It was one of those beastly hot days at the end of June and I was getting bored with the city. What had once been a bustling, vibrant city riding the knife’s edge of change was now a bustling, vibrant city of redundancy. Each day was the same as the one before, wake, work, lunch, work, dinner, sleep and wake again. Day and night slid one into the next and since the city never slept day and night became indistinguishable. The streets were identical, the sidewalk cafés all serving the same thing, the night clubs playing the same song over and over again.
I was getting that itch again. The one I always get after I send a book to the printer or an article to the paper. I was looking for something to write about. I’ve had the feeling before, in Hartford. I was looking for stories and my bland lunch companion and blander meal were fodder only for livejournals dripping with teenage angst. I don’t do teenage angst.
My companion was complaining about the heat and her sunburned nose. I suggested she use sunscreen. She muttered something about zebra cum, made her excuses and left. I left as well, the itch was overpowering and I decided to ask for a favor from a detective friend of mine.
It took some fast talking but I managed to convince him to take me down to Freak Hollow and introduce me to the Elemental Hand. The Hand, infamous thought it is, needs some explanation. After HR 2649 there was an exodus as mutants lost their healthcare and homes as the law cut federal funding and eliminated tax breaks to companies that did business with mutants. It was a cruel measure that left its mark everywhere. A few mutants stayed until the Supreme Court upheld the law, some left when they lost their jobs or homes. Most of the known mutants packed up and left the day after it was passed. No one knew where they went at first but that is a different story.
I speak now of the ones who were left behind. The ones who went into hiding and denied their abilities. And the ones who refused to hide, or couldn’t.
In the meat packing district there is a most unexpected building. Between the trendy furniture stores, restaurants and butcher shops is a motorcycle repair shop. Dingy windows display battered motorcycles and parts. It is a shop that seems perpetually on the verge of failure.
I met my detective friend on the sidewalk outside the shop. He asked if I was still sure about this. I just looked at him and he banged on the door. Not the door to the shop but the door to the adjoining garage.
It was jerked open by a tall, lanky man in battered, oil stained jeans and a leather jacket. He listened as my friend introduced me an then stepped aside for me to enter.
When the door closed with my friend outside I took a quick look around. The garage was dimply lit and filled with metal, metal working equipment and motorcycle parts.
“So then,” the man behind me said with a touch a brogue in his voice, “What does a little girl like you want from the Elemental Hand?”
I turned and saw that he was leaning next to the door. “I heard you were planning a run to Sturgis.”
“And if we are?”
“I want to come with you.” When he raised an eyebrow I added, “I want to write the story of the Elemental Hand.”
He glared, “Publicity huh? We could always use some good publicity and I’ve read our stuff. Unfortunately it’s not up to me.”
“But you like the idea.” I pressed.
“We don’t let just anyone ride with us.”
“I’m not just anyone. I’m an award winning author.”
“You’re the district attorney’s daughter. You could get us in a lot of trouble.”
“Let’s leave my father out of this,” I shot back, “You’re already in a lot of trouble.”
He laughed, “We’re always in trouble. But it’s still not up to me.”
I crossed my arms and said, “Then let me ask someone who can make the decision.”
He grinned at me and then looked at a door over my shoulder and bellowed, “Bagoo!”
I spun around in time to see a door at the top of a flight of stairs fly open with the help of the largest boot I had ever seen in my life. Through the door stepped Bagoo Thunderfist.
Many of you have heard of him and know his reputation. I must tell you now that the man dwarfs his reputation. At that moment he looked about ten feet tall and while his chest isn’t as big around as a keg of beer his biceps are. His chest is actually bigger than a beer keg. He doesn’t have to turn sideways to walk through a door but he does have to duck. He can drink his weight in whiskey and eat more than his weight in beef. I’ve seen him do it.
He came down the stairs two at a time and rumbled, “What do you want Irish?”
That finally made my brain click. The man I had been talking to was Irish Mike. Notorious in a dozen states and up and down the east Coast not only for marauding with the Elemental Hand but also for representing them at trial. Before HR2649 he’d been a prosecutor in the same office as my father. That was then. Now he built custom motorcycles and defended his gang members in court.
Irish glanced at me, seeming to see that I had made the connection. Then he said to Bagoo, “The girl wants to ride to Sturgis with us.”
Bagoo peered down at me and rumbled, “She wants to join she has to prove she’s a freak.”
Now that was something I couldn’t do even if I wanted to. “I don’t want to join.” I said, “I just want to go to Sturgis with you.”
“You talk in circles.” Bagoo said, frowning. “You want to ride with us but you don’t want to join us, this makes no sense.”
“I’m looking for a story.” I said, “The city is stale. I feel like I need to get out and write about something new.”
I watched Bagoo turn that over and over in his mind. He wasn’t stupid; he just didn’t like complex situations. “Ok.” He said eventually, “If you can take that, “He jerked his chin at a motorcycle that was covered with a thick canvas tarp, “around the block then you can come with us.” An almost relieved chuckle went though the gang members who had gathered as Mike reached over and pulled off the tarp.
Under that tarp was a beast of a bike. Now I’d learned how to ride a motorcycle back in college but since then my bike riding had been limited to a yellow Trek named Jimmy and a blue Trek names Roger after Jimmy got mangled in a traffic accident. This machine fairly hummed with barely restrained energy. The knots and clenches of the frame and engine were graceful as well as menacing. Even with the engine off the motorcycle was a coiled spring.
A Vincent Black Shadow. A motorcycle I’d only ever seen in pictures stood in front of me all gleaming chrome and starry black paint. Someone passed me a helmet and I put it on though with a bike like this the helmet was wearing me for protection.
I slid my leg over the bike and settled onto the seat. The grips fit themselves to my hands and, with barely a touch to the starter, the motorcycle roared awake.
The garage door rolled up and I was in the street. I remember little of that abbreviated ride save for a few images. My detective friend standing on the curb. A crowd of trannies on the corner. Crates of meat being unloaded from a truck. A pair of yuppies strolling into a furniture store.
Then I was back in the garage. The bike had been in second gear the entire time. A gear I had been assured by my friend would fuse the bones in my hands and wrists when riding an engine this powerful. But this bike, this bike had purred for me. Everyone on the street had covered their ears as I passed but I had heard only a low rumbling as of a very large man chuckling.
I cut the engine and saw that all the gang members were staring at me. Later I would find out that the Vincent had bucked off everyone else who tried to ride it, even Bagoo. In fact the owner of the bike, the guy who had paid to have it restored, couldn’t even get it to start and had reluctantly abandoned it.
“Ok, fine.” Bagoo’s voice broke the silence ad without another word he went back up the stairs and through the door. Most of the others followed him.
Irish Mike was shaking his head. “Meet us at Columbus Circle.” He said, “Bring a couple changes of clothes and if you can play an instrument bring that too.”
The gang planned to leave on the 4th of July, when the city would be packed with tourists so I spent the next couple of days getting ready. I paid up the rent for a couple of months, stopped the mail and locked up my apartment. At night I got to know the Vincent. Burning around the island in the weird semi-dark that passes for night in New York City. The bike was my only real companion during that week. The rest of the city just faded away as though it had been swallowed by the fog.
The morning of the 4th dawned clear and sunny and I met the Elemental Hand at Columbus Circle on the corner of the park. A few of them had already arrived and were waiting slouched against their bikes, Cifer Dan was squatting next to his motorcycle, smoking a cigarette and making adjustments to his engine. A small crowd had gathered st stare at the mutants and their gleaming motorcycles. A few people, braver than the others or perhaps immune to the government propaganda, cautiously moved forward and asked some timid questions. It was kind of like asking questions of a dozing lion. It seems relatively harmless but at any moment it could decide to take you apart.
Even in the big cities where mutants had been common people were wary around the Elemental Hand. The gangs made the news with some regularity, usually for bar fights that escalated and resulted in the whole or partial demolition of the bar. Those were the kind of events that everyone wanted to be around to watch but no one wanted to get caught up in.
As more Elemental Hand filtered in the crowd and police presence grew. The crowds moved back as though the bikers were possessed of a strange magnetic force that repelled all other humans. The police were much more focused on the crowd, wary of possible troublemakers. The police still remembered the days when mutants had worn the badge alongside them. They also knew from experience that while the bikers almost never started a fight, they were happy to escalate it. Crows were likely to start believing the anti-mutant propaganda and take a mistaken sense of security and power in numbers.
It was that mob mentality that had resulted in the werewolf riots in Atlanta and the Specter riot in Medford. No one had died in those riots but there had been enough property damage and juicy video to keep it on the news for days. Mutants are just like normal people in a lot of ways. If you push them too far they will push back.
All of the bikers were wearing their colors. Leather jackets in various states ranging from pristine to ragged. Prominent on the back of each jacket was the emblem of the Elemental Hand. The focus of the emblem was always a hand but the details of the design varied from club to club. Some were left hands some were right, some were open palms and some were clenched fists. The Manhattan club, which had recently absorbed the remnants of clubs in the other boroughs, was a burning fist with spiked knuckles.
However ragged their jackets might be, the colors were pristine. In fact the only things in better shape than the colors were the bikes. They crouched on the street like animals, some rumbling angrily, most holding a threatening silence. All gleaming chrome and spotless paint it was clear the bikers cared about their stripped down motorcycles than they did about the rest of the world.
Bagoo and Irish Mike arrived last, the former on a Harley that was easily twice the size of any of the other bikes. Yet Bagoo dwarfed his bike almost like a two hundred pound man riding a pony. There was a quick huddle of the thirty or so bikers after they cut the engines. Bagoo and Irish had already planned the route but, to keep wannabes and the authorities from jamming them up, they didn’t tell anyone until the last minute.
Today the plan was to head north to meet the Boston chapter and possibly party for a few days before turning west. The gang had a month to get to North Dakota but a run was more than just trying to get from one place to another. It was about being seen. That was especially these days with the anti-mutant sentiment running so high in rural areas and parts of the south. It was also about trading information on motorcycles, cops and the network.
There was some talk about turning back south after Boston and swinging through Washington D.C. before turning west. A side trip through the capitol would be a provocative and slightly risky move. There were some who were vociferously in favor of it; they wanted to “give the man the finger.” Eventually it was decided not to make a decision on it until they arrived in Boston. It was considered bad luck to begin a run with a stay in jail, a result that was highly likely to happen to anyone who showed the colors anywhere near the nation’s capital.
The huddle dissolved and everyone returned to their bikes and finished the final adjustments of strapping down gear and putting away tools. In moments the bikers had all donned their helmets and leather jackets. There was a brief pause and then the bikes began to start. One by one they roared to life as each member of the Elemental Hand jumped on the starter.
I touched the starter on the Vincent and it burst awake. I could no longer hear the noise of the city. The traffic and people noises were overwhelmed by the gang members and their bikes. The traffic froze for a moment, everyone staring at the freaks, stunned by the noise. Bagoo took advantage of the momentary lull to lead us out onto the road. We made a strange sight going up Broadway two abreast. A parade of barely restrained menace heading out of the city.
It is easy to see why ancient men believed in all-powerful, capricious gods. A single storm, fire or flood could wipe out their livelihoods, destroy their homes and send their loved ones on to whatever afterlife they happened to believe in. Their gods wielded thunderbolts, tridents and hammers. Appeasing them was a chancy process at best as gaining the favor of one could very well gain you the enmity of the others.
Modern man has evolved beyond such primitive superstition. Modern deities are distant figures of benevolence that inspire hope, courage and kindness. Science tells us when disaster is bearing down on us and gives us ways to mitigate the damage.
But modern science can do very little against a man who can call lightning out of the sky or a woman who can freeze the water running through a water main so fast that it bursts the pipe and the street above it. Science is powerless in the face of a fire that burns simply because one woman wants it to burn.
People were rudely reminded of those ancient feelings of helplessness in the face of the gods that night in Terminal City. Even I, who had been riding with the Elemental Hand for the better part of three months, was assaulted by the sheer power wielded by the gang’s leaders. Even though I had ridden behind Pele and Shiver for weeks I’d had no concept of their capabilities when enraged.
Of all the mutants perhaps the Valkeries and the Shapeshifters are the most noticeable. They are, in essence, tribes. They are powerful in their numbers but each individual is greatly limited in the amount of damage they can cause.
There are others who are different. There are others whose power and potential for destruction dwarf those tribes like a sequoia dwarfs a rhododendron.
The night started innocuously enough. We had actually been in the Seattle area for a couple of day, long enough to make the police nervous but not long enough to antagonize the. The bar for the night was a worn out dive between a warehouse and a nightclub. The bikes had to be left a few blocks away as there was nowhere to park them closer to the bar.
Pele, Shiver and the Hand’s core group of about thirty had taken over the bar in their usual fashion. The door had been kicked open and, with a great tromping of boots and creaking of leather jackets, they filled every seat and stool in the place. Any patrons who were irritated when Bagoo yanked the cable tv out of the wall either made a hasty exit or bit their tongues. Those who stuck it out were somewhat mollified when Syfer shoved a stack of cash into the bartender’s chest and told him to keep the taps open all night. Conversation was loud, interrupted only when one or another of the gang members would break out into raucous drinking songs.
I didn’t notice anything was wrong until the bar went silent. I had been talking to one of the locals and looked up to see a dozen or so people shouldering their way into the bar. I was close enough to see that each one of them was wearing a leather jacket so I thought at first that it was just the local chapter. As some of them turned to get a good look at the crowded bar I saw the Elemental Hand patch was clearly visible on their back, so why the silence?
It was when they walked past me, the members of the Elemental Hand pulling back, that I got a good look that them and their leader. His face and neck were seamed with old scars from knife fights. On a chain around his neck were six or seven military I.D. tags and a dried dog’s ear. On the back of his jacket the Stormhand, which was the local chapter’s insignia, had been slashed and was crusted brown with dried blood. Too much blood.
He walked past me, the rest of his gang following his and I could see that each of them was wearing a jacket with the local chapter’s colors on the back, and each was brown with dried blood.
Pele stepped out of the dim shadows at the back of the bar to meet him. They spoke but I was too far away to make out the words. Then she reached up and laid her hand gently on his scarred cheek. It was a loving gesture perverted when he began to scream. He jerked back and fell to his knees, clutching his face.
I saw the skin on his hands and neck turn red and start to blister but then the other members of each gang joined the fight. The last thing I saw was the leather jacketed chest of one of the Hand’s members who grabbed me and another bystander and threw us into the street.
The locals fled the moment their feet hit the pavement but I was glued to the spot. The bar itself did not noticeably change but waves of heat and cold swept over me. Once every hair on my body stood on end as though lightning were coming to ground next to me. When the ground began to shake people ran screaming from the nightclub.
When the Elemental Hand walked out of the bar it began to rain. Wisps of smoke and frost clung to them. Though I had ridden with them halfway across the country they looked like strangers. They looked like aliens.
Pele stopped in front of me. Little flames still writhed and spun around her, flower blossoms and dancers and wild animals. As I watched, each little flame creature twisted into smoke and was gone.
“You should go home.” I looked into her eyes and saw the deep river of power that flowed within her. It was ancient and flowed from the heart of the earth.
“What about you?” I asked, seeing a flicker of joy in her face.
“Our road is charred bones and ashes.” She said. “You should go home.”
They flowed around me, into the dark and the rain. Human, but not. More powerful than any single human, yet separated from humanity by the fear and hatred that was made so obvious by the empty street and the necklace with the dried dog’s ear.
Would it have been possible for someone like Pele to have a normal human life? Could she have run a bakery and Shiver an ice cream shop next door? The possibility seemed smaller and smaller after a night like this.
When I found a hotel hours later (the Vincent had proved highly reluctant to start) it was still raining. I stood by the window watching the rain splash in the puddles. I wasn’t tired. It felt like I had never been tired in my entire life. I stood watching the shimmer of the of the puddles and remembered the sound when the roar of the motorcycles had mingled with the drumming of the rain. It had been a strange sound. Strange and unnatural, like God’s own thunder.

I am not suffering from writer's block. I am experiencing overload. My series of tubes has clogged with many ideas and no time to set them down.
in my mind I see a flag of fire. A burning banner of no particular nation calling to all to pledge allegiance to change. To stand in the ranks of revolution and demand a new path.

Outside the window it was raining the cold, steady rain of Portland in the winter. Every so often a strong gust would make the drops patter against the glass but most of the time it was just a rushing sounds on the streets and a steady dripping fro the downspouts. The dripping could also be heard from inside the apartment. It was impossible it know if the roof leaked since the apartment was a basement studio but since water dripped from the ceiling every time it rained for more than two days it was likely there was a leak somewhere.

The only other sounds came from the TV and the apartment’s occupant. The TV was in the middle of a commercial about a happy housewife shopping in her new minivan. The only person in the room was making the other noise, slowly, carefully, stroking a six-inch shard of metal with a whetstone. Jenny was an old hand at making shivs and knew that at some parts of the process you just couldn’t rush things.

It had been raining that night too, but a year ago the wind had been gusting so hard the planes had been using the crosswind runway. It had been colder too. Much colder.

The commercial ended, showing how happy the housewife was to do the shopping in her new minivan. Jenny snorted and got up to switch off the TV. A smooth, well-practiced flick of her wrist tucked the finished shiv into the sleeve of her shirt. She reflected that some women could be content with a pretty house and a shiny new minivan. But some would remain restless, discontented outsiders who wandered until the end of their days.

She had stood in the rain that night for far longer than necessary. Long past the point when it was obvious the bus wasn’t coming. She didn’t feel the wind or the rain. Hardship had dulled her awareness if discomfort a long time ago. Now it was simply a matter of making the decision to either start the long walk back to the city or just to stand there until morning and go back to work.

She was still considering her options when headlights lit the bus stop and a car stopped in front of her. She didn’t bother to run as the only place to go was down the slope behind her into a gully full of icy water. The window on the passenger side rolled down and a man leaned over the console. It was hard to make out his facial features in the dark. “The busses stopped running an hour ago.” She said nothing so he added, “Budget cuts.” When she still didn’t respond he said, “I could give you a ride if you want, at least to a bus that’s still running.” Her face might have changed a tiny bit. He sighed and pulled a badge out of his pocket. “I’m not going to hurt you and if I were going to proposition you I wouldn’t show you a badge first.”
Instead of relaxing she tensed very obviously and for a moment it looked like she would chose the icy water in the gully but then a strong gust of wind plastered her hair to the side of her face. She gave an almost imperceptible shrug and got in the car.

She trapped in and rolled up the window but didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance over at him. He studied her for a long minute and then ducked out of the driver’s seat. After pulling something out of the trunk he got back in and tossed a blanket onto her lap. “It’s cold put there.” He said putting the car in gear.

At first there was only the sound of the engine and the windshield wipers. Then she said, “I didn’t notice it.” She lifted a corner of the blanket to wipe the rainwater off her face but otherwise didn’t move. Even in the dim light he could see that she was soaked to the skin. In some that might be attractive but in her it only brought out the fact that she was on the unhealthy side of thin. Her hands and face were gaunt, her shoulder length hair ragged at the ends. “Juvie will do that to you.” She added.

Well that explained her reaction to his badge. “I’m Rad Johnson.” He said, halfway expecting her to snicker at his first name.

She didn’t snicker though. Only said quietly, “I’m Jenny.”

“Where can I drop you?” He asked.

“West Burnside.” She named a cross street.

“That’s a nasty part of town.”

“They’re all nasty these days.” She replied.

“True enough.” He admitted, “How come you were out in the rain on a night like this?”

“Overtime. It helps put food on the table.”

“Obviously not much.” He heard himself say before he realized he was talking.

She favored him with a long look and then said, “The problem lies in the system. Our elected representatives look out for themselves and their financers. That’s why the busses don’t run at night anymore and why the police don’t have enough officers.”

“Insightful.” He said.

“They haven’t closed the libraries yet.” She shrugged, “Those are free. In the summer they are cool and in the winter they are warm.”

“So you go there and read.”

“It beats standing on the sidewalk waiting for the world to change.”

“You should try doing something to make it change.”

“In my experience those on the bottom stay there no matter what else changes.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way. Only the rain, the windshield wipers and the engine making any noise at all. He finally pulled to a stop at the intersection she had specified. It was still raining but in the downtown area there was very little wind. Jenny had her seatbelt unbuckled and was halfway out of the car when his hand closed on her forearm. She turned to look at him and for a second he saw something dangerous iin her eyes. “You can keep that.” He said quietly, referring to the blanket she had dropped over the console in her haste to get out of the car. She looked from him to the blanket and back again. Then reached down and picked it up.

He almost didn’t hear her murmured “Thank you,” over the drumming of the rain on the roof. Then she swung the car door closed.

He thought for a long time after he drove away about the way she stood there under the streetlight. He’d gotten the impression that nothing about her fit in with the street around her. But that dangerous look in her eye, the ropes of hard muscle and scars he had felt under her sleeve all went very well together. In another environment she would probably mesh quite well but in this time and place she was a broken hole in her surroundings.

Yet another update.

I've made some changes, specifically a new template and updating to the gmail/blogger system.
As a matter of fact I have a few new ideas and some old ideas written down, I just haven't gotten around to typing them up so I can share them.

Whu?

Some links have been removed due either to the fact that they have become defunct, I haven't looked at them in a bugger all long time or because I don't know what they are anymore.

More forthcoming.

Strange Occurances

Mr. Osakwe,

It is good to hear from you again, my friend. I am as well as can be expected I suppose. We just recently moved camp to a new set of ruins, deeper in the jungle and it has been raining almost non-stop since we got here. The professor and his research partner, Mr. Ward seem very excited about some of the finds they have been making but I must confess I am a little worried. The guides have seemed very nervous these past couple of days, staying very close to camp and talking among themselves. It's possible that they are worried there might be remnants of the Shining Path hiding out in the area but I find that hard to credit because that group was broken up years ago. It's possible that the ruins themselves are the cause. We have found evidence that they might be much older than we originally thought, and I must admit that lately we have been hearing a strange noise, like pipe music but have been unable to find the source.
In spite of the few difficulties we are making good progress and I sincerely hope that my current time frame will not prevent us from doing business.
Please assure your colleagues that once I get back to civilization I will make our project my first priority.
Thank you,

Lydia

Some Concerns

Lydia Richmond,

Thanks for your response to my mail. How are you today? I presume all is well at your end!

I just went through your mail and I appreciate your willingness in assisting us in this transaction. To be candid with you time is of great importance in a transaction of this magnitude. I really do not know if we can wait for you considering the time frame . You said it will take atleast a month before you get back home. I will discuss the issue with my colleagues and I will get back to you on what we resolved at.

I will keep you posted. Thanks and stay blessed.

Best regards,
John Osakwe.

The Hook

Mr. Osakwe,

First let me express my eagerness to be working with you. I greaty look forward to exploring investment oportunities in the US.
Second, I feel that to develop a trust between the two of us I should tell you a little about myself. I am currently a graduate student at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusets. I am studying cultural anthropology under a truly brilliant man, Professor Randolph Carter. Unfortunately for our collaboration, the professor, a few of his collegues and myself are doing fieldwork in Peru. The professor and his collegues are cataloguing ruins near Machu Pichu and making some amazing finds. Professor Carter is a brilliant man but somewhat of a neo-luddite, he can't go within ten feet of an electronic device more complicated than a flashlight without the device failing in some way. That's why he brought me along. The University, for security reasons, wants the Professor to send his notes to the campus mainframe each day. This requires a sattelite phone and laptop, neither of which are things that Professor is able to opperate. So each day I type up his notes and send them to the department head, and sometimes get a little emailing in on the side. Since the sattelite phone is rather expensive we don't use it for anything else unless there is an emergency.
The bottom line is that, unfortunately, I will be unable to establish a new bank account for our collaboration until we finish our work here and return to Arkham, which won't happen for at least a month. My bank doesn't have online banking so I can't do it over the internet even if I wanted to.
I'm very sorry to have to start this relationship with bad news but I hope this doesn't mean we won't be working together.

Sincerely,

Lydia Richmond

An Eager Response

Dear , friend

Thank you for your response to my proposal and your willingness to assist us in this
transaction. Having discussed with my colleagues and deliberated on the way forward, I have decided to give you details of this transaction. But before proceeding to give you details of this project and the modalities for its conclusion, it is pertinent to address a very important issue, which if not properly tackled, could cause an impediment to the progress of this transaction. This issue is CONFIDENTIALITY".

We believe that its importance cannot be over emphasized, taking into consideration the very nature of this transaction. Very many people in my country and I’m sure also in yours, will do a lot of things to get their hands on the kind of money we are talking about so we must exercise all forms of caution.

Apart from this, the fact that its direct participants (i.e. we) are career civil servants who are still in active government service and would not want our image tarnished or jeopardized is most important. We have been given the kind of position people wait a lifetime to attain. On our part, we are totally disposed to maintenance of absolute confidentiality, and we cannot perform less.

We therefore ask you to equally adhere to this collective wish. Be rest assured that this project is risk free and fail proof to all intents and purposes.

Being members of the Contract Review panel(CRP), we are privileged to have at our disposal the necessary instruments required for the realization of this project. We are also the body empowered with the statutory responsibility of giving advice on all issues pertaining to previous foreign contracts payment. And as we have unlimited access to all past foreign contract payment files, if you follow our instructions religously, within the next 5-10 working days this transaction will be concluded and the money paid into your account. You must however understand that for our desired success to materialize, you must follow our instructions strictly and promptly.

We have the necessary contacts and have also made financial provisions to ensure that all possible bottlenecks at our end will be sorted. The way the contract was structured, the contractors were fully paid with 60% of the total contract sum as mobilization fees and this was used to conclude and commission the project.

The balance of 40%, which is what we are now trying to claim, was to go to their Nigerian counterparts as gratification as this was the usual practice at that time but due to changes in the political climate which led to a reshuffle in government, the parties involved in the transaction no longer had the necessary leverage to process the remittance of the excess amount outside the country.

Apparently this sort of practice was very rampant in my country at that time. Some people made a lot of money and some others could not conclude their transactions and thus a lot of dedicated funds have been lying idle in the foreign payments accounts at the Debt Management Department of Nigeria. Contracts of this nature are what the Contract Review Panel was set up to investigate and we the members of the panel, we have developed and perfected a process of getting some of these funds for ourselves.

Our good fortune is that we have been given the responsibility of deciding which claims are legitimate and which are not. You must understand that this kind of money can change many a mans life and we do not want this opportunity to pass us by. It is our hopes that you will be instrumental in assisting us achieve our dreams.

1.
To commence this project, with your banking information, we shall put up a payment claims application to the Federal Ministry Of Environment (FME) issuing the mandatory fund release approval/recommendations in your favor prior to the remittance of the funds to your nominated bank account. We shall also register your company and pay the necessary taxes for this over here as required by law. All these shall be backdated. On paper,we shall ensure that it appears your company carried out the contract.

11
This is the most important aspect of the project because it is at this stage that the
all-important and vital fund release approval/recommendations from the Federal Ministry of Finance are issued. Once they are issued,it means that over 80% of the processes of the fund transfer have been concluded.

However, you can be rest assured that we have set up perfect machinery in motion to ensure that they are issued in your favor without fail. In fact the respective Directors-general in charge of the respective ministries responsible for the issuance of
these funds release approvals/recommendations have committed themselves to issuing these approvals.

III
From our enquiries so far, we were reliably informed that in accordance with foreign
payments regulations and guidelines (as promulgated in Decree 21 of 1979, reflecting
Nigeria Contract Law/Payment Act 2, Sub-section4-5 and as amended in September 1994),beneficiaries at the final stage of their contract payments are expected to come forward to the office of the Foreign Operations Unit of the Federal Ministry of Finance of Nigeria for proper identification as the recognized beneficiary.

However, the “Provision Ordinance Act” on foreign payment guidelines permits beneficiaries to observe their final signing via any of the following options.

OPTION 1

The Federal Government of my country in accordance with the Federal Ministry of
Finance(FMF) has a new provision in the constitution of my country, where by a foreign contractor that is unable to come to the office of the FMF here in Nigeria for
authentification and Verification on health grounds can be exempted and allowed to use any of their offshore Centers across the globe ,that is operational as at the time of request.


OPTION 2

The new constitution also gives room for a contractor to get a legal representative, that must be a Federal Government accredited Attorney to sign on his behalf.

OPTION 3

This option, you can apply for Non -Appearance.


From the above options I will want you to choose the one that will be convenient for you so that we can start working on that option immediately as you know we have limited time to conclude this project, once you indicate this I will prepare a text application you will use in making the application.


The FMF was set up by the Federal Government of Nigeria to reconcile debts owed to foreign contractors, and remittance of such funds to the beneficiary’s nominated account upon signing the final fund release documents using any of the above options. This arrangement is for contractors who by circumstances beyond their control cannot come to Nigeria for the signing of the final fund release documents. On approval of the application by FMF,the fund will be transferred and confirmed within 72 hours after the endorsement exercise is completed. We will arrange to be with you after you have confirmed to us that the money is in your account for disbursement as initially stated,(see below).

(i)Contract sum = $27.3M US Dollars,
(ii)Nigerian partners = 70%,
(iii)Foreign partner (i.e. yourself) = 25%
(iv)Contingency/Expenses = 5%

We will be ready to share the money as soon as it is wire-transferred into your nominated account. However, if you decide to help us supervise our investment plan, we will appreciate this and discuss your payment for it. I dare to say that it is because of the unbridled corruption going on in my country that this project is possible. If we must succeed, then we must all summon the courage needed to bring this project to fruition. My colleagues and I have been working out the modalities for two years and all is in place to achieve our goal. You must therefore be ready to assist us hole heartedly.

Full audit report will normally be sent with the wire-transfer papers to your bank from
the FMF. This will handle source and application of the incoming money and explain all tax details to your revenue service. So you do not need to worry about discussing
with your bankers for now. At the right time I will ask you to inform them.

HOWEVER,YOU CAN PRESENT A NEW ACCOUNT OR A ZERO BASE ACCOUNT FOR THE PURPOSE OF THIS TRANSACTION.

I assure you that if you maintain the required confidentiality, the project will be
successfully concluded. Remember that all calls to me must be direct. No operator assisted calls.

Please below is a specimen of application that I will want you to transcribe to your
company letterhead paper and fax back to me so that we begin processing of the funds to your account. Call me so that we can discuss further.

Best regards.
John Osakwe.

NB: Also note that the fax number 1 806 737 4621 is an American fax only number. Use this email address for all further correspondence.

SPECIMEN APPLICATION, WHICH YOU SHOULD TRANSCRIBE ON YOUR LETTERHEAD WITH YOUR NOMINATED
BANK ACCOUNT INFORMATION AND FAX BACK TO ME

To: The Group Managing Director
Federal Ministry Of Environment,
Central Business District,
Herbert McCauley Way, Abuja, Nigeria.

Attn: Dr. Imeh T. Okopido.

Dear Sir,

RE: CONTRACT NUMBER-FMEnv-DPR-3401/PED/2001. SUPPLY COMMISSIONING OF 2,320 UNIT Y2K PERSONAL COMPUTER, 602 PRINTERS, 10 PLOTTERS AND ACCESSORIES FOR PORT HARCOURT REFINERY AND COMPUTER OPTIMIZATION FOR PLANTS "A" TO "D" AT PORT HARCOURT REFINERY.


We refer to the above mentioned contract number, and wish to inform you that the
settlement of this bill has been due since November 1999.

We are hereby submitting the bill for immediate settlement. Due to the delay in the
settlement of this bill since 1999, we have been unable to meet with our obligations to
our bankers and creditors who financed the project. Please effect payment of the capital sum above, plus interest accrued, calculated at 10% per annum from the 4th of November 1999 to the date of final payment. Payment should be made by telegraphic transfer, through any of your first class correspondent banks in the United States of America or Great Britain.


I ............ President/CEO of ......... Hereby confirm that the Federal Ministry Of
Environment is yet to remit our total outstanding sum of Twenty Seven million Three
hundred thousand united states dollars only (US$27,300,000.00). Kindly remit the above
total amount in full via telegraphic/electronic transfer to our bankers below:

BENEFICIARY NAME_______________________________
NAME OF COMPANY________________________________
COMPANY ADDRESS_________________________________
TEL: ____________________________________________
FAX: ____________________________________________
NAME OF BANK: ___________________________________
ADDRESS OF BANK: __________________________________
ACCOUNT NAME: __________________________
ACCOUNT NUMBER: _____________________________
SWIFT CODE: ________________________________________
BANK TELEPHONE: ___________________________________
BANK FAX: _____________________________

Please expedite action on this matter, to enable us update our records with our Federal Ministry Of Environment (FMEnv) and meet our obligations to our Bankers and other creditors



Oh yeah, he wants me to give him my bank account number. Does he think I'm stupid?
You can already see how confidential this is.

Hello Nigeria!

Dear Mr. Osakwe,

I find your offer very interesting. While I admit that large amounts of money would be very useful to me I'm afraid that I must insist on confidentiality.

Sincerely,

Lydia Richmond

Greetings From Nigeria

I recently received my first NIgerian scam email. Well it might not have been my first, but it was the first to make it past the spam filter, so I figure I’ll let you all observe the nest of vipers I have planned for this guy.

Here is the original email he sent me. Seems almost legit.

From :The Desk of John Osakwe
Contract Review Penal (CRP)
Federal Ministry of Environment
Lagos, Nigeria
Internet Fax Number: 1 806 *** ****
Reply To: ***@walla.com

Dear Friend,

Urgent Funds for Investment.
I am John osakwe, a member of the Contract Review Panel of the Federal Ministry of Environment (FMEnv), Nigeria. I am contacting you to be our reliable partner/agent to assist us to receive and investment of Twenty Seven Million, Three hundred Thousand United States Dollars only into your designated bank account in subsequent investments in education, properties, agriculture, construction, software design and supply, or any business of your choice, to initiate a proper and structured relationship in your country.

You will be required to;
(1). Assist in the transfer/receive of the above amount in your designated bank account (virgin or existing account).
(2). Advised on lucrative areas for investment with a large yearly turn-over profit
(3). Assist us in the purchase of properties
(4). The fund is intended to be invested through you/your agency in the purchase of facilities and assets in your country.
(5). This transaction will result in you being paid a commission of 25% off the investment capital.
(6). The transaction desire absolute confidentiality and professionalism in the handling of this matter.

Please let me know what your response will be to an offer to receive investment funds in cash and if the above investment proposals interest you and you sincerely wish to advice and assist, I urgently want you to me the information as stated below so that we can commence the mutual beneficial transaction without delay and onward transfer of the funds into your designated bank account;

(1). Your Full Names and Address
(2). Your Telephone and Fax Numbers and if available
your cell phone Number.

You shall be given 25% of the total sum of US$27.3M for the services rendered as soon as the funds are confirmed in your bank account within or less than 14 days of the final commencement/take-off of the transaction/project. Moreover, our investment shall also be under your sole supervision since you know what to invest in making profits in your country. Your swift copy of your email should be forwarded to:***@walla.com

Yours faithfully,

John Osakwe

- john osakwe


Oh, and if he doesn't like the email address I set up for him then I'll fall back on the one he actually sent the email to.

New Computer, New Story

Hubbell was spinning. The great telescope was silhouetted against the stars, visible only as a void in the field of lights with the occasional flash from the sun hitting the mirror or solar panels at the right angle. It tumbled end over end. The paparazzi’s biggest camera ever. The zoom lens capable of catching the most intimate moments of the universe had been knocked from the hands of its photographers and was spinning out of control.
None of this could be seen by the naked eye of course. There were no cameras on Earth capable of getting footage of the telescope’s fall through space. Instead the t.v. sets in the astronauts’ pub showed a collection of live feeds from NASA’a control room. The control room was empty now and no one in the pub was paying any attention to the t.v. so there was no one to bear witness.
The pub itself was quiet, only a few small groups scattered among the table, talking quietly.
Hunched on a barstool, soundlessly spewing dire imprecations into his bourbon, Milton was the only person seated at the bar. His lips moved and the breath hissed in and out between his teeth as he ignored the t.v. and instead filled the air with a nearly visible cloud of bitterness and bile.
Milton was a round man. Not fat but more the kind of man that could have been described as broad, stocky or solid before he had been beaten into a slouching roundness by disappointment and dejection. His clothes were of good quality for all they seemed too big for him. Or perhaps he had shrunk inside them as they seemed to have been tailored for a bigger man, a firmer man. His hair was thin and receding.
The door to the pub opened and in walked Milton’s sharpest contrast. To call Graham Wellington tall would have been sufficient. At some point, be it six feet tall or eight, actual numbers no longer had any importance. The set of his shoulders and square jaw combined with the thrust of his cleft chin, broad chest and subconscious awareness of his hips served to make him seem not only bigger than he actually was but also bigger than anyone else around him. He was a man who eclipsed other men, who blocked out the sun with his presence.
His voice boomed to the far corners of the pub, “Practically panhandling! Honestly, what’s happening to this neighborhood? We’ve never had that kind of street trash hanging around.”
Out of Wellington’s shadow stepped a porcelain doll of a woman. Her skin so pale as to be translucent, her soft, thick sable hair and her green eyes inherited from the goddess of sunlit meadows in the deep woods.
Though her real name was Jennifer Porter everyone called her Jenny. But Milton called her Faye. A name that sounded like a breeze in the treetops, like snow falling, like an owl in flight. It fit her. Faye. She only ever looked small next to Graham Wellington.
Milton had asked her to marry him once. She had laughed it off as a joke. But he never had.
“You.” Wellington’s voice boomed out, “what’s your name? Pana, Panag. Whatever, Taco, you don’t belong in here.”
Milton’s silent monologue transitioned into a series of hisses and clicks as he clenched his hands around his drink. There was a lifetime in that name. However long he had tried to forget it Graham Wellington always brought it back. He studied the ice cubes in his drink.
“Are you listening to me Taco?” Wellington gripped Milton’s shoulder with a meaty hand and spun him around on the barstool. “You don’t belong in here, this is an astronaut bar.”
Milton’s drink had gone flying, missing everyone as it tumbled to the floor. He looked up at Wellington and said, “Then you should leave.”
“What?” Wellington laughed, “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?’ They’re taking away our eyes.” Milton gestured at the screens of empty Mission Control. “How will we be astronauts when they have blinded us?”
“You’re drunk.” Wellington said, his voice taking on an edge of meanness. None of his associates looked at the screens.
“Am I? First one, then another soon enough. Through budget cuts they will ground us and deny us our dream.”
“We all know what your dream is Taco.” Wellington snorted.
Milton’s eyes narrowed and he said sadly, “I dreamed of Mars.” And re-birth, he thought to himself, “A place we’ll never go.” He turned to Jenny, Faye, and said, “You don’t need him.”
“You think I need you?” her voice was smooth and soft as silk.
“You don’t need any if us. You’re better than anyone in this room. Especially him.” Especially me, his mind finished for him.
“All right.” Wellington snapped, “You’re done.” The bigger man grabbed him by the arm and shoved him out the door. “Don’t come back.”
Milton stumbled and fell to one knee on the rough pavement.
“Get thrown out of another respectable establishment?” a voice asked him.
“Not the first time, won’t be the last.” Milton replied, regaining his feet, not bothering to brush himself off.
“Are you trying to get thrown out of every bar in the city?”
“I’m trying to get thrown out of the city.”
“By getting thrown out of every single bar first?”
“Everyone needs a plan.” Milton turned to regard his existent friend. Moss had been a tall man once. He was still thin but was now more bent than anything. Stooped did not accurately describe the man who seemed to be all sharp angles and projecting joints. Another victim of NASA politics.
“You were supposed to meet me at Traffic Circle.” Moss said, sloping along next to Milton.
“You used to be able to see the stars from here.” Milton said.
“Last time I saw stars was when I slipped in the john and hit my head on the toilet.”
“Great Society.” Milton clenched his fists, “Thousand points of light my ass.”
“Last time I saw a thousand points of light I was on mescaline.” Moss said conversationally.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. The night streets were populated by the night people: the drunk, the desperate, the determined and the downtrodden. Milton and Moss arrived at Traffic Circle, just two more bodies washed up on night’s shore.
Traffic Circle was like any other dive bar, poorly lit, coated with grime and populated by those not desirable enough to get into the popular clubs. The only thing that set it apart was the real estate. The bar was next to one of the more troublesome roundabouts in the city. The bar also had a raised patio that overlooked the roundabout and this was were Milton and Moss made themselves comfortable.
They had worked their way though a couple of beers before they found the will to join the patio’s traditional entertainment. The patrons would line the patio’s railing and place bets on which car would make some kind of error in negotiating the traffic circle. When a car did make an error, and one inevitably would, it would be assailed with a chorus of insults and a hail of soggy pretzels and beer soaked napkins. Throwing the pint glasses was strictly forbidden.
As one car was making its second trip around the the circle Milton felt an unexpected surge of energy and bellowed, “I sometimes know how to drive!” The handful of pretzels he flung at the car described a graceful arc through the glare of a streetlight before disappearing from view.
Suddenly exhausted, Milton sat down, ignoring the compliments from the other participants. “That was a good one.” Moss said, sitting next to him.
“It’s all circles.” Milton sighed.
“What?” Moss actually seemed to be listening.
“Everything is circles. A predictable pattern that will describe itself through formulae.” Milton moved his glass through the air in an arc, “All things move in circles until something else intersects.” His glass thumped on the table.
Moss got distracted by another car and screeched at it, “Remove head from rectum and then drive!”
Someone turned to him and said, “That’s stupid, you stole that from a movie!”
“I did not!” Moss puffed up what chest he had and swayed up out of his chair.
“You did so! And a teenage chick flick too!”
“That’s a damn lie and you know it!” Moss pulled his fist back and tried to punch the man. Instead he missed and fell flat on his face. After picking himself up and giving his head a quick shake he said, “They stole it from me.”
Milton looked up as Moss and said, “In a static universe all things become spheres, circles when viewed from any angle. But the universe is not static and so things intersect.”
Moss squinted at him and eventually said, “I’m hungry, lets go grab something at the Pita Palace.”
“I can’t.” MIlton said.
“Why not?”
“They banned me for life.”
“Why?’
“I was always touching all of the straws.” Moss nodded, like this was the natural thing to do while MIlton heaved himself to a standing position. “You go ahead, I think I’m done for the night.”
“Oh come on Taco.” Moss threw an arm around his shoulders, “I could pick something up for you.”
“Milton. My name is MIlton.”
“I know. It would be easier if anyone could pronounce your last name.”
“Panagotacos.”
“Pana, Panag. Milton. Fine.”
Milton looked at Moss and said, “When I was little my mother told me animals came from Mars.” he sighed. “Good night Mr. Keeter.”
“Good night MIlton.”
Milton stopped at a convenience store and a bought a six pack of micro-brews on the way home. Five minutes after promising the clerk that he wouldn’t drink any more that night he opened one as he walked down an alley. Taking a long drink he stared intently at the place where a red star would have been if the pollution hadn’t been too thick. “I dreamed of Mars.” he said before draining the bottle. “Of footsteps on Mars.”
He flung the bottle at the side of a building. It tumbled end over end until it intersected the wall and shattered. The pieces sparkled in the light, a million tiny stars, and then vanished as they fell.

Stop Bitching And Get On The Bus

If the bus is too far away then give these people some money.

Why? You might ask that. But that would prove you to be sadly ignorant of the current political climate in South Dakota. The South Dakota Legislature advanced a bill that would make it illegal for a woman to have an abortion. This bill is entirely unreasonable, a reflection of that state's current government. The legislators refused to allow an amendment that would put the bill up to a vote by the people of South Dakota. They refused to allow amendments that would allow an abortion in the case of rape or incest. One legislator, sounding like he thought he was being very reasonable, said that they had included provisions for the life of the mother. Not the health of the mother, or the psyche of the mother. The life of the mother.
South Dakota's legislature would like to involve police, prisons and guns in forcing a minor girl who has been raped by a relative to bear a child.
Way to go.

Old Goat

"If you didn't pinch every penny until it screamed this would be a lot easier."

"I got where I am today by being careful with my money."

"Old and grouchy?"

Illustrator Wanted

I've come to feel that the world of political cartoons has been sorely lacking these days. In the days of Teapot Dome it was the political cartoonists that showed the people what was really going on. It is time to bring those cartoons back, or at least the style. If I could draw I would do it myself. I'll settle for collaborating with an artist. Who among you can draw me a picture of God and Tom Delay getting booked in the Fort Bend County Jail with God saying to Delay, "If I can't get out of it then neither can you." And one of the deputies leaning over God's fingerprints and saying, "Those whorls are perfect!"

Creeping Incompetence

John Pennington, the head of the Region 10 FEMA office (that's Washington, Oregon, Idaho and Alaska) got his degree from an online corespondence college that was not accredited at the time and which the federal government called a "degree mill." This guy is not qualified for his job, which gives him emergency oversight of an area prone to notoriously unpredictable disasters. Floods and fires give very little warning, earthquakes give none.
I think the time has come, indeed is long overdue, for us to go through the Bush appointees and give their resumees and credentials some basic scrutiny.

New Orleans

Some thoughts:

Blame God for the hurricane, blame Bush for the flood.

We've been trying to rebuild Iraq for two years now, what makes anyone think this administration can rebuild New Orleans?

The government is sending combat troops to keep the peace in New Orleans. How long will it be before a bunch of soldiers panic and fire into the mob? How long will it be before martial law is declared? How long will it be before unrest spreads to the entire country? Is this the tipping point?

Donald Rumsfeld is going on Letterman next week and I wonder if he is going to say that it was just the same picture of the same corpse over and over again.

I was just wondering...

George, have you talked to Cindy yet?

Also, if Dick Cheney walked into a bar and ordered a drink, how much would you charge him?

What Is Going On Here?

When are these religious zealots going to accept that just because accepted science contradicts one small part of their doctrine it doesn't invalidate their entire religion. Personally I have no problem with the idea that life on Earth, in fact the universe itself, could all be a series of complex accidents. I am not made insecure by the idea that the world is much more complex than I can ever imagine, the universe is much bigger than I can conceive and all of it as old as time or older. I am not frightened by the mysteries of the universe, in fact I find them fascinating. I am not afraid of the complexity of life, indeed I think it is beautiful.
Sadly there are people in this country who are frightened by the unknown, who cling to their religion like a life preserver and deny there is anything else in the universe. To these people it is all too big and frightening so they think it must be magic. Thus they deny their children an fact based education and hamstring their potential.

Rumor And Confabulation

I heard on the radio the other day that Fox News was reporting on an Al Qaeda plot to poison the illegal drugs that are smuggled into this country every day. Now, we all know that Fox News has tenuous relationship with accuracy and truth in reporting though I think they might have gotten the gist of the story right. Someone is planning on poisoning some drugs but it is not Al Qaeda. I think the US government is planning on poisoning the prescription drugs coming in from Canada, not to cause terror but to cut down on the number of seniors who are collecting Social Security.
It's the new Bush plan to save Social Security: reduce the number of beneficiaries.