horribly dumped into a cold, shallow grave with a bullet hole to his skull now flash through his terrified mind. ‘Please don’t kill—’

‘Give me a reason—’

‘I’m willing to pay.’ He’s almost crying.

‘Explain?’

‘I—I have money. And the bottle, for your troubles.’ And sobbing like a baby, ‘I—I’m—m, w—willing to p—pay—’

‘Oh, jeez.’ The man realises he’s dealing with an invertebrate. Then asks, ‘Okay. What for?’

‘F—For some information.’

‘What else?’

‘That’s all. H—Honest. Look, I’m legit. I’m a journalist—’

‘Huh, that’s a new one,’ the man chuckles. ‘You better not be shitting me.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Journo aye,’ the man says. ‘Don’t dare move. Don’t even scratch your arse unless I tell you. You got that?’

‘Y—Yes.’

‘Now, slowly with your left hand. Your ID.’

The journo reaches around and pulls out his wallet, holding it above his head.

Activating a dim torch, the man takes it, flips it open single-handedly, skilfully confirming the ambivalent claims. ‘Hmm, your reptile membership. Miles Grant. I guess you are who you are.’ He pockets the wallet. ‘What else you got?’

Grant pulls out a roll of bills. The man whistles at the grease,

‘What, do we have here?’

‘As I said—’

‘Yeah. You’re willing to pay,’ he says, taking it. ‘Anything else?’

He is handed a black diary and pockets it. The pistol moves from his head as the hammer unlocks; Grant momentarily relaxes. Then, retrieving the bottle, the man says, ‘On ya feet. But keep ya hands up.’

Grant struggles, yet rises. Then, tenses again. The weapon pressing into the middle of his back, he’s urged forward.

‘It’s open, Journo. Go inside. Slowly!’

Grant awkwardly turns the doorknob. The door swings open with a long squeak, revealing a dark hallway. He’s pushed forward, as indistinct shadows creep along the walls. The door hauntingly squeaks again, closing behind them.

A naked bulb hangs swinging from the ceiling, casting dim, moving shadows. The same decor covers the walls as the hallway. Old and peeling. In the corner, an old wooden table with older-looking chairs sits.

The man gestures toward an old cupboard. ‘There’s, some glasses in there, help yourself.’ He places the bottle on the table’s surface. ‘It’s not often I have such gracious guests.’

Then, sitting, he continues aiming the weapon and slumps back into his chair. Reaching into his pocket, he locates Grant’s belongings and empties the contents onto the table. Scrimmaging through the assorted finds, he takes the diary, and a small photo of a young woman falls free. She’s somehow familiar. He begins thumbing through the pages while holding the weapon.

The writing within is petite and precise. In most places, the lines and figures are regular and perfect; this isn’t Grant’s handwriting. It possibly belongs to a woman. Perhaps the one in the photo. In a list of names, one, ‘Agent Steven Rosenfeld,’ emerges. Along the margin, a comment, ‘Contact this man if anything happens to me,’ is written. An arrow points to the name. The man glances at Grant, wondering, ‘What is this about?’

‘So why don’t you oil the door hinges?’ Grant asks, attempting conversation.

The man replies gruffly, ‘Huh! Let’s me know when some customer enters me joint, uninvited.’

Grant places the glasses beside the bottle. The guy indicates a vacant chair with a wave of his handgun. Grant sits opposite, as the man continues thumbing through the diary. Placing it on the table, the older man looks unnervingly at his guest. He slowly, methodically, unscrews the silencer from his handgun and places the weapon on the table within easy reach. Removing

his hat, he promptly inspects his cowl before returning his icy gaze. He meticulously arranges his black, greying, and unkempt hair. Placing his trademark fedora on the smoothened table surface, his old trench coat opens to reveal a shoulder holster. A black tie hangs loose around his neck in contrast to the slightly ageing and yellowing shirt he wears.

His sharp eyes bore into Grant. The silence becomes unbearable.

Grant alarmingly notices smears of blood on the warped wooden floor. A cold shiver runs down his spine as he realises he is in the presence of a stone-cold killer.

‘Are you going to pour us a drink each?’ the killer asks drily. ‘Or wait for the bottle to evaporate.’

Grant, his nerves unsettled, hastily reaches for the booze and starts pouring. However, he only manages to spill the contents onto the table. The older man clamps his fist, vice-like, around Grant’s shaking wrist, saying, ‘Better take this off you, before you waste it all.’ He sneers at the younger man. ‘There’s something I don’t get.’

‘What’s that?’

‘What’s worth the paint stripper, to risk getting a bullet?’

‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone named Miller—’

‘Or Muller. You said so outside.’

‘I was told you might know him.’

The older man leans forward, ‘Now, maybe I do, then maybe I don’t.’ The intensity back in his eyes, ‘What do you want with this, Miller?’

‘I was told he knows a guy named Rosenfeld.’

‘Rosenfeld?’ asks the man drily.

‘You took a photograph, from me.’

The man lets go of Grant’s wrist and pushes the photograph across the table.

‘I need him to find this girl,’ explains Grant, apprehensively holding the photo up. ‘I was told he’s good at that.’

‘Missing girlfriend, is she?’ asks the other man coldly. ‘Listen, son. If you can’t keep up with her, don’t waste my time.’

‘Waste your time,’ asked Grant. ‘What—’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Find you.’ Grant suddenly realises, ‘Your—’

‘Rosenfeld. It ain’t exactly tattooed on my forehead.’

‘I’m good at my job.’

‘Nosy reptile,’ Rosenfeld said, giving him a hard stare. ‘It’s going to cost you. You sure she’s worth the trouble?’

‘Trouble?’

‘How do you know she hasn’t run off with some other, hitch?’

‘Shit. It’s not like that.’

‘So tell me, Journo. What’s it like?’

‘She’s my little sister, Aimee,’ Grant blurts out. ‘She went missing several weeks back…’

Rosenfeld, staring at him, conjectures, ‘And there’s been no trace of her, no ransom note, no leads at all. Has there?’

‘No, nothing. Not a single lead.’

‘And the police are completely baffled by the case.’

‘Yes, how do you know?’

‘Let’s say I am familiar with such—I hate to break it to you, kid. But trafficked girls—’

‘No,’ says Grant defensively. ‘She wasn’t kidnapped.’

‘How do you know?’

Tears in his eyes, Grant explains, ‘There’s no record of her. The police. The government. Anybody who should have info, records. None of them have anything on her. It’s like she never existed. Apart from,’ he indicates the diary, the photo.

‘So there’s no official evidence she ever existed?’

Tearfully, Grant nods his head.

‘I see,’ says Rosenfeld thoughtfully.

‘Yeah, I guess you think I’m crazy as well. Even my dad—’ Grant looked defeated. ‘He insists, he never had a daughter.’

‘Right.’

‘I’m the only one who remembers.’ In anger and frustration, Grant reaches across the table, picks up the money, the diary and the photo, ‘Sorry I wasted your time.’

Rosenfeld grabs his arm, ‘Sit down, kid.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m beginning to believe you.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Gut feeling,’ answers Rosenfeld. ‘But tell me. How much are you willing to sacrifice to find her?’

Grant shrugs, ‘Anything.’ And nodding at the roll says, ‘It’s all yours if you take the job. Plus more when—’

‘Okay.’

Grant nods understanding, as Rosenfeld leans back in his chair,

asking, ‘How did you really find me?’

Grant points to the diary. ‘Your name is in it. Was my sister’s. She says—’

‘Yeah, I read it,’ confirms Rosenfeld. Reaching over, picks up the photo, ‘She’s attractive. She’s what, I guess, about seventeen?’

Grant nods his head, ‘Around that.’

‘But it’s going to cost you.’

Grant looks elated. He reaches for—

‘Ah,’ says Rosenfeld, leaning forward on his elbows, ‘Now here’s the thing, kid.’

‘What thing is that?’

‘I’m not talking about bacon.’ Yet Rosenfeld pulls a bill from the roll. He carefully folded the note and placed it into his shirt pocket, saying, ‘Consider this a down payment. You’d better hang onto the rest.’

For a long second, the younger man says nothing. Eventually, he asks, ‘Okay. What do I have to do?’

Rosenfeld pulls a cigarette packet from his pocket. And removing a coffin nail, taps the cigarette on the side of the box, then offers one to Grant, who respectfully turns down the act of goodwill.

He watches Rosenfeld light the smoke and inhale. Rosenfeld’s eyes close in ecstasy, and when they open…

The door squeaks loudly, and Rosenfeld, holding it ajar, waves toward the stairs. ‘After you, Journo. We have work to do.’

Grant, peering down the steep stairwell, hesitates. ‘What kind of

work?’

‘Nasty work.’

‘How do I know—’

‘If I were going to do you in, you’d be dead already.’

‘That’s reassuring.’ His heart pounding, Grant descends the staircase.

‘You’re bloody well welcome!’ answers Rosenfeld. ‘But don’t step in the blood.’

‘What blood?’

Slipping, Grant’s arm is seized.

Rosenfeld comments, ‘Don’t want you falling and adding to the mess. Do we?’

‘No,’ answers Grant, unsure what mess he spoke of. As he reaches the bottom…

‘There’s a light switch on the right.’

Fumbling for the switch, Grant manages to turn the light on. The black dissolves into yellowish gloom. And he is met with a grizzly sight. On the floor lay two bodies on a black plastic sheet. The stiffs, wearing identical black suits, but from a better tailor than Rosenfeld’s, sport bullet holes in the foreheads. Grant realises with sickening dread what the “nasty work” involves.

‘Told you it would cost you,’ says Rosenfeld with a sinister grin. ‘Don’t lose it now, kid.’ He grabs a couple of plastic aprons and gloves hanging from the wall nearby. ‘Here,’ he says, tossing a set to his accomplice. ‘Put these on.’

‘What?’

‘This is going to get messy, kid.’

‘You don’t expect me—’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘No,’ challenges Grant. ‘No way in hell.’

‘No?’

‘Not until I know—’

‘Okay. I guess I owe you that. But I haven’t got all night.’

‘All night?’

‘So you help me clean this shit up, while I explain what’s going on. Got that!’

With dread and realising he’s trapped, Grant reluctantly nods.

‘Okay.’

‘S’pose I should start with my real name.’ Rosenfeld pauses, reaching for the shoulders, ‘Grab him by the ankles.’ And continuing his story, they struggle toward a low bench, ‘Anyway, my real name, the one I was born with—’

‘Jeez,’ says Grant, ‘this guy full of rocks?’

‘Not easy moving a stiff, is it?’ jeers Rosenfeld. ‘They don’t cooperate.’ He continues his life history. ‘As you already guessed, people called me Miller, sometimes Muller, depending on how bright they were.’ He places the body on the bench. Then he helps Grant with the legs. And returns for the other corpse. ‘Grab him the same way. But, most couldn’t get it around their thick skulls, how to pronounce Müller.’

‘That your real name?’

‘Detective Rodger Müller, it was at one time. I know. A cop.’

Rosenfeld finds a couple of clear face shields and throws one to Grant, ‘Here. It’s going to get—’

‘Messy,’ reflects Grant. ‘You normally use your cellar for this?’

‘This’s the first time.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘These bruisers arrived just before you did,’ Rosenfeld explains.

‘Asked me the wrong questions.’

‘So, you killed them.’

‘They were a little uncooperative.’

‘Now you’re doing your own autopsy?’

‘You’d rather I call the coroner’s?’ Rosenfeld puts on his face shield.

‘No. But, wouldn’t cutting them up, like—’

‘You watch too many movies,’ Rosenfeld says sourly. ‘But yeah.

Once I find out what makes them tick, we’re disposing of them.’

‘Charming,’ replies Grant. He places the face shield on.

‘Hand me that saw over there.’

Grant looks around and finds a Tanon saw. He hands it to Rosenfeld.

‘Here, hold his head steady.’

Grant edges toward the stiff, and seeing the head-shot—

‘What are you waiting for?’ asks Rosenfeld. ‘An invitation.’

‘I’ve never—’

‘What, don’t tell me you’re never seen a stiff before?’

‘Never like this one.’

‘You’ll get used to it, kid,’ Rosenfeld boasts with an evil grin. ‘Now hold his head for me.’

‘Why, what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to give Frank and Stein here a lobotomy,’ says Rosenfeld, holding the saw. ‘Believe me, if I’m right about this, you’ll realise the necessity. Now hold his head.’

Grant clamps his hands on the lifeless face and turns his head away. Rosenfeld positions the saw and starts cutting around the stiff ’s crown. ‘That’s when I changed my name to Rosen—actually, that’s the name they gave me.’

‘Who?’

‘Division-9?’

‘Never heard of them?’

‘Good,’ says the agent, looking pleased with himself, as Grant watches him, pry a piece of scull away with a pair of pliers and toss it to the floor. ‘Means if you had, some arsehole ain’t doing their job properly.’

Trying not to vomit, Grant asks, ‘So you joined division—’

‘Oh no, kid. I didn’t join, I was recruited.’

‘So I guess that means, I’m—’

‘Recruited? You help me,’ says the agent, pointing the bloodied pliers at himself, then at Grant, ‘I help you find your sister.’

Rosenfeld removes the top of the skull. The room fills with a pungent odour. Grant turns his face away, doing his best not to retch, ‘Oh jeez, what’s that s—’

‘Well done, lad. You’re looking better already.’ Rosenfeld slaps Grant on the back with a bloodied glove. ‘I’m amazed you lasted that long.’ Then, peering into the skull, “Yeah, just as I thought. Have a look”

‘You’re joking?’

‘Jeez, kid. He’s dead.’

‘Ah—’

‘Listen, you’re going to have to trust me.’

Slowly, Grant circles around and takes a look. ‘What the hell?’

He isn’t looking at a human brain.

They hear a noise from upstairs, and a voice calls out, ‘Steve, you down there?’

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ says Rosenfeld. ‘You keep an eye on these two.’ And he leaves Grant alone, with the grisly specimens.

Miles Grant removes the bottle from his lips; Rosenfeld, having retrieved it from upstairs, along with a man he called ‘Doc.’ Grant splutters and coughs and immediately returns it to his mouth.

‘It takes a bit of getting used to,’ says Rosenfeld, not talking about the rum.

Grant coughs again.

‘You’d better take it easy with that,’ says Rosenfeld, taking the bottle. He takes a swig himself, then hands it to the Doctor.

‘Small sips until you get acclimatised,’ says the Doc, immediately handing it back to Grant. The Doctor, dressed in a lab coat, smeared with blood stains, returns to prodding the brain of the decapitated stiff.

Grant points the bottle toward the makeshift operating table, ‘What the hell are they?’ He takes another sip of rum.

‘NHE’s,’ answers the Doctor.

‘NHE?’

‘Non-human Entity,’ Rosenfeld explains.

‘I guessed that when I looked inside—that is a head, isn’t it?’ Grant asks.

The Doctor grins at him, resuming his examination.

‘Shit. Did anyone else see that?’

‘You mean this,’ said the Doc, prodding at the NHE. The fingers clenched. Then relaxed. ‘It’s a galvanic reaction from metal,’ explains the Doc. ‘Like a frog, in High School science. Similar thing. He’s quite dead.’

‘You’ve heard of the Men in Black,’ asks Rosenfeld.

‘MiB?’ answers Grant. ‘Yeah. But I thought that was all, you know, urban-legend bullshit.’

‘Hey Doc,’ asks Rosenfeld after taking a drink. He points the bottle toward the NHE, ‘Does that look like urban-legend shit to you?’

‘You’re looking at one,’ explains the Doctor.

‘Two of ’em, actually. What’s left,’ explains Rosenfeld, proud of his workmanship. ‘Third lot we’ve managed to catch. But I’ll let the Doc explain the science. I’ll only balls it up.’

The Doc looked at Grant, his eyes enlarged by the hands-free magnifier he wore. He grinned, making him look ghoulish, then began… and finished his thesis.

Grant looked from the Doc to Rosenfeld, who, in his trench coat, took another sip of rum. Then at Aimee’s photo, asking, ‘Jeez-sis, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?’

“You’re self-aware in your dreams,” he said gently, “but your subconscious isn’t letting you wake cleanly. The key is to ground yourself when you wake. Look at something consistent. Count your fingers. Find what’s real.”

But the clocks lied now.

And her fingers multiplied when she counted them.

—

The first time she noticed the split, it had been small. She’d left her coffee on the counter before work, half full. The next morning, she found it again—still half full, still warm, steam curling into the air.

She thought it was funny. Told her friend Daniel about it.

“Maybe I’m living the same day twice,” she’d joked over the phone.

Daniel laughed. “You probably just forgot to drink it.”

But later that night, when she called him again—frightened, whispering that the lights in her apartment were breathing—he said, “Mara… you called me hours ago. You said you couldn’t wake up.”

That was the first time she realized something was wrong.

—

By the end of the week, she started keeping journals.

Every morning, she’d write the date, time, and three facts.

It’s Tuesday.

My name is Mara Winslow.

I live in the real world.

But the handwriting changed between entries. Sometimes her script slanted left, sometimes right. Sometimes she’d flip open the book and find entire paragraphs written in a voice she didn’t recognize.

You keep trying to wake up, one entry said. But you’re already dreaming of doing it.

—

The city outside began to distort. Streetlights flickered in patterns she swore spelled words. Strangers stared too long. The clouds didn’t move—they looped, repeating the same ripple of sunlight over and over.

She stopped answering the phone.

Stopped eating.

Stopped sleeping, though she wasn’t sure that was possible anymore.

Once, she found a note taped to her mirror:

If you’re reading this, it worked. Don’t fall asleep again.

She couldn’t remember writing it.

She wasn’t sure what worked.

—

Dr. Henley called her in for an emergency session.

His office walls were painted a comforting gray, the air still and warm. But the longer she sat, the more the walls seemed to breathe in and out.

“You’re doing well,” he said softly. “You’re beginning to accept both realities.”

“I don’t want both,” she said. “I just want the real one.”

He smiled. “Who says this isn’t it?”

The clock behind him melted, its hands drooping like wax. Mara stood up, backing away. “I need to wake up,” she said.

“You already did,” he whispered.

—

The next time she opened her eyes, she was in a hospital. White walls. Beeping monitors. Tubes in her arms.

A nurse entered, face half hidden behind a surgical mask. “You’re awake, Mara,” she said gently. “You’ve been in a coma for six years. Fell asleep at work. We didn’t think you’d make it.”

Mara wept. “It was all a dream?”

The nurse nodded. “You’re safe now.”

But when she blinked, the nurse was gone. The room was dark. The machines silent.

And from the corner of the room came her own voice:

“You keep waking up in the wrong place.”

—

She woke again—this time, back in her apartment. The same mug. Same counter. Same sun cutting across the window.

The TV was on. A morning anchor smiled brightly at the camera. “Good morning, everyone! Strange solar activity has been causing some reality distortion today. If your electronics seem off, don’t panic—it’s temporary.”

Then he paused. Looked straight at her.

“Mara,” he said. “Wake up.”

The screen went black.

—

Panicking, she ran to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Her reflection looked tired but real. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’m awake. I’m awake.”

The reflection smiled.

“I know,” it said—and grabbed her hand.

The world folded like paper.

Colors drained away.

She landed in a glass corridor, her reflection on every surface. Each wall reflected a version of herself—some crying, some laughing, some asleep.

In one reflection, she saw Daniel standing beside her body, whispering her name.

In another, she saw Dr. Henley watching through a monitor, taking notes.

In another, she saw herself—eyes open, motionless.

A dozen Maras stared back.

Only one of them blinked.

—

Time dissolved. She walked through mirror after mirror, each one a different world. In one, she was back in the hospital. In another, she was on a quiet beach. In another, she was a child again, staring at the sky and wondering how it could ever look so real.

Sometimes she heard whispers from the glass:

Don’t wake up. It’s worse out there.

You can choose which world you keep.

Maybe you were never meant to leave.

She started to forget which version had started it all.

Maybe all of them were dreaming each other.

—

Then one day—if days still existed—she saw him.

A man standing in the mirror across from her.

“Daniel?” she whispered.

He smiled faintly. “You found me.”

She took a step closer. “Where am I?”

“You’re still asleep. But you can come home if you want. Just reach out.”

He extended his hand.

Warmth radiated through the glass.

Her heart surged with hope.

But then another voice spoke behind her.

Her own.

“Don’t go. That’s not him.”

She turned. Another Mara stood there, identical down to the tear in her sleeve. “It’s another trick. If you go through, you’ll never wake up.”

Mara looked between them—the familiar kindness in Daniel’s eyes, the desperate warning in her twin’s face.

Both were real.

Both weren’t.

She closed her eyes.

—

When she opened them, the world was bright. She was back in the hospital bed. Daniel was beside her, holding her hand, crying.

“Welcome back,” he whispered.

Her throat felt dry. “I made it?”

He nodded. “You made it.”

The doctor smiled. “You’re safe now.”

Mara leaned back against the pillow, re

lief washing through her.

Outside the window, sunlight poured across the floor.

Then she noticed the clock on the wall.

Its hands were moving backward.

I’m back to Vietnam today after the Deepavali vacation.

The actual scene at the Hanoi airport is like the below picture.

The immigration is crazy crowded with hundreds of people waiting for the clearance.

The number of immigration counters are very less.

The anger against authorities for not organising enough personnel is normal. People are frustrated.

BUT GUESS WHO CHAMPIONED THE CAUSE OF GETTING THE WORST STARES AND BEING LABELLED 😂😂

It’s US INDIANS as usual.

The moment we saw huge queues, our jugaad mindset and so called WISDOM turned on.

The families now started coming up with excuses like the kids are sick, elders are tired, women have periods to jump the queue.

All these guys are well educated, wear good clothes and filthy rich.

Of course all these symptoms get eliminated after they clear the immigration.

Now!!! You know what got me disgusted.

I’m standing representing India in the queue and people of all nationalities are bashing us left and right

I might have heard the phrase DIRTY AND BULLY INDIANS a hundred times at least. 😃😃😃

I thought it fits us..

We are fit to be called dirty and bullies. We do not have the basic sense that people from a hundred nationalities are looking at us and judging us by this behaviour.

😭😭😭😭

Mahsi (Middle Eastern Stuffed Peppers)

Yield: 4 to 6 servings

Ingredients

• 4 to 6 bell peppers, topped and cored
• 1/2 pound ground beef and pork
• 1 onion, chopped
• Dash of garlic powder
• 1/2 cup minced parsley
• 1 1/2 cups cooked rice
• 3 tablespoons margarine
• 1 teaspoon salt
• Dash of pepper
• 2 cups tomato sauce
• Dill to taste

Instructions

1. Brown meat with onion and garlic powder in skillet.
2. Add remaining ingredients, mixing well.
3. Fill peppers with mixture until fully stuffed.
4. Place in baking dish; add water to 1/4 inch depth.
5. Bake at 325 degrees F for 1 1/2 hours.

Shortly before the Xi-Trump meeting on 2025/10/30 in S Korea, Taiwan was a hot topic. Finally, Taiwan topic was not in the meeting. Want to know why Taiwan is not a topic for China? Then must know China’s wisdom from 5000 years of history.

China’s Foreign Affairs said Taiwan is China’s domestic affairs. Translation: it is not anybody’s business. Taiwan is not negotiable or tradable. China can suppress Taiwanese separatists in China’s own way. Period.

Let us rewind the clock how Taiwan became a topic in the world.

how does the Taiwan topic start?

For the past months, Taiwan separatists propagated to foreign countries that UN 2758 resolution has not determined the Taiwan status.

Taiwan separatists fool the world by . Before 2758 was passed, 2 drafts re Taiwan have been debated in UNGA but were voted down by 2/3 of UNGA members. The current Pakistani envoy to UN testified he witnessed the entire 2758 process incl the 2 drafts in UNGA in 1971. An eye-witness. Not just document.

Before the Xi-Trump meeting …

before China confirmed the meeting, Trump said Taiwan may be 1 of the topic for discussion with China. (Other topics are soybean, rare earth & fentanyl.)

Quickly …

1, US military think tank RAND advised USA to encourage gradual peaceful reunification of China & Taiwan. Translation: dont get into a difficult situation where US must decide whether US should be involved in Taiwan war. If involved & lose the war, USA will lose face in the world. Also loss of sale of US weapons. After China’s military parade on Sep3, dare USA go to war with China?

Hence, RAND advised US to “gently warn” Taiwan leader not to start war. Translation: restrain Lai or incite a coup to oust him.

2, Time Magazine (Oct23) called Taiwan leader Lai reckless who creates tension between China & USA.

3, Singapore & 183 nations OBJECT to Taiwan independence. No ambiguity. “Not SUPPORTing independence” is not loud & clear enough.

4, Germany said it recognises the ONE CHINA policy but is free to do things with Taiwan. (Then his scheduled meeting in China was cancelled by China.)

5, On 9/26, on the day China-US trade talk started in Malaysia, 2 US warplanes took off a US aircraft carrier & fell off sky in SCSea. Trump blamed the lower-standard fuel. US military confirmed it was not the fuel.

In response to US fallen warplanes, China Foreign Affairs pointed out that US regularly created tension in SCS. China official media said Chinese airforce always confronted & expelled US warplanes. US airmen endured enormous pressure, implying there might be US-China air confrontation this time too.

Then, right before the Xi-Trump meeting, Trump changed to say that Taiwan is Taiwan. There is nothing to talk about. Unless China wants to talk about it. … Trump has TACOed.

After the Xi-Trump meeting …

in a military summit for military chiefs on 10/31 in Malaysia, China military chief Dong Jun asked US War Secy Hegseth to CLEARLY o-b-j-e-c-t Taiwan independence.

Next day on 11/1 …

US+Australia+New Zealand+Philippines conducted a joint military drill in SCSea. The 4 were encircled by 6 Chinese warships within 3 n miles distance.

US-China trade-tariff war

In this war, China has the upper hand. All US trade-tariff “weapons” on China backfired USA.

NYT commented “China has won. USA has returned to square one ie before Trump’s reciprocal tariff on Apr2.

As of 10/31, the biggest tariff war losers are India, Canada, EU esp Netherlands, Japan & S Korea.

Mom Kills 2-Year-Old Daughter, Laughs During Interrogation

A mother’s laughter hides a horrifying truth. When detectives sit down with Eva Millard, they expect grief and remorse—but instead, they’re met with jokes and a chilling calm.

What begins as a casual conversation quickly spirals into one of the most disturbing interrogations ever recorded, revealing the dark reality behind the death of her two-year-old daughter, Olivia.

As the investigation unfolds, detectives peel back layers of lies and contradictions. Eva’s shifting stories, strange detachment, and quiet panic expose a twisted web of neglect, addiction, and manipulation.

With each passing minute, the line between guilt and denial blurs, forcing investigators to confront how far a mother can go to protect herself—or someone far worse. This is the shocking case of Eva Millard, the woman who laughed through her daughter’s murder investigation.

Watch as police uncover the truth hidden beneath her smile and the devastating aftermath that left justice hanging by a thread.