Challenge Government Authority

United States of Oil

2014-09-01T16:04:00.000-07:00

Let's face it, the oil companies have been calling the military shots for the US for decades. How else can one explain with any logic tstateshe "wars" in Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan and, for that matter, the many "wars" of the past?

I use quotation marks above since those conflicts were not wars. There was no action by Congress to declare war on anyone. In some sense, all of our young have died for nothing since the violent actions of this nation in the Korean War. That "war" was never authorized by the people through their Congress. Nor has an other war since. Clearly, the people never would have authorized any of these "wars" So just a few strokes of signature on an executive order and voila, we have a "war". Just another example, how, ironically the federal government ignores the US. Constitution.

I hate to break the news to you, but our brave young soldiers were essentially mercenaries on hire by Oil, Inc.

It had to be the oil barrons that inspired at least these Middle East bloodbaths to protect their corporate interest. Now quite possibly, the US picked up some hefty fees for the security services. Regardless, these "wars" did not involve the United States. It involves corporations and a lot of money. So our sons and daughters died not for their country but for the corporation.

Liberty

2014-08-31T21:17:00.001-07:00

Our liberty is lessened everyday. In a big global way and in a smaller way. We are less free than before.
The surveillence of the government on our private lives is not known exactly but there are strong indications that federal and local governments will soon be, if not already, spying upon our most private moments.

It's the drones. Those little radio controlled flying gadgets that can either be loaded with heat-seeking missiles or in the case of law enforcement, sophisticated video and audio equipment so they can see you in your home or anywhere else in private.

The laws and rules in effect now banning us from several personal behaviors are too numerous to mention. Regardless of what government tells you as to further sacrifice of your liberties remember what John Stuart Mill in his book On Liberty:

"That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant . . . Over himself, over his body and mind, the individual is sovereign."

It's that last sentence that inspires me the most. What Mill is saying is that no government holds any sovereignty over your socerignty over yourself. You are the king over you and no one else.

Yeah, the cops have the guns. We must, however, have the courage to assert our rights, constitutional and otherwise whenever the officer goes over the line. In futue blogs I will give you some personal experiiences fromwhuch you may learn.

Fear

2014-08-30T22:48:00.001-07:00

It's been a while but I must continue my pursuit. Why? Well, as it turns out, I have written the most compelling, provocative and entertaining stories that has been written in a long time. Blood? Plenty and all violent scenes are those you have never seen before. Sex? Oh baby. Detailed but not pornographic. Meaningful but not over done.

Besides all the exciting things above, it's a story about people appreciating their fellow humans. People being helped by other people be they lovers, friends and sometimes strangers.

The whole darn thing is somehow sown into the seam of a baseball. Baseball is the underlying theme and carries the story throughout. Let me know what you think at andyweitz3@gmail.com.

Chapter 3-FEAR

No matter how satisfying his work was as an ATF leader, Bob needed the avenue of escape and relaxation of baseball. At 44, in top physical condition and with the spirit of a 20-year-old, he was still good enough to play with the 30-year-olds in the local “ Over-30 Baseball League”.

During the last couple of years, however, age was starting to take its toll. He no longer was a starter. His fastball no longer had quite the zip it once did and although he could still hold his own with the bat, he had lost that extra step in the outfield and running around the bases. His role as a player had been reduced to part-time first basemen and closing relief pitcher.

He was known as “ Mr. Clutch “ for his legendary prowess of shutting down the opposing hitters in the final moments of a game he was called in to protect. He no longer had his once-prominent fastball but still had his control and, of course, his strategic mind. Pitchers in any league have been known to survive far beyond their expected years with just those two attributes.

Bob was probably most valuable to the team as the manager of the club, the team-appointed skipper. His experience and brilliant strategy made him one the players always went to for leadership, consultation and inspiration.

It was the end of the 1995 season and, as usual, Bringston’s team, the Braves, were playing in the championship game. This one, however, was more important than usual since Bob knew this was likely going to be his last with the younger players. Next year he was ready to move up with the old geezers in the 40 and older league as a win here would be most coveted.

The game was supposed to be on Saturday, but it rained heavily in L.A. the entire weekend. Summer rains in Los Angeles were quite rare, but not out of line with the strange climate pattern in the area over the past few years. Mild summers with rain, harsh winters, including the rarest of rarities, snow in the heart of the San Fernando Valley. The climate had been such to expect the most unexpected.

The game had to be played on the following Monday morning since it was the only day the field was available for many weeks. As difficult as it was to get 30+ men in the prime of their professional careers to take a weekday afternoon off to play ball, most of them, including Bob, were not going to miss the big game.

A big crowd turned out for the game and Bob was pumped up for his last hurrah with the youngsters. He instilled the same positive spirit into his teammates. The game turned out to be a pitcher’s duel. Bringston did not go into the game as he felt it best to save himself for needed relief in the last innings. With Bringston’s team leading 2-1 and the Braves pitcher showing signs of tiring, Bringston started to warm up in the 8^th inning. It was a moment he was looking forward to as much as he could ever remember. There were runners on second and third with one out. The number 3 hitter was up for the opposition who hit from the left side of the plate and led the league in hitting. In addition, he rarely struck out. Normally right-handed pitchers like Bob don’t do as well against left-handed hitters because their curve ball breaks towards the hitter. Bringston though usually throws a screwball for his breaking pitch which curves the opposite way as a curve ball and thus, away from a left-hander making it more difficult for him to hit.

Bob stepped out onto the field, confidently climbed the hill and put his palm out for the ball. The Brave pitcher gladly handed it over, as he knew he was done.

“Nice job, Tom. I’ll close it up from here,” said Bob.

Bob then begun the somewhat odd ritual that every pitcher performs when he first comes into the game. Bringston manicured the pitcher’s mound to his liking by moving dirt around with his feet and stomping it into place to secure it down. He then moved to a different area of the mound and dug up more dirt with his spikes and rearranged that earth. Ask any pitcher why he performs this strange protocol and he probably couldn’t explain it. The best explanation is territorial. A pitcher must portray the most menacing image as possible to the hitters. Tearing up the mound and molding it to his liking when he arrives is the pitcher’s way of establishing his territory and letting the hitters know he controls it.

From the moment he plants himself on that mound, every move Bob makes is designed to advance his physical and psychological dominance over the hitter. Bringston took a few warm up pitches and as the hitter stepped into the batter’s box, Bringston stepped off the mound on to the grass and stared out to centerfield with his back to home plate. As he did, he mixed up as much mean as he could muster. Although standing there for just a few seconds, the impatient batter wondered if the old guy was ever going to turn around and pitch. He had faced Bringston once before but didn’t recall this little psychological game. The hitter thought it was nonsense and made him dig in even more. The umpire and most of the members were not surprised. This was typical Bringston behavior to fire himself up. As expected, he abruptly pivoted around, charged up the mound and stood erect upon the pitcher’s rubber, the six-inch by twenty-four-inch rubber rectangle from where the pitcher begins his delivery to the batter. This was likely Bob’s last thirty-year-old caliber ball game and today he was going to let everything fly. He glared at the hitter with the look of a crazed killer. The hitter seemed unfazed by Bob’s antics and stepped into the batter’s box without hesitation.

Bringston went into the stretch and paused. He stared at the runner at third and peered back at the runner on second. Just like his approach to life and baseball, his windup was simple and straightforward. He brought his hands to his waist and delivered. It was a fastball with such velocity that it left Bob’s hand low but by the time it traveled those sixty feet six inches and crossed the plate it rose significantly. The hitter swung and his bat must have been six inches below the actual path of the ball. He hadn’t thrown a fastball like that in years and given the age of his arm and rest of his body, he doubted he would able to do it again on this day.

As Bringston prepared for the next pitch, he noticed the hitter placing himself in the batter’s box nearly on top of the plate. He likely got a scouting report about Bob’s screwball and was looking for an edge to make that screwgy less effective. Since that pitch breaks away from a left-handed hitter, standing close to the plate gives the batter a better chance of hitting the pitch before it tails away.

It was time for Bob to send a clear unequivocal message regarding who controlled the mound and home plate. No words needed here. All that was necessary was a ball or two toward the hitter’s ear or otherwise threatening his head.

Bob concentrated more on the location of his next pitch than the speed. He certainly didn’t want to hit the batter but it had to be close enough to make him think. He whirled and threw one hard, high and tight. It was not a pitch known as “chin music” in baseball vernacular. It was more like a “bow tie”. It might or might not have hit the batter in the neck, but the batter had no interest in standing still to find out. As the ball sped towards his head, he bent over backwards so suddenly and so fast, he fell over flat on his butt outside the batter’s box. As he got back on his feet, he looked directly into the eyes of Bringston with a smirk indicating he was not about to concede anything.

It was that classic battle between pitcher and batter that went right to the core of the utter fascination of baseball. It was like a showdown hand in poker. Who was bluffing? Who would dare to call the other’s bluff? Who, if either, would be the first to yield?

Based upon where the batter placed himself in the box for the next pitch, he didn’t appear to be backing down one iota. He stepped right back up crowding the plate though his location was a shade further back than previous.

Bob, of course, had the significant advantage in this clash of control. He held the ball and with his pinpoint control was the sole determining factor as to where it was going. He stepped off the mound to think about the next pitch he was going to serve. It was one ball and one strike. If he walked this guy, it wouldn’t be tragic but on the other hand, the clean up hitter was a righty and overall a tougher out than the present hitter. Would it do any good to brush the batter back again or was it time for the screwgy? He needed the consultation of Johnny Fenster his catcher. The two exchanged ideas on how to approach the hitter. Only in baseball does one ever see two players standing in the middle of the playing field in the midst of the game having a conference. There is no official time limit for the meeting because baseball is the only major team sport where time is not an issue. Theoretically, a baseball game could go on forever. There are plenty of borders, boundaries and restrictions but time is not one of them. The umpire’s patience though is limited. As he walked up to Bob and Johnny to break it up, Johnny gave his final advice.

“Throw him a fastball Bob, but make sure it’s inside of the black, right on the hands. At this point, we can’t afford to give him anything good to hit. Depending on his reaction, then come in with either the screwgy or the palm ball,” said Johnny.

Bob was one who was not too proud to take instructions when they made sense. What Johnny said had a good ring to it and he got up on the rubber ready to deploy the plan. The fastball was placed just where Bob wanted it. It was right on the hitter’s hands and would have tied up most. This batter though was determined. He took an exaggerated step to the outside with his front foot that opened up his body to the ball and allowed him to take a full swing. He belted that baseball. He crushed that cowhide. It was a screaming line drive hit deep to right and had it not been few feet foul would have easily cleared the home run fence.

Bob was amazed that anyone could have hit that pitch given the tight inside location. He couldn’t remember ever gaining more respect for a hitter than this one. With one ball and two strikes, he knew the batter was expecting a screwball. It mattered not to Bob that the hitter continued to “cheat” by standing close to the plate. It was time for the palmball.

The palmball is a pitch held with all four fingers and the thumb around the ball and placed in back of the hand. It is one of the most deceptive pitches around in that it is thrown with the same motion as a fastball but travels ten-twenty miles per hour slower. With the hitter all wired up and previously exposed to nothing but fastballs, this was the perfect situation to “pull the string”. The moment it left Bringston’s hand, the hitter knew the pitch was like no other. He seemed to adjust for the slower speed but wasn’t ready for the other feature of Bob’s palm ball that doesn’t work all the time but on this day was near magic. As the ball reached the plate, it dropped severely, as if the bottom fell out of it. As the hitter lunged at the slow-moving sphere, the ball sank well below his bat as he swung and missed for strike three. As the batter walked back to the dugout, he tipped his hat to Bringston. Bringston tipped his hat back.

So now it was two down, two on, with the tying and go ahead runs in scoring position and stepping up to the plate was 41-year old Augusto Diaz. He and Bob were the only 40-year-olds in the 30-year-old league, faced each other on numerous prior occasions and, over the years, gained immense respect for each other. Bob knew that Diaz was a pure hitter and a free swinger. He was a classic bad ball hitter who often got his hits off pitches way out of the strike zone. Bob was also aware that Diaz was a thinking hitter who more often than not predicted the pitch that was coming, enabling him to adjust for a full swing at the ball. Augie respected Bringston most for his strategic mind. By far, Bob was the most difficult to outguess as to forecasting what pitch was on its way. Somehow, Augie managed to hit .316 against Bringston over the years. Since he couldn’t predict what pitch was coming from Bringston, Augie’s strategy of always swinging at the first pitch had proved successful.

As Bob stood on the mound and Augie in the batter’s box, the battle of wits accelerated. Augie closely followed the at bat before him. He noticed that Bob never threw the prior hitter the screwball. He was ready for any pitch but prepared for this pitch. That approach played right into Bob’s strategy. He knew Diaz was smart enough to pay strict attention to the prior hitter and would likely be expecting and anxiously awaiting a screwball. The fastball was too risky especially on the first pitch. The free-swinging, first-ball-hitting Diaz would likely get around on the fastball even if he put one well off the plate. He also had a slider in his arsenal but it tended to hang at times and wasn’t his best pitch. That left the palm ball. It was usually not thrown on the first pitch but as a change up after a series of fastballs and sliders. Given the hitter and the situation, Bob thought it was the perfect time for the pitch.

Bringston placed the ball in the back of his palm with all four fingers and his thumb surrounding the ball. He went into his windup and didn’t reveal the ball in his hand until the moment before release. It was as if Bob had slammed on the brakes on the ball after his release as Diaz awkwardly swung for the ball and lost his balance. He did manage to hit the ball on the end of the bat as it rolled slowly to the second baseman. Ten years ago, Augie would have beat this one to first, but at this stage in his life, the ball beat him to first as the memory of his baseball-playing days began to fade into dust.

Bob ran into the dugout after he saved his team from disaster and got pats on the back and high fives from all his teammates. The whole squad was trouncing around the dugout like a bunch of twelve-year-old little leaguers. Bob felt like a million. He couldn’t wait to get back on the mound in the final game to save it for the championship.

Just before the beginning of the 9^th though, his special government-issued pager went off. The number and code following it meant only one thing: He was being ordered to report in to the ATF central office for immediate assignment without delay. It was a dilemma he dreaded facing, but one that was in the end no contest. Baseball was the constant, always accessible in some fashion. If not a full-blown game, one could always play catch with a buddy, go to the batting cage, or, as Bob did all day and night, toss a baseball around to himself. In some form or another, it was always there.

The nation’s security, on the other hand, seemed continuously on the brink of being lost, especially to domestic terrorists. It was a delicate balance that Bob was obligated to protect. More importantly, the spreading slaughter of innocent individuals across the land had made Bringston more determined to defend those lives. It was also, of course, the safe thing to do.

His entire life, Bob had often chose the seemingly safe route as opposed to what his heart may have been telling him was right. He lived his entire life always going after the sure thing rather than what his true desires told him otherwise.

The fact is, there was one aspect of Bob Bringston that had remained with him since he was a young lad. It was a fear not, ironically enough, of the barbarous, brutal killers he faced on a regular basis. Death was just part of his job and he was ready to face the ultimate challenge head on everyday he went to work. It was a fear of losing or more aptly, failing. Learn from it as he has over the years, the big hero was often reduced to a small, helpless child not so much from failing itself but by the fear of such failure. It was only his determination and powerful inner strength that pulled him out of it.

His life experience also helped as he had learned that his fear of failure was usually, if not always, ill founded. He either often did not end up failing or his failures had proven to be something from which to be learned.

Bob was raised by two Russian immigrants who lived through the Great Depression and World War II, two of the most harrowing and insecure times of the 20^th Century. His father was an overly critical and blunt patriarch who did not put up with any challenges to his authority. If, in his eyes, his son was not stupid or incompetent, he was a liar. He had an unreasonable and uncontrollable temper that he violently displayed against not only Bob but also his two brothers and his mother. The contribution of Bob’s mother was to seed the clouds of negativity created by his father by constantly expressing her dissatisfaction with whatever Bob may have accomplished in his life.

When Bob was 12 years old, he proudly told his parents of a science project he had entered in the 6^th grade Science Fair. It was a display of the properties of kinetic energy and Bob worked on the project into the wee hours of the night for many weeks. He invited his mother and father to school later that week to see what he thought was a grand scientific accomplishment. He also informed them that out of two 6^th grade classes comprised of 63 students, he finished second in the fair.

“Hold it stupid, you didn’t win? I’m not embarrassing myself,” his father mocked him.

As was typical in his growing years, his father’s words pierced through his heart and left him with a deep, dark and heavy feeling over his whole body. His mother, always one to jump on the bandwagon of pessimism, was not far behind to drive the already crushing blow even deeper.

“Honey, when you get first prize, me and your father will be proud to go.”

Though he never let anyone see it from the outside, that desert of despair and pure, unmitigated emotional pain has stuck with Bob Bringston to this day. Dark, deep, but always there. He irrigated it with a stronger self-confidence, but it is the fear of returning to this emotionally barren state that continued to plague him decades later.

The most serious long-term damage of this apprehension occurred in 1974, the year Bob graduated from Arizona State. He finished as the top mechanical engineering student at the university and was recruited by companies ranging from small, local outfits to heavy hitters like Boeing, Goodyear, and General Electric. In addition, nearly a dozen major league baseball teams pursued him for not only his raw baseball talents, but also his reputation as a fierce competitor who ate nails and spit fire.

Finally, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and other U.S. government agencies were conducting an aggressive recruitment on the ASU campus. Though hundreds of miles from home in Los Angeles, Bob heard the voice of his father loud and clear. If he took a position at GE, or even the smaller companies and failed, he just couldn’t bear the barrage of ridicule he knew he would get from the old man. His mother would make it worse.

His love for baseball was what he really wanted to pursue, but despite his immense self-confidence in his abilities to make it to the Big Show, his engineering mind and the fear of failure prevailed. Making it as an engineer was certainly doable. The odds of any young man, no matter how good, making it to the major leagues were long indeed.

He decided upon what he considered a compromise. He opted for the wild and risky world of federal law enforcement. Though he has enjoyed his nearly 20 years as an ATF agent, the possibility, the probability that he could have been serving up his heat to major league hitters and otherwise surrounding himself in the magnificent world of baseball, has gnawed at him over the years like a slow-growing tumor. Bob knew that he certainly could not ignore his ATF obligations merely for some amateur baseball game, but this small dilemma reminded him that his chance to immerse his life in baseball had long ago passed him by. Each day he grew older drove that knife in, cutting a little piece of him away on each turn.

When Bringston called in to the ATF office he learned of the delicate situation awaiting him. A group called Whack had taken over a federal courtroom in downtown Los Angeles. The militants were not only devoted to the typical anarchical principals of eliminating all laws, bureaucracies and other aspects of government, they were determined to start their elimination process by violently destroying the court system and anyone connected with it.

In the past few years, the group had kidnapped and murdered judges, bailiffs, court clerks and other court staff with a powerful arsenal of guns and explosives and did so, at times, in suicidal fashion. When Bringston arrived at the courthouse, he was greeted by Tim Tuttlehorn who briefed his buddy on the situation. There were three enemies in the courtroom. Shots had been fired, apparently wounding 3 U.S. Marshals. The terrorists had not yet made any demands except their safe exit of the courthouse which, given their prior modus operandi, they will guarantee with a hostage.

During the exchange of fire with the U.S. Marshals, Frank Ganji had managed to infiltrate the courtroom held hostage appearing to be nothing more than a member of the press covering the trial being held there. In actuality, ATF agent Ganji was armed with a .45 caliber handgun, just knawing at the bit for his opportunity to deposit some of his lead in the heads of the crazed courthouse kidnappers. There were 4 other federal agents on the government court-rescue mission. Two were from the FBI and the 2 others from the Drug Enforcement Agency.

“Strange,“ Bob thought to himself. “The DEA almost always avoided these types of high-profile operations”. It was true that Whack had managed to stockpile a rather large cache of arms financed by a sizable drug smuggling operation, but the DEA’s success was built upon undercover methods. Even stranger, these guys came all the way from the DEA Washington office.

Whatever the reasons, Bringston had to work with the team he was given. The six government agents met in the courthouse hallway to decide on their plan of attack. Bob, who was usually appointed the leader of these types of hostage situations with little, if any, objections, ran into strong resistance from DEA agent Dick Greer. Bob knew that the key to winning these confrontations was a heavy element of distraction. He was dressed in his full baseball uniform, including his maroon Atlanta Braves cap, dark gray maroon-trimmed jersey with white pants, navy blue stirrup socks and a sleek-looking black vinyl warm-up jacket. Since Bob had only played less than an inning, he still sparkled in is uniform like it was Opening Day. The only dirt scattered around his celebrative attire was residue from the dirt of the diamond. The magic baseball dust seemed to enhance Bob’s comfort and confidence.

Ganji was already inside and armed. Bob explained that he was confident that he can create enough diversion by his looks and his speech to give Frank the opportunity he needs to bring the kidnappers down.

“Forget it, pretty boy,” Greer said firmly. “We’re not going to risk the success of this operation on the silly baseball games of ATF.”

“Spoken like a true territory protecting, glory-seeking government bureaucrat,“ Bob thought to himself. He played into those motivations perfectly.

“Look, Dick, you know a lot more about drug smugglers than we do. I think you’d agree, though, that these guys are not the sort you typically run into. My team has had a lot of encounters with similar hostage situations in the Midwest and here in L.A. What do you say we put our heads together and secure the situation?”

Once again, the Bringston charm and charisma paid off.

“Five minutes, Bringston,“ Greer conceded. “Your man Ganji is already equipped with a miniature mobile listening device, so if we hear that it is time to come in before that, we’re coming in.”

“Fair enough,“ Bob agreed with all confidence and fire of a closing relief pitcher to whom the manager has just given the ball.

Bob entered the courtroom and was greeted by the proverbial goon guards who searched him from head to toe. He had a baseball in his pocket and one in his hand, both of which were confiscated by the guards. One of the goon’s eyes lit up when he saw a bag of hard-to-find barbecue flavored sunflower seeds protruding from Bob’s jacket pocket.

“Hey, pal,” Bob coaxed, you won’t find these many places,” said Bob as he flashed the bag of seeds to the rebel. “Check it out. They’re Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon soaked sunflower seeds. You can have them if you get your boss to release the hostages and the rest of the courtroom.”

“Say Jimmy, do we really have to hold this place any longer?” the big guy asked the leader of the revolutionary group.

“Oh, Jeez, Chuckie, you need a little snack, do ya?” Jimmy asked sarcastically. He proceeded to handcuff the terrified judge to the raised rail and walked down towards Bringston. It was not the first time they had met. Over the years, terrorist leader Jimmy Borskovich had clashed with Bringston before.

“Gimme that shit,” demanded Borskovich as he grabbed the rare sunflower seeds from Bringston’s pocket and threw them at the overly salivating Chuckie.

“Hey Bobby, I got some bad news for ya. I’m pullin’ you out of the lineup. We’ve got your balls, so no more of your little tricks,” Borskovich boasted as he walked back up to the elevated judge’s bench next to his hostage.

“Tricks?” asked Bob. “ I give up a huge opportunity to be the closing reliever to win a championship in my fading baseball career, all to meet up with a dick like you?” Bob roared.

He caught the eye of Frank Ganji seated in the audience who gave him a comforting grin. Bob calmly took off his warm-up jacket and strolled right up to the bench where the judge was being held hostage. Bringston moved around the courtroom like a lawyer passionately arguing a monumental trial in court.

“And then you have the fucking nerve to compare the great American Pastime to trickery. You just don’t see the light,“ Bringston preached.

With the entire courtroom standing in amazement of the power of his words, Bob flung his jacket up to the bench. It landed directly on Borskovich’s head completely disorientating him.

Bob was right behind his jacket as he leaped to the bench. He tackled and subdued the terrorist before Borskovich could remove the jacket and get his bearings. The judge, pursuant to Bob’s instructions knelt underneath the bench. Bringston had Jimmy down on the floor behind the massive wall of wood making up the judge’s bench protecting him from the guards at the entryway.

Before they created any problem for Bringston, Ganji sprung up within the court audience and blasted a large chunk of one guy’s head half way across the courtroom. Ganji’s high-powered artillery exchange with sunflower seed sucking Chuckie while Bringston was wrestling Borskovich under control did not work out so well for Frank. Ganji received some serious chest wounds from Chuckie.

In the meantime, Bob managed to secure his jacket around the leader’s head with a rubber band he found on the judge’s desk. Fortunately, Jimmy had left another set of handcuffs on the desk which he used to secure Borskovich to the short stairway banister leading up to the judge’s chair.

The gun Jimmy was holding was nowhere in sight and Bob sensed there was at least one enemy remaining. He was laying fox-hole style on the floor. He looked behind him and inches from his feet stood the California flag perched upon a flagpole with a large triangular, metal ornament at the top. At its zenith, it came to a rather sharp arrow-like point.

Bob peaked around the right side of the bench and saw Chuckie cautiously approaching where Bringston had staked out. Bob wasn’t sure if the other bad guy was still alive but he simply had to take the chance.

Bringston grabbed the flagpole, vaulted up and, with his ballistic arm, hurled the flagpole in the direction of the opposition and then quickly kneeled back down for cover. The California Golden Bear never took a more majestic flight. The piercing-pole headed straight for Chuckie. Before he realized what was targeting him, he fired a few errant shots at Bringston.

Bob was pretty close to his aim. He compensated for the scientific fact that his spear would drop below the point parallel with his release point. The makeshift arrow punctured the cultist smack dab in the center of his chest. The power of Bob’s thrust behind it, pushed his attacker into the wall, pinning him like one secures a note to a bulletin board.

Bob peered around the bench and proudly observed the results of his spectacular “javelin“ toss. The hole in the bad guy’s chest was so large; the flag attached to the penetrating pole was drenched in red with blood dripping from the lower corner of the flag. He also saw the third terrorist lying face down in a large pool of blood. Old Ganji, “ Mr. Reliable” came through in the clutch once again.

The madness in the Halls of Justice had finally ended. But where was his loyal friend Frank Ganji? Bob got up and frantically went to where his old buddy was sitting. He found Frank seated on the floor with his back against the audience bench with a dazed look on his face and his entire upper torso doused in deep red from his profuse bleeding. Bringston called an ambulance.

“Rest easy, Ganj, help is on the way, “ Bob assured his beloved friend.

“I’m afraid it’s going to be too late,“ Frank strained to tell Bob. This is it buddy. I sure went out in style, though, huh? I must have separated that one guy’s face right from his skull,” Frank proudly proclaimed with his quite obviously final breaths as Bob smiled affectionately.

Bob rested Frank’s head in his arms. He sensed these were his best friend’s last moments.

“We sure had great times together, huh Bobby?“ Frank whispered. “Ball games, chasing women, fightin’ bad guys. I’ll miss you, brother.”

Frank warmly smiled at his loyal friend. Bob lovingly smiled back. It was the last thing Frank saw before he died in Bob’s arms. The sense of loss in Bob’s heart was devastating. He had just lost a most cherished life-long companion. A genuinely good man who, on countless occasions, like this one, risked his life to save his comrades, America, and her values.

The most empty, desolate feeling suddenly came over Bob as the magnitude of the pain consumed him. Motionless, frozen, without a thought in his mind except that he lost someone he deeply and truly loved. Bob stayed in the kneeling position with Frank in his arms until the paramedics arrived.

The small flow of tears from each of his swelling eyes met at his chin and slowly, painfully dripped onto Frank’s body. Just then the FBI and DEA agents stormed the courtroom and took custody of Borskovich who was still handcuffed to the judge’s bench. Minutes later, the coroner arrived for Frank’s body and the two dead terrorists. Bob just sat in the courtroom withdrawn and numb to his surroundings. How, he thought, will he ever get over living and working without his most dear friend?

As the government agents were whisking Borscovich out of the courtroom, the rebel stopped in his tracks when he reached where Bringston was sitting.

“Marsh really sent his best out for this one didn’t he? Well, you can tell the Director that he has double-crossed us for the last time,” Borskovich warned. The agents then took him away.

Bob, though still distraught, was suddenly awakened from his deep withdrawal. He hadn’t heard the name of his former mentor in years. Was the crazy cultist actually referring to DEA Director Victor Marsh? If he was, what in the world did he mean by Marsh had double-crossed him for the last time?

This mystery just had to be solved. Bob vowed to investigate and research this baffling question as soon as he got over the grief of the loss of Frank Ganji.

2013-04-21T16:37:00.002-07:00

Without fail, I immediately come out of my deep depression by lifting my chin and holding my head high as I romp around the mysterious streets of LA. They’re all fucking phonies but today I’ve declared that I will walk and stand proud no matter any setbacks that may have arisen in my rather volatile life. It’s that simple. Declare that you will hold your head high and you’ll be surprised how good and truly happy you feel when you do it. Drugs and therapist merely provide a façade of happiness. You are only genuinely happy when you tell yourself that you deserve to be happy and are pleased to share that with the world. So chins up America. Hold’em high, happy and mighty. Preservation of the US Constitution and its guarantee of individual rights is at stake here. We must be strong and unyielding to the concept that an individual is as much a sovereign as any government entity. Does that shock you? Any measly slob on the street is a sovereign? First, what does mean? The Free Online dictionary defines it as: “One that exercises supreme, permanent authority, especially in a nation or other governmental unit.” Guess what? When those genius Founding Fathers got together to conjure up a constitution, there was a heated debate among those who wanted a strong central government and those who wanted a weak, if any, centralized government. The Bill of Rights was the compromise that not only firmly and legally recognized numerous individual rights but established the individual as a sovereign with supreme, permanent authority over himself. When that head of yours props up and you observe the world around you, you’ll get a surge of happiness and pride as to belonging in exactly the place you are in. The birds, the people, the trees. You feel so proud, you pull your head even higher and realize your sovereignty was not granted by any government. The foundation of my sovereignty is the sun. It’s magnificent distribution of light, heat and other life processes are the reason we are all here to be free. Not because the US government has granted it. The Bill of Rights acknowledges and confirms there are certain individual rights which we, as Sovereigns of the Sun, already have. When the bloody battle begins, if it has not already, it will be over the preservation of foundational rights which have been steadily eaten away by the feds. The military/bankers can be challenged but you must do so in a proud and happy fashion. So next time you explore the urban jungle, remember, you are a sovereign. Hold your head high and be proud of who you are. More on what I think is an upcoming major civil war bloodier than anything else in the past in my next writing.

2013-04-20T17:33:00.000-07:00

Mitchell Stein Associates: Know Mitch Stein & Associates – A Dedicated Law Fi...

2012-11-28T19:56:00.001-08:00

Mitchell Stein Associates: Know Mitch Stein & Associates – A Dedicated Law Fi...: To be acquainted with a dedicated law firm can bring you success even with the most complex legal issues...

Dedicated? Customer oriented? My ass. Mitchell Stein is nothing but a pathological liar and on a mission to milk as much money as a possible from desperate homeowners trying to save their home. His first lie is representing to clients that they even have a case against the banks. These cases have been repeatedly dismissed and Stein knows they will be but he still collects his fee. As a former employee of Spire Law Group(the new name of MJS & Associates) here's another little tidbit. He doesn't pay his lawyers and other employees.

Stein is living in this dream world that everything revolves around him and his pleasures. He is an inconsiderate, selfish guy who should be believed when he says anything.

Break?Maybe-Fold-Absolutely Not

2010-02-20T20:21:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of Jackie Robinson the champion through adversity, I am inspired to carry on with my pursuit.

First I thought about writing my congressman. Then it dawned on me, if it is the federal government that is determined to stop me and the publication of my novel, then surely any member of Congress will not help me in my fight against the feds. Local government thugs won't be much more helpful in light of the uniqueness of my story.

The novel I have written, Hardball, looks at government for what it really is and what it is not. The protector of the public interest is merely the facade. What government really is nothing but a tool of a few to protect their monopolies both legal and illegal. Hardball attacks government like a vicious, rabid wolf with no holds barred and does so in an entertaining and provocative fashion.

At least 3 things have happened in my life since I began my pursuit of the publication of Hardball.

In about the year 2000, a woman from the Los Angeles Department of Children and Family Services came to visit our home. It was the first night of Hanukah and my wife and 2 young children were sound asleep. I opened the door and the woman, who was accompanied by 2 uniformed and armed LAPD officers, informed me that she is investigating a complaint that I was "yelling" at my own children. She asked to take a look at the children. She went upstairs took a peek at each child and cam downstairs to tell me that everything seems OK but that I should refrain from yelling so much.

"Thank you for the advice,"I said, "but now, take your ass and that of your friends here and get the fuck out of my house." She left in frustration and the officers smiled as if to say, "Good for you".

A few years later I was speeding near my home. I never heard any cops behind me and when I got out of my car, a police vehicle was parked perpendicular to my car parked in the driveway. The situation reminded me of the DCFS woman invading my home. I was scared. I was nervous. When the cop demanded my registration and insurance, I slowly and methodically searched for the documents so as not to make any sudden moves that may cause him to draw his gun. I guess he lost his patience. He pulled me out of the car, slapped the cuffs on me and shoved me into the back of the squad car. I was arrested and eventually convicted for reckless driving.

A few more years later and most recently, I was arrested for drunk driving. when I was in the holding cell, the jail cop told me to put my shoe on which I had taken off in light of my painful right foot. In the middle of my plea, 4 or 5 other cops took hold of me, forced the shoe on my foot and took me to the car. For that they added the charge of resisting arrest and battery. In jail, I was released after the first day but that release was reversed for some unknown reason. They shoved me in the psycho ward for refusing to take the wrong medication.

I firmly believe the government has me marked as one who is not afraid to object to government actions and thinks if they continue these attacks I will give up my pursuit of the ultimate challenge, a novel that will sir up even more challenges. Regardless of whether my government conspiracy thory is valid or not, it has inspired me to pursue publication with even more vigor.

Bring it on you useless bureaucrats. In the end, the people will win. We will expose you for the utter corruption you are and bring the government back to the people. To those in power now, allow me to sum up our anger at you: Fuck you and the army behind you. Like Patrick Henry, Thomas Paine and our other heroic fathers, we will fight for our individual freedom and fairness to others and seek true justice till our death and you thugs will not take that away from us.

Speaking of Hardball, here's Chapter 1 in case you missed it earlier. Let me know what yu think:

Chapter 1-Comrades

All three still had their other obligations. Time was running out to wind out of those commitments. During the next few months, Bob and Emily kept busy with routine jobs like black market cigarette and liquor dealers and gun smugglers. Ron went back to his appellate law practice and was experiencing an unusually hard time with the appellate judges who were hearing his cases. Since he had come back from his trip to Missouri, he had been on a terrible losing streak.
Bob was tormented by the fear. The voice of his father was louder and surfaced more often in his mind, telling him to give up his crack-pot conspiracy ideas and concentrate on his work. There was no avoiding it. He would soon have to choose between his illustrious career as an Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent or continue with his emerging independent investigation. In the meantime, he continued his truth-seeking mission as long as he could while remaining a federal agent. In the future, if he had to give up his government post or his investigation, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Bringston’s top priority was Jimmy Borskovich. He could be the freshest and only surviving source of information as his search of nearly 50 prior cases revealed witnesses and defendants that were dead, released or otherwise untraceable. According to Bob’s information, Jimmy was imprisoned at a fed facility in the Arizona desert not far from Bob’s alma matter in Tempe. He called his lawyer and newly-found good friend, Ron Rosenberg.
“You’ll never guess what I got in store for you,” Bob teased Ron.
“Don’t tell me, another trip to a federal prison. Say Bobby, is there any chance I’ll get to talk to a warm body?”
“Not necessarily. But what the fuck? Let’s keep trying. I need you Ronnie, you’re the only man for the job,” Bringston urged.
“Yeah, sure, why not? The rest of my practice is going down the fucking tubes, I may as well serve the best-paying client.”
“We’ll fly out of Burbank, less chance of surveillance there. Emily will take us to the airport. We’ll pick you up at your office at 3:45 this afternoon. Oh, and your attorney fee has just been raised to $ 500.00 per hour, you’re worth every dollar and then some,” Bob praised his lieutenant.
“Oh, gee thanks pally. My balls must really be in a wringer now. I suppose the next thing is, you’ll want me to pack a piece.”
“No, not yet. I’m saving that for the right strategic moment.”
Bringston had only the slightest idea of how close a track Marsh was keeping on him and Ron, but he couldn’t be too careful. To that end he provided Ron with the best set of phony ID that money and old trusted federal government contacts could buy. One call to Karl Honig of the Social Security Administration and in the blink of an eye, a social security number was issued. Karl was a former ATF agent who served with Bob for a few years but couldn’t take the stress of the life or death situations and chose an administrative position at Social Security. For the right price, he issued Social Security numbers of recently deceased citizens. When Bob contacted Karl, they reminisced about their old ATF days for a minute and then got right down to business. Bob gave him the name, Karl quoted his price, Bob paid and the new Social Security number was officially issued to the newly chosen name for Ron. He used it to set up a special American Express account primarily for car rentals. In addition, he always made sure that he, Ron and Emily had several hundred dollars cash in their pocket. That amount would be increased, if necessary. Even as an ATF division head, Bringston had a policy that when he and his team went out on the road, arming his team members with ample artillery and other paraphernalia was just the beginning. The pockets of his squad on a particular project always had multiples of C notes when they hit the streets. Though most certainly aware that guns and other hardware were crucial to the success of a mission, it was sometimes equally vital to victory to have a few hundred dollars so that folks along the way will perform small tasks or convey important information to help out.
The real test as to the effectiveness of Ron’s fake ID was awaiting him at the federal prison in the Tempe desert, where, as in all federal prisons, all visitors are put through an extensive identification and search process. Bob’s ID project was made even smoother by the fact that Ron was already admitted to the Arizona State Bar and happened to know a lawyer who worked at the Arizona Bar. That friend made a few minor adjustments to his State Bar Number such as the name and history and wiped the record clean of Ronald William Rosenberg ever being connected with that Bar Number.
As Ron prepared for this crucial prison meeting, a deep, queasy feeling consumed him. As he drove towards the prison, the numbness threatened to disable him. Over his long, accomplished career of protecting individuals from overzealous prosecutors and other agents of the government, he had visited hundreds, if not thousands in custody but never under these circumstances.
This one visit could very well be detected by Marsh and seen as a direct threat to his vast drug empire. If so, Ron knew his life was in danger.
Furthermore, if it was discovered that he presented a prison guard, a federal officer, with fake ID, it would undoubtedly result in immediate disbarment in all the states where he was admitted to practice law. All his successes and accomplishments would go down the drain and his career abruptly ended.
Rosenberg, however, was devoted to the mission of discovering and revealing the monumental truth about Marsh. He had full confidence in the leadership of his friends Emily and Bob and based upon that trust, was ready to risk it all in pursuit of this truth.
In light of this, Ron confidently, but quietly, walked up to the guard desk at the Redstone Federal Prison and told the officer whom he was there to see and proudly showed him his new Arizona driver’s license and his newly issued Arizona State Bar card. Those two items along with Ron’s uncharacteristic low-key approach gave the guards every reason to believe that Ron Rosenberg was who he said he was: George Herman, hot shot Phoenix criminal appellate lawyer. Bob picked that name. It was the legal first and middle names of the legendary Bambino himself, Babe Ruth. Besides, it sounded Jewish enough to complement Ron’s sophisticated New York personality, which leaked out just a bit despite Ron’s effort to tone it down.
Ron met Jimmy Borskovich in the prisoner visiting room, where he was well aware one must operate under the presumption that there was constant video and audio surveillance being conducted. The two were separated by Plexiglas stretching from the ceiling to the counter. Communications were conducted by in-house phones. Borskovich greeted him with a rather disabling greeting.
“Am I ‘spose to know who the fuck you are?”
“No, we never met. I’m George Herman, an attorney that specializes in criminal appeals,” Ron explained.
“I followed your trial from the beginning. Based upon my review of the record in this case, I am confident that you were dealt a short deck of your foundational rights under the U.S. Constitution by not only the federal officers who detained you and later searched your property without a warrant, but the lawyers and judge in the trial thereafter.”
Ron made sure to make all his comments, prior to getting into his real reason for the visit, as long and verbose as possible. Not a difficult task for “Ronnie the Rat Trap” a pet name given to him by his Columbia Law School comrades as much for his resounding rhetorical talents as well as his uncanny abilities, to always catch his Rat. Standing only 5 feet 6 inches, it might have been his Napoleon complex. In his later years, his frizzy, receding hairline gave him the feeling he always had to battle his way toward respectability. Early in life, he found his mind and mouth were the tools that led to success. If necessary, Ron could create a long-winded conversation out of a dripping faucet while his razor sharp mind was formulating his next move.
“So what can you do about it, Flash?” Jimmy asked in a dejected tone.
“Well, I’m not certain yet as to what, if anything, I can do for you on your terrorism and kidnapping convictions, although we may have an entrapment argument, but I’ll tell you this, if you let me represent you through the appellate process, I’m quite confident the munitions and marijuana evidence found at your property will be excluded and you will . . .”
“Fuck you, dickface,” Borskovich shouted as he shot up and slammed the chair into the Plexiglas window separating the two.
Ron sat there motionless and, for a change, speechless for a few seconds. “Interesting,” he thought. “No federal prison guards or any other personnel have responded. Of course, 12:06 p.m., time for all good bureaucrats to take their lunch.” Still, though, he was not convinced that no one was watching. He was going to play it safe and not even hint as to why he was really there until a few more minutes had passed. Borskovich, still ranting and raving, picked the phone up again and continued.
“You think I give a shit about taking a few years off my time here? Fuck, at least in this cesspool, everyone is who they appear to be. Look, you little weasel, I’m already sick and tired of your legal mumbo jumbo crap. So why don’t you just take your fancy ass out of here. My fight is not against the courts, this prison or even the entire U.S. government any more. My lifelong enemy is the DEA.”
“I agree, those DEA agents searched . . .”
“Agents?” Jimmy interrupted. “I’m talking about the Director, the back-stabbing prick Director of the DE, fucking A.”
Ron went into a state of alert. The subject came up long before he was ready to get into it. He hurriedly jotted down the following note to Borskovich on the back of one of his business cards:
“ We know about Marsh. That’s why I’m here-to
find out more. I’ll be back. Destroy this card as quickly and secretly as possible.”
“Listen, Jimmy, I don’t know anything about those DEA problems you’re having,” Ron counseled as he smoothly and pursuant to prison security requirements, raised his hand with the encrypted business card in it and handed it to Jimmy through a small opening in the window. Right now, as your lawyer, what I can offer you is nine-eleven years off your thirty-year sentence.”
“Twenty-seven,” Jimmy corrected.
“Ah, good behavior, huh?” Bob asked.
“Damn straight,” Borskovich retorted as he read Ron’s note on the card.
“Good man. Somehow you strike me as a fella that is knawing at the bit to get out of this joint to take care of some important business. I can help you do it a lot sooner. Think about it…”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” Jimmy pondered.
“Fair enough. Just call me when you’re ready. I might stop in to see ya’ before that, if you don’t mind, to remind you of the various legal deadlines you face on your appeal,” Ron advised as he got up from his chair.
“Sure, no problem,” Oh, by the way, I wasn’t connected to the property where they searched and found the shit. I rented the guest house out back.”
“Well, I’ll certainly make a note of that.”
“Too bad,” Ron thought. “If I didn’t have to use this bullshit name, it would be one juicy appellate case to dig my teeth into.”
Ron returned to the Arizona prison during the next week. He was able to meet with Jimmy outside, within the small confines of the prisoner’s garden. The outdoor meeting was made possible by the strong work ethic displayed by Borskovich and by the long, loyal friendship Bob had with Ed Eagleton, the assistant warden at Redstone. It was one of many solid friendships Bob had developed over the years within various departments of the federal and state systems. Not as many as Marsh maybe, but Bob’s relationships were more meaningful as they were not based on money or intimidation but upon genuine loyalty and desire to help each other out during the sometimes rather frustrating times of working for the government. Such was his decades-long connection with Eagleton. They not only thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company, they were always eager to come to each other’s aid.
“We should be safe here, but we’ll have to make it quick,” Ron advised. Now tell me, Jimmy, is this asshole really skimming drugs big time?”
“Fuck that. Don’t you realize that Marsh controls nearly every major drug transaction in this country from pot to poppies? Few big shipments of shit come into the U.S. without the approval of the DEA director.”
“But Jimmy, com’on. You mean to tell me that this guy is aware of all large shipments that come into this country?”
“Oh yeah, he’s aware all right,” Jimmy said as he cynically smiled. “ Here’s the way it works, Ronnie boy. Let’s say you have 100 ton of heroin coming in on a boat to America. Have it cleared through Marsh and you’re guaranteed security through landing and initial distribution. Marsh usually takes his fee for these security services in barter only. Dope, around 25 per cent of all shipments. Sometimes, he’ll accept a cash fee, but most of the time, he wants the shit,” Jimmy told the amazed Ron, whose chin was fast approaching the floor.
“He then passes it on to his own little distribution network. Yes sir, old Vic the Prick has built up quite a little side business for himself.”
“How about the cases we’ve researched where the amount of dope in evidence mysteriously drops in large amounts between the arrest and the trial?” Ron asked.
“Yeah that’s how Marsh controls the rest of the business. If you’re a dealer who did not use Marsh’s services and get caught with your dick in your hands, just go to Marsh, and for a fee, much of the evidence against you will suddenly disappear,” Jimmy explained.
“And that’s how he fucked us up the ass. What the prick did was suddenly bail out on us because he got scared that someone was on to him. The evidence went from 250 pounds to 50 and back to 250 when the little wimp panicked,” Borskovich said disgustedly.
Ron stood there, in the middle of the prisoner cornfield, in utter amazement. “It was true,” he thought. The man trusted with the job of protecting the public from the onslaught of dangerous drugs was actually the power behind encouraging their circulation throughout the nation.
“Jimmy, I represent a federal agent who is one determined son-of-a bitch to bring this mother fucker down. To do that we need your help. You need to contact me the minute Marsh or his people contact you as we expect them to. We have every reason to believe you will soon be moved out of this prison as a result of a transfer or a bullet in your head,” Ron warned.
“The other, more appealing, alternative would be if you’re offered your freedom with a new identity and all documentation to support it. Whenever and however you’re moved, call me without delay. Here’s my pager number. Punch in 711 and I’ll know it means you’re being moved or are in danger. In the mean time, we’ll keep close tabs on you. Your testimony is the key to our success in getting Marsh,” Ron said.
“Great. What the fuck can I do from here?”
“One thing: Stay alive. Don’t ever turn your back on anyone and most certainly turn on your sirens whenever you are in a room alone with any guard. You might very well be the only witness available to testify against this asshole.”
Just then, a guard opened a nearby door from inside the prison and approached the two new partners.
“You keep your spirits up, Jimmy. We will accomplish our goals.”
Somehow, Jimmy believed Ron. He was comforted by the conviction of his new comrade.
“I’ll keep you posted, pally,” said Jimmy.
“I look forward to hearing from you.”
The guard then accompanied Borskovich back into the pen. Now, for the first time in his long criminal career, Jimmy felt nervous as he walked up the long hallway alone with a prison guard. Nervous was only the beginning of the way Ron felt as he walked out of the prison towards his car. His longtime half-a-pack a day smoking habit was now up to nearly two packs and he could hardly do anything or go anywhere without thinking that someone was watching him.

Jackie Robinson-Champion through Adversity

2010-01-09T16:18:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure my recent addition will bring any more traffic to the site, but it matters not. The very image of Jackie Robinson has inspired me to carry on with my fight to get Hardball published. I just hope I have half the balls Jackie had.

Whatever adversity I have gone through, it doesn't compare to that what Jackie went through. Similarly, we had no one to help us in our battle except a loyal, loving wife and family. Otherwise, or so it seemed, the rest of the entire world was against us. Jackie's struggle was a lot tougher than mine. He faced direct ridicule, hatred and unfair treatment as he broke the color barrier in baseball. Yet he continued his brave fight for respect and let nothing stop him.

In my pursuit, I've just been submitting a compelling story and get nothing but form rejections or merely ignored. I'm starting to doubt my self-assessment of how great this story is. Among the things that keeps my fire burring is the story of Jackie Robinson and his never-ending belief of himself and what he did with his life.

I believe that what I have written will dramatically change the way people will think about their fellow humans, our society and the sovereignty over us. Besides, it has great sex and violence and will thoroughly entertain you. The strong baseball underlying theme is a great tribute to the game and Jackie Robinson. A tip-o-the Dodger hat to Jackie Robinson. The world will be thanking you for your sacrifice for eternity. check out the prior and future posts on this site for a taste of Hardball and let me know if you're interested.

End of the Line

2009-11-22T17:37:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure where, if anywhere, there is to go from here. I know I'm out of my fucking bipolar mind but I cannot shake this feeling. I have written a story called HARDBALL and it is the most relevant, compelling story written this century if not the last one.

The vivid violence and raw sex appeals to men. The touching description of romance and the courage and independence of EMILY SANCHEZ captures the imagination of women. Young people will be attracted to the direct challenge posed to the ultimate authority and older folks are enticed by the strong baseball undertow.

Despite all this appeal, over all these years just a handful of agents have read a few chapters and passed. So now I'm stuck with one of the greatst stories ever written yet just a handful of my potential audience has read it. Go figure. If anyone has any ideas how I attract readers online, please let me know. That request, of course, is futile since no one reads this fucking blog but what the hell. I will die trying. Thank you. Here's chapter 14, one of my favorites:

Chapter 14-Vegas

Bob and Emily touched down in the Nevada desert about 7:45 p.m. on Friday. Emily could think of only one thing: A solid 15 hours to attack the tables until her mysterious meeting almost 24 hours away. Bringston liked to partake in a little gaming himself, but he couldn’t risk being outside very long in light of the extensive dragnet Marsh had on him.
As Emily and Bob rode in the taxi together, they looked at each other with penetrating eyes. They often smiled at each other as if to say, “I’m glad I’m here with you.” Although their hunger for each other was always present, lust had little to do with these deep emotions. It was far beyond the physical attraction. It was trust, friendship and loyalty. At this moment, the comfort and confidence in the competence and courage of this particular partnership was more important than any pleasures of the flesh. Those strong sexual urges did surface randomly. They glanced at each other curiously but knew that their respective physical impulses would have to be tempered during the Vegas mission. Engaging in a sexual encounter and putting themselves in such a vulnerable position was too high of a security risk. Though they knew it would be temporarily unfulfilled, the primal attraction they had for one another created a warmth emanating from deep within them. Despite these blossoming biological forces, Bob and Emily composed themselves in preparation of their mission and protecting each other from the inevitable dangers ahead. The trust in each other was well imbedded into their minds and souls. It was as inspiring as it was comforting.
They checked in at the Golden Nugget in downtown Vegas. They thought it best to get the 2-bedroom Presidential suite. It would be hard enough to resist each other in the same hotel room, but impossible sleeping in the same bedroom. The suite would make the highest of royalty feel comfortable. They opened the tall double doors to a spectacular foyer and walked on to a polished white tile floor with gold strands scattered throughout. The walls were trimmed with gold crown molding around the perimeter of this 1,150 square foot opulent enclave and smartly decorated with fine art that would be the envy of any collector. The sunken den was fully equipped with a large stereo system and built-in speakers throughout the suite, a big screen satellite TV and a sofa, thick in leather, deep in comfort, winding around half the perimeter of the lowered room.
High above this already erotic ensemble was a ceiling with a unique added feature. With the mere flick of a switch, the guest could choose an outdoor fantasy of a graphic depiction of all 9 planets of the Solar System, or a bright orange field of California poppies beneath a glistening Western afternoon sky across which was a freshly formed rainbow.
“What do ya say, baby, planets or poppies?” Bob asked in a playful, yet firmly masculine manner.
As Emily’s ovaries and her thirst for adventure took control of her body, any tension she had suddenly disappeared. The stress and high security of the situation didn’t seem to bother them much. In fact, the threat of death hovering over them seemed to heighten the sexual excitement.
“I say that I already hit the jackpot with you,” she said with a sultry smile.
Bob returned a warm grin of confidence. But he was still tight and just couldn’t relax with the pressure of the mission on his mind. Once the two touched, they were physically inseparable for the next 2 hours. It was as if they were making love for the last time. During most of this time, pretty much every opening on each of their bodies was entered, or otherwise explored. They were aggressively searching to connect to the soul of their partner as deep and wide as possible.
As, Emily rubbed Bob’s shoulders, the feeling in her thumbs of a muscle or gland beneath the surface of his neck, unexplainably moistened the area between her thighs. It must have been a gland she touched as it prompted Bob into a state of total relaxation and made his masculinity fully surface. That biological phenomenon along with raging hormones, blood and other fluids of all kinds racing throughout his body, blasted him into full male arousal. It was an island of firmness surrounded by a sea of calmness over the rest of his body.
She inspired him to delve deep into her body and soul to unleash a most magnificent female. A woman even Emily never knew existed. Together, they reached heights of sexual pleasure experienced only by genuinely caring couples. Those whose only real pleasure is realized when the enjoyment of their partner is confirmed. Judging from their moans, screams and language, they each reached a level of gratification few have ever seen.
Making love to Emily was the ultimate boost of confidence for Bob. Any doubts he had about the success of the mission had vanished. He was focused and ready to do whatever it took to fight his enemies, present or potential. Their physical and metaphysical merger was just the medicine each of them needed. About half past midnight, they both fell into a most peaceful sleep. For Emily, though, five some-odd hours of sleep was just about right. Especially for a hard-driven, success-oriented person like her and particularly when that dynamic female is in Vegas. She thought, though, maybe she shouldn’t get up to go downstairs so as not to awaken Bob.
“Fuck it,” she thought, “There must be some reason I woke up so early. I’ll move around carefully and write him a note.”
She quietly rolled over and hopped out of the large circular bed. Even as she slid out of bed, Emily did so with style and grace. She peered out the window and saw what looked like a rainbow to the south. She soon realized it was the multicolored lights from the Strip about a mile away reflecting off the clouds in the dawn sky. She was wearing a see-through nightshirt, which covered her about to the mid-thigh. Though so scantily dressed, she softly ventured out onto the patio. Sunrise was imminent. Sunrays bursting from behind the Sierra Nevadas formed laser-like streaks glistening along the top and across a large section of the vast mountain range. She looked to the south and in the distance saw the mega hotel-casinos on the Strip. “Some great places to eat and great shopping,” she contemplated, “but the only really cool crap games are Downtown.”
She dashed back into the room and took a brisk, but thorough shower. She slipped into a pair of tight blue Guess jeans, a loose-fitting red, white and mostly navy blue cotton knit Tommy Hilfiger blouse and a pair of Prado blue suede loafers. As she entered the elevator on the top floor, she looked as if she was preparing for war. As her fiercely competitive mind saw it, those friendly flakes running the games down there are focused solely on emptying as much of her pocket as possible. Her mission was to not only defend her wallet but to make it grow in the midst of a highly distractive atmosphere including loud music and other obnoxious noises like those from computerized gaming devices.
The biggest distraction though, was the sometimes rather attractive men running the dice game who intentionally or otherwise, diverted her from her goal of protecting and expanding her pocketbook. Sure she could afford to lose a few grand but hated to lose at anything and this war fantasy was instrumental in her motivation. Though she knew her life could be put in danger at any moment, she just had to take the chance and play her little personal game. She did not, however, lose sight of reality. Although Marsh may not have known of Emily previously, his massive investigative forces could have already revealed her. For all she knew, Joe may have been forced to inform Marsh as to their planned Vegas meeting and her involvement. She trusted no one. Everyone was a potential enemy.
As the elevator car, occupied solely by Emily, descended from the 11th Floor, she noticed that it did not stop on the 10th and appeared to building up speed through Number 9. Emily was counting on not stopping before getting to the bottom. She hated elevators and was only using one now because she sprained her ankle while doing aerobic exercises. Her claustrophobic condition neared catastrophe whenever a crowd crammed into her car.
This time though, it sailed straight past 8 headed, she hoped, non-stop to the ground. Suddenly, it stopped at 7. The door stayed open for a few seconds. Nobody entered. The doors started to close when a large male hand suddenly emerged around the edge of one of the doors. The man pushed the door back open and walked in. He was about 50 with a chiseled white face, crew cut, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and thin black tie. Emily’s experience told her he was a cop. Hopefully, she thought, not a federal officer or otherwise connected to Marsh. As they caught each other’s eye, Emily’s smile was returned with a cold, stone face and then the man just looked up at the floor indicator.
Her chronic claustrophobic condition made her uneasy in the tightly closed quarters of the elevator car. It seemed to be taking forever to reach the bottom floor. He abruptly reached for his inside coat pocket. Emily gasped ever so faintly and for a second or two and seriously considered making a move for the gun resting against her ankle. She realized she would not have to when she observed the hand held computer the guy pulled from his pocket. Noticing the obviously startled look on Emily’s face, the man finally broke a smile. “Hotel security ma’m, just keeping an eye on things,” he said as he entered security status information into his computer.
Emily released a sigh of relief. What she first thought was her first life or death encounter turned out to be a harmless private security check. Now, she was ready to relax at the crap table.
The dice were brutal. By the time Bob paged her at about 9, she lost over $500. She dropped another 300 by lunchtime. She had only $400 of her self-allotted gambling money left. She was not going to let the casino take her last few dollars.
“I’m going to cool off at the pool, babe,” she told Bob on the phone.
As enticing the prospect of seeing Emily in a bikini was, Bringston could not risk going out in public until it was absolutely necessary. He knew that at this very moment, Marsh was working furiously to track him down. He had a sinking feeling in his gut that Marsh knew he was in Vegas. His premonition was right. Marsh had learned of the Hanrahan meeting as a result of his World Wide Web monitors. During the last several weeks, men and women on his staff had been closely watching all net activity by government employees, especially lawyers and other high-ranking agents. It was people in those positions most likely to have been in contact with Bringston. Joe Hanrahan was one of those monitored. The transcript of the initial web dialogue between Emily and Joe was revealing enough as to the subject of the meeting. The chat between the two did not last long enough for a trace to Emily. Besides, as a criminal defense lawyer, Sanchez took no shortcuts in equipping her computer system with the most cutting edge firewalls and other security devices. The identity of Sanchez was not at all revealed by Hanrahan. Marsh was not surprised Hanrahan would not be one to cooperate. For years, Joe Hanrahan had been nothing but a thorn in Marsh’s side. He knew Hanrahan not only had the information to bring his operations to a grinding halt, but also had the courageous, independent mind to go public at any moment with what he knew. Thus, one of the major reasons for Marsh’s success. He had an uncanny ability to respect his opponents for their strong points and take advantage of their weaknesses. Hate and revenge were not part of Victor’s vocabulary. Anticipation and preparation were.
Preventing Hanrahan from going to the Vegas meeting was easy enough for someone like Marsh. He simply had a briefcase full of hi-grade cocaine planted in Joe’s government issued car and promptly had 2 of his insider DEA agents arrest him en route to the airport from his office. He would have done the same to Bob and Ron long ago, but Bringston knew he was being pursued and had been able to elude Marsh so far. In addition, up to this point, Marsh was giving Bringston more rope before pouncing on him. Marsh knew the Hanrahan case would not stick but the arrest would certainly delay him enough to make him miss the meeting, even if he was able to post the prohibitively high bail. No more slack for Bob. It was time to take him in.
On the way down to the meeting, Emily and Bob stopped at the hotel gift shop for some soda. Bringston turned back towards the casino and Emily stopped him. She would never walk that wa_Oops-I didn't copy and paste the whole thing. Well, if you really want the rest and more chapters, you'll ask at andyweitz3@gmail.com

Union

2009-11-09T22:06:00.000-08:00

Well, Stephanie says sex sells on the internet so let's get right down to it. Chapter 6 is the first chapter in Hardball that gets hot and steamy. Let me know what you think . . .

Chapter 6-ULTIMATE

It wasn’t a vacation, but the next best thing. Bob, Emily and 3 other ATF agents were assigned to a far-away South Pacific island which was suspected as the main arms depot of one of the most cold-blooded anti-government cults and one which Bob and his team had been unable to crack for years. It resulted in the first of the few physical and spiritual mergers of Bob and Emily in their many years together, and these scarce, magnificent events occurred only as a result of the pure fate in the congruence of a man, a woman and a higher power.
Emily Sanchez had been an ATF agent for only a couple of years and had already risen to the top of Bringston’s team with acts of heroism, courage and brilliant strategic suggestions. She was a born leader who consistently thought a step or two ahead of the criminal mind. Wherever she had gone in life, she always strived to succeed. Her father let her know as far back as she could remember that she was the best. At the University of Texas, both undergraduate and in law school, she was near the top of the class.
It was in college that Emily met the only man with whom she ever had a serious relationship. She had casual relationships with many men in the past and friendships with others but never was intimate with anyone. She had yet to meet a man who was worth the commitment and diversion from her deep-rooted mission to achieve.
In her junior year, she met senior Rene Douglas at a Texas Longhorn football game. She was immediately attracted to his good looks, confidence and charm. His intelligence drew her in even deeper and he was one of the few men who seemed not to be intimidated by her intellect and aggressiveness. He came from an aristocratic family in France with a long history of accomplishment.
Rene enrolled at Texas Law School soon after he and Emily had begun their passionate relationship. In his second semester there, he proposed marriage to Emily. They planned a gala affair in Paris the following year. When Rene finished his first year of law school, Emily proudly proclaimed she had been accepted to the University of Texas School of Law and was anxiously looking forward to starting her studies in September.
“But what about our plans to build a family?” asked Rene, although he couldn’t have been surprised by Emily’s announcement since she had talked about law school since they met.
“I am devoted to creating a big healthy family with you Rene, but I must accomplish certain things before I bring children into my life. I will first become a successful lawyer and build a solid foundation for my family,” said Emily.
Rene had always been attracted to Emily’s will to win, but until her declaration had not taken it very seriously. His strong European tradition made it impossible for him to accept such an independent woman in marriage. The wedding plans were cancelled. After graduation, Rene went to work for energy trader Enron in Houston. Emily graduated a year later and soon succeeded as a sole practitioner. Years before the biggest corporate scandal in US history broke wide open, Rene was charged with securities law violations. He was defended by Emily who was able to get him a sweet deal. Rene was facing up to five years in prison and Emily got him probation, with no time and a $50,000 fine. In addition, she argued on behalf of her client before the Texas State Bar and saved his law license. There steamy physical relationship ended long ago but their friendship would last a lifetime.
As Emily stood at the shore of this south Pacific island after helping unload the boat, she stared out to sea and wondered if she would ever meet the man who would tolerate her independence while agreeing to build a family. She was beyond thirty and was thinking more and more about stopping work all together to satisfy her blossoming urges to have children. She would have to deal with these deep-rooted life issues later. She was part of an important mission and others were depending on her.
The five federal agents met at an abandoned tribal campground to devise their search strategy. Bringston took out his detailed map of the island and dispersed each of the agents to the various sections. Each was well armed with semi-automatic guns, 45-caliber pistols and a 2-way radio to keep in constant contact. They would meet back at the campground in precisely 6 hours.
Bob and Emily crossed paths about 2 hours into the search at the North shore of the island. Emily stood at the edge of the lush green jungle and saw Bob standing at the tide line gazing out at the crystal clear blue Pacific. He stood at the shore where the reflection of the sunrays spanning across the massive Pacific ended at Bob’s feet. As Emily watched, she felt a surge of electricity that sizzled her spine and warmed her body from within.
She walked down to the shore where Bob was standing and suggested, “I’m not as experienced as you, but I don’t think you’ll find any weapons in the ocean.”
“Looking at this ocean reminds me of my college days at Arizona State when we took weekend jaunts to the California coast and surfed from dusk till dawn,” Bob explained.
The two stood in tandem and stared far out to sea. Emily was silent and had the most enlightened look of contentment on her already most pleasing-looking face. Bob looked over to Emily standing next to him and noticed her most wonderful profile. So firm, natural and so feminine.
“How about a dip?” Emily urged in the near-100-degree island temperature.
“Why not?” Bob agreed.
Emily kept her light T-shirt and shorts on and got rid of her guns and other gear. Bob took off everything except his shorts. He radioed to the 3 other agents as to their location on the island. He breathed a sigh of relief, as they were all at least 2 hours away from where he and Emily were. At the same time, his heart was pounding with excitement, pumping what seemed half his blood supply down to his waist.
Bob’s washboard stomach and magnetic smile set Emily’s hormones into turbo charge. After a few minutes of body surfing and other fun and frolic in the ocean, Bob got out of the water with Emily right behind. He watched Emily walk towards him with her own radiant smile and her most magnificent breasts protruding through the drenched T-shirt. The regulations against sexual relations with fellow agents drifted out of his mind like the rocks he was playfully tossing into the ocean shortly before Emily arrived. Smoothly, gently, he took her hand into his and slowly, methodically, they walked along the shoreline.
“Why not?” Bob said in his deep but tender voice.
Emily was more than ready for that question. They ran to each other and tightly embraced. Just the feel of Emily in Bob’s arms made him sense the surging hormones racing from his pituitary to his pelvic area resulting in a state of full arousal. From there, the warmth radiated throughout his body and beyond.
It was as if stampedes of love, lust and other high-powered emotions were set free and came charging towards one another. The two embraced and cherished the feel of each other in their arms, hands and fingertips. The surge of electricity, which Emily had felt minutes earlier, had now become nuclear and enveloped her entire existence. The two rolled in the sand, kissed and caressed each other over their entire bodies and madly displayed their deep affection for one another.
The sight of them naked together on the beach seemed as natural a part of the seascape as the beach surrounding them and the seagulls circling above. Bob’s svelte, muscular and light-skinned body was a brilliant contrast to Emily’s full, brown and spectacularly curved physique. The sunrays glistening off her wet body added to the already magnificent shine radiating from her.
His penetration into her was as deep as it was gentle, yet hard at precisely the right time. At various moments, she felt a vibration, massaging or light touching along the inside of her vaginal wall and beyond. At times, he tickled her and at random instants throughout their merger she was taken over the top like the 20-foot waves behind her. She was precisely where she should be and with exactly the right person. She not only had this most wonderful man driving into her, she happened to be lying on her back at a point in the sand where there was a small uphill grade enabling her to sit up slightly and fully experience the sensations. The two were intimately intertwined like a piece of intricately woven Mayan art work. The movements and thrusts of their bodies seemed perfectly synchronized with the pounding and crashing of the waves at the rear. Along the way, they had to stop. Though these two were in top physical shape, they were so engrossed in their mate, so consumed by each other, they took their bodies to the limit and just had to rest. The little breaks never lasted long as the boiling biology in their bodies drove them to another complete connection. By the time this grand sexual and spiritual adventure ended, each had reached multiple, breathtaking orgasms and the moments and the buildup thereto were just as spine tingling and inspiring.
It was more than physically satisfying moments. They had tapped a source of a higher power, a deeper meaning. They both felt so fortunate to appreciate another human being so intimately and so completely. In addition, their bottled up sexual energy that they had exchanged unfulfilled for nearly two years had reached the boiling point and burst out in the grandest of fashions in the most natural of environments on earth.
As Emily stood up, Bob noticed a small indentation on the back of her neck, as if she had been leaning against something. They looked down where Emily had been lying in the sand and saw a small piece of metal protruding from the surface. She brushed away the sand and revealed a small round metal handle. Both of them frantically brushed the sand away and found a large, heavy steel storage container.
“I think it’s time to get dressed and go to work,” Bob sternly ordered.
Bringston ran up to his radio on the beach. He ordered all agents to report down to where he and Sanchez were on the North shore. He told agent Dan Meton, the lock expert, to stop at the boat for his lock-picking devices.
The agents arrived at the scene about ninety minutes later. Agent Meton disengaged the lock on the storage container and the agents found a massive supply of arms and ammo. The huge cache of guns and paraphernalia would likely be traced to not only the militant group they were after but maybe others. It was the mother lode of evidence discovery for any law enforcement officer.
Bob and Emily, for professional reasons, knew they could not continue any spirited love affair. More deeply though, their special moments on the sand will never be matched. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience not only in a flesh to flesh sense but also in a more meaningful spiritual sense. Bob and Emily’s newfound reason for living and working together was to search for that second opportunity to extensively explore each other and their earthly surroundings. They were quite aware that their overwhelming hunger for each other was something they will only occasionally have the opportunity to satisfy. When it comes, they will cherish it. Regardless, they did not have to choose career over love now. They were embarked on the important mission of exposing Marsh. Their love for each other will always flourish even if its full expression must be deferred. In any case, the memory of that one time will be etched in their minds forever and grow even more in significance to effect their lives in a powerfully positive fashion.

A Story for All to Read

2009-06-08T20:15:00.000-07:00

I am often asked by literary agents and other so-called fucking experts of publishing what is the target audience of my novel Hardball. This is the kind of questions dumbshits ask others to make it look like they're smart but all they're doing is covering up their dumbness.

Anyway, it does pose an interesting query. Who would like this story? Actually the easier question is, Who would not? The fact is HARDBALL appeals to the classic
4-corner demographic. Men will be stimulated by the vivid, viable violence and the detailed descriptions of a meaningful sexual relationship. Women will be attracted to the deep and sensitive description of the romance between the two lead protagonists and the courageous independent spirit of EMILY SANCHEZ. Young people will be provoked by the challenge presented to the ultimate authority. Older folks will be inspired by the strong underlying baseball theme throughout the story.

So get off your asses America and read this story. I'm posting the first 3 chapters below. If there is anyone out there who can put this down without finishing it, I'd be surprised. In any case, your thoughts would be most appreciated. Fasten your seat belts-Here we go:

/////////////////////////////////

HARDBALL
©1998
Chapters 1-3

by
andrew mark

23200 West Vail Drive
West Hills, CA 91307
818-274-8586
andyweitz3@gmail.com

Chapter 1-Comrades

All three still had their other obligations. Time was running out to wind out of those commitments. During the next few months, Bob and Emily kept busy with routine jobs like black market cigarette and liquor dealers and gun smugglers. Ron went back to his appellate law practice and was experiencing an unusually hard time with the appellate judges who were hearing his cases. Since he had come back from his trip to Missouri, he had been on a terrible losing streak.
Bob was tormented by the fear. The voice of his father was louder and surfaced more often in his mind, telling him to give up his crack-pot conspiracy ideas and concentrate on his work. There was no avoiding it. He would soon have to choose between his illustrious career as an Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agent or continue with his emerging independent investigation. In the meantime, he continued his truth-seeking mission as long as he could while remaining a federal agent. In the future, if he had to give up his government post or his investigation, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Bringston’s top priority was Jimmy Borskovich. He could be the freshest and only surviving source of information as his search of nearly 50 prior cases revealed witnesses and defendants that were dead, released or otherwise untraceable. According to Bob’s information, Jimmy was imprisoned at a fed facility in the Arizona desert not far from Bob’s alma matter in Tempe. He called his lawyer and newly-found good friend, Ron Rosenberg.
“You’ll never guess what I got in store for you,” Bob teased Ron.
“Don’t tell me, another trip to a federal prison. Say Bobby, is there any chance I’ll get to talk to a warm body?”
“Not necessarily. But what the fuck? Let’s keep trying. I need you Ronnie, you’re the only man for the job,” Bringston urged.
“Yeah, sure, why not? The rest of my practice is going down the fucking tubes, I may as well serve the best-paying client.”
“We’ll fly out of Burbank, less chance of surveillance there. Emily will take us to the airport. We’ll pick you up at your office at 3:45 this afternoon. Oh, and your attorney fee has just been raised to $ 500.00 per hour, you’re worth every dollar and then some,” Bob praised his lieutenant.
“Oh, gee thanks pally. My balls must really be in a wringer now. I suppose the next thing is, you’ll want me to pack a piece.”
“No, not yet. I’m saving that for the right strategic moment.”
Bringston had only the slightest idea of how close a track Marsh was keeping on him and Ron, but he couldn’t be too careful. To that end he provided Ron with the best set of phony ID that money and old trusted federal government contacts could buy. One call to Karl Honig of the Social Security Administration and in the blink of an eye, a social security number was issued. Karl was a former ATF agent who served with Bob for a few years but couldn’t take the stress of the life or death situations and chose an administrative position at Social Security. For the right price, he issued Social Security numbers of recently deceased citizens. When Bob contacted Karl, they reminisced about their old ATF days for a minute and then got right down to business. Bob gave him the name, Karl quoted his price, Bob paid and the new Social Security number was officially issued to the newly chosen name for Ron. He used it to set up a special American Express account primarily for car rentals. In addition, he always made sure that he, Ron and Emily had several hundred dollars cash in their pocket. That amount would be increased, if necessary. Even as an ATF division head, Bringston had a policy that when he and his team went out on the road, arming his team members with ample artillery and other paraphernalia was just the beginning. The pockets of his squad on a particular project always had multiples of C notes when they hit the streets. Though most certainly aware that guns and other hardware were crucial to the success of a mission, it was sometimes equally vital to victory to have a few hundred dollars so that folks along the way will perform small tasks or convey important information to help out.
The real test as to the effectiveness of Ron’s fake ID was awaiting him at the federal prison in the Tempe desert, where, as in all federal prisons, all visitors are put through an extensive identification and search process. Bob’s ID project was made even smoother by the fact that Ron was already admitted to the Arizona State Bar and happened to know a lawyer who worked at the Arizona Bar. That friend made a few minor adjustments to his State Bar Number such as the name and history and wiped the record clean of Ronald William Rosenberg ever being connected with that Bar Number.
As Ron prepared for this crucial prison meeting, a deep, queasy feeling consumed him. As he drove towards the prison, the numbness threatened to disable him. Over his long, accomplished career of protecting individuals from overzealous prosecutors and other agents of the government, he had visited hundreds, if not thousands in custody but never under these circumstances.
This one visit could very well be detected by Marsh and seen as a direct threat to his vast drug empire. If so, Ron knew his life was in danger.
Furthermore, if it was discovered that he presented a prison guard, a federal officer, with fake ID, it would undoubtedly result in immediate disbarment in all the states where he was admitted to practice law. All his successes and accomplishments would go down the drain and his career abruptly ended.
Rosenberg, however, was devoted to the mission of discovering and revealing the monumental truth about Marsh. He had full confidence in the leadership of his friends Emily and Bob and based upon that trust, was ready to risk it all in pursuit of this truth.
In light of this, Ron confidently, but quietly, walked up to the guard desk at the Redstone Federal Prison and told the officer whom he was there to see and proudly showed him his new Arizona driver’s license and his newly issued Arizona State Bar card. Those two items along with Ron’s uncharacteristic low-key approach gave the guards every reason to believe that Ron Rosenberg was who he said he was: George Herman, hot shot Phoenix criminal appellate lawyer. Bob picked that name. It was the legal first and middle names of the legendary Bambino himself, Babe Ruth. Besides, it sounded Jewish enough to complement Ron’s sophisticated New York personality, which leaked out just a bit despite Ron’s effort to tone it down.
Ron met Jimmy Borskovich in the prisoner visiting room, where he was well aware one must operate under the presumption that there was constant video and audio surveillance being conducted. The two were separated by Plexiglas stretching from the ceiling to the counter. Communications were conducted by in-house phones. Borskovich greeted him with a rather disabling greeting.
“Am I ‘spose to know who the fuck you are?”
“No, we never met. I’m George Herman, an attorney that specializes in criminal appeals,” Ron explained.
“I followed your trial from the beginning. Based upon my review of the record in this case, I am confident that you were dealt a short deck of your foundational rights under the U.S. Constitution by not only the federal officers who detained you and later searched your property without a warrant, but the lawyers and judge in the trial thereafter.”
Ron made sure to make all his comments, prior to getting into his real reason for the visit, as long and verbose as possible. Not a difficult task for “Ronnie the Rat Trap” a pet name given to him by his Columbia Law School comrades as much for his resounding rhetorical talents as well as his uncanny abilities, to always catch his Rat. Standing only 5 feet 6 inches, it might have been his Napoleon complex. In his later years, his frizzy, receding hairline gave him the feeling he always had to battle his way toward respectability. Early in life, he found his mind and mouth were the tools that led to success. If necessary, Ron could create a long-winded conversation out of a dripping faucet while his razor sharp mind was formulating his next move.
“So what can you do about it, Flash?” Jimmy asked in a dejected tone.
“Well, I’m not certain yet as to what, if anything, I can do for you on your terrorism and kidnapping convictions, although we may have an entrapment argument, but I’ll tell you this, if you let me represent you through the appellate process, I’m quite confident the munitions and marijuana evidence found at your property will be excluded and you will . . .”
“Fuck you, dickface,” Borskovich shouted as he shot up and slammed the chair into the Plexiglas window separating the two.
Ron sat there motionless and, for a change, speechless for a few seconds. “Interesting,” he thought. “No federal prison guards or any other personnel have responded. Of course, 12:06 p.m., time for all good bureaucrats to take their lunch.” Still, though, he was not convinced that no one was watching. He was going to play it safe and not even hint as to why he was really there until a few more minutes had passed. Borskovich, still ranting and raving, picked the phone up again and continued.
“You think I give a shit about taking a few years off my time here? Fuck, at least in this cesspool, everyone is who they appear to be. Look, you little weasel, I’m already sick and tired of your legal mumbo jumbo crap. So why don’t you just take your fancy ass out of here. My fight is not against the courts, this prison or even the entire U.S. government any more. My lifelong enemy is the DEA.”
“I agree, those DEA agents searched . . .”
“Agents?” Jimmy interrupted. “I’m talking about the Director, the back-stabbing prick Director of the DE, fucking A.”
Ron went into a state of alert. The subject came up long before he was ready to get into it. He hurriedly jotted down the following note to Borskovich on the back of one of his business cards:
“ We know about Marsh. That’s why I’m here-to
find out more. I’ll be back. Destroy this card as quickly and secretly as possible.”
“Listen, Jimmy, I don’t know anything about those DEA problems you’re having,” Ron counseled as he smoothly and pursuant to prison security requirements, raised his hand with the encrypted business card in it and handed it to Jimmy through a small opening in the window. Right now, as your lawyer, what I can offer you is nine-eleven years off your thirty-year sentence.”
“Twenty-seven,” Jimmy corrected.
“Ah, good behavior, huh?” Bob asked.
“Damn straight,” Borskovich retorted as he read Ron’s note on the card.
“Good man. Somehow you strike me as a fella that is knawing at the bit to get out of this joint to take care of some important business. I can help you do it a lot sooner. Think about it…”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” Jimmy pondered.
“Fair enough. Just call me when you’re ready. I might stop in to see ya’ before that, if you don’t mind, to remind you of the various legal deadlines you face on your appeal,” Ron advised as he got up from his chair.
“Sure, no problem,” Oh, by the way, I wasn’t connected to the property where they searched and found the shit. I rented the guest house out back.”
“Well, I’ll certainly make a note of that.”
“Too bad,” Ron thought. “If I didn’t have to use this bullshit name, it would be one juicy appellate case to dig my teeth into.”
Ron returned to the Arizona prison during the next week. He was able to meet with Jimmy outside, within the small confines of the prisoner’s garden. The outdoor meeting was made possible by the strong work ethic displayed by Borskovich and by the long, loyal friendship Bob had with Ed Eagleton, the assistant warden at Redstone. It was one of many solid friendships Bob had developed over the years within various departments of the federal and state systems. Not as many as Marsh maybe, but Bob’s relationships were more meaningful as they were not based on money or intimidation but upon genuine loyalty and desire to help each other out during the sometimes rather frustrating times of working for the government. Such was his decades-long connection with Eagleton. They not only thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company, they were always eager to come to each other’s aid.
“We should be safe here, but we’ll have to make it quick,” Ron advised. Now tell me, Jimmy, is this asshole really skimming drugs big time?”
“Fuck that. Don’t you realize that Marsh controls nearly every major drug transaction in this country from pot to poppies? Few big shipments of shit come into the U.S. without the approval of the DEA director.”
“But Jimmy, com’on. You mean to tell me that this guy is aware of all large shipments that come into this country?”
“Oh yeah, he’s aware all right,” Jimmy said as he cynically smiled. “ Here’s the way it works, Ronnie boy. Let’s say you have 100 ton of heroin coming in on a boat to America. Have it cleared through Marsh and you’re guaranteed security through landing and initial distribution. Marsh usually takes his fee for these security services in barter only. Dope, around 25 per cent of all shipments. Sometimes, he’ll accept a cash fee, but most of the time, he wants the shit,” Jimmy told the amazed Ron, whose chin was fast approaching the floor.
“He then passes it on to his own little distribution network. Yes sir, old Vic the Prick has built up quite a little side business for himself.”
“How about the cases we’ve researched where the amount of dope in evidence mysteriously drops in large amounts between the arrest and the trial?” Ron asked.
“Yeah that’s how Marsh controls the rest of the business. If you’re a dealer who did not use Marsh’s services and get caught with your dick in your hands, just go to Marsh, and for a fee, much of the evidence against you will suddenly disappear,” Jimmy explained.
“And that’s how he fucked us up the ass. What the prick did was suddenly bail out on us because he got scared that someone was on to him. The evidence went from 250 pounds to 50 and back to 250 when the little wimp panicked,” Borskovich said disgustedly.
Ron stood there, in the middle of the prisoner cornfield, in utter amazement. “It was true,” he thought. The man trusted with the job of protecting the public from the onslaught of dangerous drugs was actually the power behind encouraging their circulation throughout the nation.
“Jimmy, I represent a federal agent who is one determined son-of-a bitch to bring this mother fucker down. To do that we need your help. You need to contact me the minute Marsh or his people contact you as we expect them to. We have every reason to believe you will soon be moved out of this prison as a result of a transfer or a bullet in your head,” Ron warned.
“The other, more appealing, alternative would be if you’re offered your freedom with a new identity and all documentation to support it. Whenever and however you’re moved, call me without delay. Here’s my pager number. Punch in 711 and I’ll know it means you’re being moved or are in danger. In the mean time, we’ll keep close tabs on you. Your testimony is the key to our success in getting Marsh,” Ron said.
“Great. What the fuck can I do from here?”
“One thing: Stay alive. Don’t ever turn your back on anyone and most certainly turn on your sirens whenever you are in a room alone with any guard.You might very well be the only witness available to testify against this asshole.”
Just then, a guard opened a nearby door from inside the prison and approached the two new partners.
“You keep your spirits up, Jimmy. We will accomplish our goals.”
Somehow, Jimmy believed Ron. He was comforted by the conviction of his new comrade.
“I’ll keep you posted, pally,” said Jimmy.
“I look forward to hearing from you.”
The guard then accompanied Borskovich back into the pen. Now, for the first time in his long criminal career, Jimmy felt nervous as he walked up the long hallway alone with a prison guard. Nervous was only the beginning of the way Ron felt as he walked out of the prison towards his car. His longtime half-a-pack a day smoking habit was now up to nearly two packs and he could hardly do anything or go anywhere without thinking that someone was watching him.

Chapter 2-MAGIC

Bob hadn’t played ball in months. It was the first time in his life he could remember not playing for such a long period of time. Without baseball, there was a wide void in his life. But his mission to find and reveal the truth was emerging as his only focus. Now the only reminder he had of the game he loved so much was a special baseball he carried around with him virtually everywhere he went. The day he got that ball was etched in his mind as clearly as it was yesterday.
It was the summer of 1994. Bob was a federal law enforcement officer on assignment in Boston where a domestic terrorist group was threatening to blow up an internationally influential New England bank or some other Boston landmark. One of the most likely targets was old Fenway Park. Everyone on the force knew of Bob’s devotion to baseball so he and his partner got the assignment of attending the Red Sox and Anaheim Angels 7:05 game at Fenway. The threat received from the terrorists was serious. As such, Bob could only remain in his seat for a few batters at one sitting before tending to his mission. He must have checked every square inch of his side of the stadium for any clues of bombs, other ballistics or unexplained behaviors. Despite the many lives potentially in danger, he just couldn’t resist the Fenway snack stands where he partook in a famous Monster Dog, a mini Papa Gino’s pizza and a bowl of authentic New England Clam Chowder.
Flamethrowing Roger “The Rocket” Clemens was on the mound and, shall we say, was “bringing” it to the plate from the first pitch onward. As the legend goes, Clemens, who normally approached and sometimes exceeded the speed of 100 miles per hour with his fastball, was beyond comprehension on this night. If he regularly fired his deliveries with a shotgun, on this night he launched them with an atomic cannon. The radar gun was put to the test. He seemed to get stronger as the game wore on and the heat generated from his right arm intensified. Twice the Rocket was clocked at 106 miles per and plenty of other pitches were somewhere in three figures. Despite the noise of the crowd of nearly 40,000 at the cozy confines of Fenway Park, one could hear the catcher’s mitt popping in the right field stands, at the Green Monster high above left field and beyond.
Clemens went into the ninth inning with a perfect game. That, in the long, magnificent history of baseball has happened before. But not combined with 27 dazzling strikeouts, some by way of a curve ball or a change-up, but mostly it was the pure, unmerciful Heat of the menacing right-hander that blew the hitters away. From where Bob was sitting, a few rows up behind the Red Sox dugout, he, as he told the story years later, could have sworn he heard a humming, radio-like sound being emitted from the balls as they were launched from the hill and whizzed down Roger’s 60 foot-6-inch speedway where velocities reached seemingly supersonic dimensions.
Yes sir, that bad boy from Texas was mowing down Angels with the coldness and precision of an executioner. After just a few innings, the Angel batters reluctantly stepped into what seemed like the gallows rather than the batter’s box. Bob, seated in a perfect position to realize the dream of any boy or boy at heart, managed to catch a foul ball hit into the seats in the ninth just before Clemens fanned his 27th and final Angel. It was like some magical dream. Every hitter the fireballer faced went down swinging or just stood there helplessly. In fact, Bob was in possession of the best the Angels could do against him that night: a line drive foul ball into the stands. He had been going to ball games for over 40 years and never came close to experiencing the feel of a major league baseball that had just been in play. This one was better. It was historic. Twenty-seven strikeouts in a nine-inning regulation game is one of those rare sports records that is truly unbreakable. A pitcher cannot be any more perfect. Bob had one of only sixteen foul balls hit by the Angels during the game.
Bringston used his priceless memento as a handy aid in the healing and strengthening of a broken wrist he had suffered recently. Throughout any given day he could be seen squeezing and rolling the ball in his palm or tossing it lightly to himself. Playing the game with a passion since he was a small boy had already made him a master craftsman with the ball. During these few months of therapy with the baseball, he created ways to toss the ball to himself and otherwise cagily, craftily and controllably move the ball around his body and around the room. He put quirky rotations on the ball or sometimes no rotation at all to mysteriously move the ball around all kinds of places. What Bob accomplished in creating new and interesting solitary games out of the seemingly simple act of tossing around a baseball to one’s self should itself go down in baseball history.
For instance, Bob could lie on his back, stand, or sit and toss the ball up towards the ceiling with such precision, the baseball would be just fractions of an inch from the ceiling, or, by design, merely graze the ceiling before falling straight back into his hand. He would bank it off the wall, skip it off the floor or curve it around a lamp in the den as he relaxed on the couch. In addition, that silly little ball conjured up nothing but happy thoughts of smokin’ fastballs and strikeouts and served Bob as an inspiration throughout an otherwise dull, sometimes dangerous day.
The games Bringston played at work were scored with lives defended and lost. Bob Bringston was a special agent in charge of the anti-government cult enforcement division for the U.S. Treasury Department’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The hardball Bob plays against his opponents during the average day on the job ain’t no little league. With all the bullets being bandied about, the battles are hard involving blood not baseballs. Somehow, though, Bringston found a way to put a baseball in the midst of his violent world. Always looking for a way to avoid using his gun, Bob discovered what a powerful weapon the baseball can be in the right hands.
Bringston was a man whose life was in constant danger. His survival depended on remaining one step ahead of the competition. To do this required focus, concentration and innovation. Bob’s creative mind led him to first use his cherished baseball while on the job in a 1996 violent conflict against a group of mad militiamen from Montana. The wacky warriors were as determined as they were desperate. They were dedicated vegetarians and got word that a team of United States Agriculture Department agents was going to inspect a large Chicago meatpacking plant.
They called themselves the Meatless Militia and five of its members took over the plant in the early morning hours soon after three high-ranking U.S.D.A inspectors had arrived. Violence certainly wasn’t part of their formula a few years prior when the Meatless Militia first organized. They were called Planting Earth and the most brutal act they performed was cutting spears off broccoli plants. Their passion for their cause resulted in their inability to hold any conventional job.
To continue their campaign, contraband was the only answer. Drugs mostly, along with some black market tobacco. Their illicit territory had to be protected and the premium for the protection was blood. Some lost. Some taken. In any case, the cost of doing business with lives as the currency had been consistently on the rise. Recent government pressure of surveillance and infiltration made things more difficult. It wasn’t even the fruits and vegetables thing anymore. It was a matter of survival and the Militia saw the desperate measure of taking over the meat plant as the only answer.
The government men were there in response to complaints that the slaughtering methods used at the plant were cruel and unsanitary. Among the accusations were that oftentimes, the animals were placed directly on the meat hooks before they had even perished. The vegans were seeking victory by slaughtering the three agents in the same fashion, but not before assuring certain demands were met. Bob and nine other agents from the ATF and FBI got the assignment. He was on the rescue team for not only his proven bravery and sharp shooting skills but his adept abilities in negotiation of hostage situations. His creative killing talents were now a legend amongst the anarchists’ community, who, respected, if did not fear him. Bringston’s decades of experience as an ATF agent with exposure to countless numbers of life-threatening situations amply prepared him to attack these tense moments with patience and calculation. Regardless, he and the others were the only ones around crazy and capable enough to handle this explosive situation.
When the team of 10 government rescuers arrived, Bob immediately took charge with no objections. He ordered the nine others, six men and three women, to surround the building to monitor and report the activity and status and communicate with each other by hand-held radio. With the reports he received from his team of agents and the briefing they all reviewed earlier that morning, Bob was armed with a considerable amount of helpful information. All 10 on the team were verse in the layout of the meat plant from the location and size of each door and window, to the amount, location and dimensions of each meat hook inside.
One of his agents, Emily Sanchez, reported that one of the inspectors had already met his demise and was on gruesome display near the main entrance. His body was extended from the ceiling with a large meat hook protruding through his front torso. The radicals clearly put the body on display for strategic purposes. They called for a government representative to personally meet them in the slaughterhouse so their demands could be conveyed. No one else volunteered. Bob jumped on the opportunity.
Upon entry into the plant, Bob was greeted by two heavily armed goons who nearly strip-searched him. Their leader, standing nearby, in front of the dangling dead agent, asked about the ball in Bob’s hand. Bob explained he carried the ball around with him to squeeze it and relieve the pain in his arthritic wrist. He nervously tossed the ball around close to his body.
“Do you remember the 1994 Red Sox-Angels game where Roger Clemens struck out every hitter he faced? This is one of the balls he used to nail the last two Angel hitters,” Bob proudly proclaimed.
The leader smiled and said, “Yeah, I saw that game when I was in the cooler, I’ll never forget it. But never mind that. No more fucking around. Toss that ball to the side before your sorry ass is hanging on a hook like your friend behind me.”
“Well, excuse me, but isn’t your love of baseball in violation of vegetarian protocol? After all, the baseball itself is made from slaughtered cows and there are probably enough weenies consumed during baseball season to fill ten of these slaughterhouses, probably 20 . . . ”
“Fuck you, prick. Either you toss that ball to the side or you can join our bovine brothers on the slaughter assembly line,“ the leader screamed as his veins protruded far from the surface of his neck.
Bob sensed he was reaching the end of the line of the leader’s patience. If he was going to earn a save of the remaining U.S.D.A. agents, himself and his cherished baseball, he had to do something and do it without any further delay. During this verbal exchange, Bringston closely gauged his immediate surroundings. He was directly facing the crazed cultist about 20 feet away. Between him and Bob and slightly to Bob’s right was an empty low-hanging meat hook on a curved track less than 10 feet from the intended target. The two thugs were directly to the left of the leader about 50 feet away. According to reports received from his fellow agents, the two other militia members were in the second story of the plant holding the other two U.S.D.A. agents hostage.
“ OK, pal,” Bob cautioned,“ but I may not be as accurate as I used to . . .”
Before he finished his sentence, Agent Bringston made one spectacular pitch. He hurled the ball, without a full windup at about 70 miles per hour and it hit exactly where he intended: At the top of the meat hook chain and just below the track. Since his high school days, Bob always had speed and control as a pitcher, but never had he thrown a payoff pitch like this one. Major League pitchers from Koufax to Clemens would have been proud. In what seemed like less than a second from the time of Bob’s release, the meat hook sped down the track directly towards his adversary’s head. As he put his arms up, the hook drove through one of his arms and into his neck like a fisherman baiting his pole. As the three-inch diameter stainless steel hook plunged through the front and exited the back, large sections of neck and throat tissue were sprayed all over the floor beneath. The AK-47 he was holding was flung in the opposite direction towards Bob. Fortunately, the two goon guards were disabled for just a split second as they stood in amazement at Agent Bringston’s spectacular feat. It was just enough time for Bob to safely grab the weapon off the floor as he successfully sought refuge a few rows back behind a hooked side of beef and a large solid metal beef cart.
Once the guards realized what happened and got over the awe of Bringston’s pitch and its results, they randomly and harmlessly fired their high-powered automatic weapons in the direction where Bob had leaped. Bob’s fabled baseball was still lying harmlessly on the floor only 10 feet away. But if he stepped over to get it, he would be in view of the thugs. He needed that ball to deploy other plans and besides wanted it back for sentimental reasons. His moment came as they scampered around the plant in search of Bringston. He grabbed his ball and raced back under cover. With his cannon-like arm, Bringston hurled the baseball at the far end of the building nearly 200 feet away.
It was like a throw from the deep part of the outfield that nails a base runner speeding around third for home. The ball hit the far end aluminum wall and made a billowing noise that emanated throughout the plant. When the two thugs turned their backs on him, that was all Bringston needed. He eliminated them with a few quick rounds to the back of the head. Each time Bob ended a life, it took another bite out of his soul. Each one that died by his hand was another reminder that in striving to stop the murderers, he himself was becoming as much a cold-blooded killer as those he pursues. He couldn’t let such deep-rooted dilemmas drag him down. He was focused on detaining those two remaining radicals and protecting the safety of the two U.S.D.A. inspectors.
He could not help but thinking about, however, what had happened to his precious baseball. He was frantically searching on the floor for it near the far-end of the plant as he kept tabs on the terrorists whom he expected to come downstairs any moment. Just then Agent Emily Sanchez came up from behind him. She had heard the gunfire and noise of the baseball crashing against the wall and decided to march in to lend her support.
“Looking for something?“ she said.
Anytime she spoke with her sexy Latina accent, to say nothing of her effervescent aura, it always inspired Bringston. Now, however, she had the cherry on top of the sundae with the delivery of Bob’s cherished baseball. He accepted the ball; the lovely Emily would have to be encountered off the clock. He used Sanchez’ radio to order FBI agents Frank Ganji and Tim Tuttlehorn into the complex via the rear utility entrance furthest from where Bringston and Sanchez were standing to assist the team’s efforts. He briefed them as to the status and told them precisely where to place themselves within the plant in preparation of an assault on the remaining terrorists.
He wanted Ganji and Tuttlehorn because of their unequivocal will to win and their equally unflappable abilities to stop the enemy under the most difficult of circumstances. Bringston anticipated what lie ahead and how the two agents would be a vital part of the success of the operation. Bob positioned Ganji and Tuttlehorn. Then that persistent feeling of hesitation entered his gut. No matter how much he succeeded in his life and career, Bob suffered from a crippling fear of failure that oftentimes overwhelmed him. At any given moment, it has gripped him tightly like a vise, reducing him to a meek, harmless participant in whatever endeavor he was engaged. Typically, it hit him when he is on a roll, on the verge of victory and something deep down made him question his success. Sometimes his strong self-confidence squelched these deep-rooted self-doubts. Other times the failure he feared became reality. Fortunately, the guerrillas were detained upstairs by untying the two hostages before they came down. It was just enough time for Bob to do a few yoga chants, tell himself how much he liked himself and otherwise tap his plentiful well of a winning attitude. It also gave him time to think about the deployment of his plan. The kidnappers and their captives descended the stairs and walked towards their fallen brethren.
“You will pay for this,” said one as he discovered his leader grotesquely hanging from the ceiling and his two other comrades soaking in growing collections of their blood.
“Now come on,“ Bob cracked. “Is it my fault, your vegetarian friend got hooked on this place?“
“You’re a fucking comedian aren’t you? Now, drop your weapons, including that stupid ball,“ the militant demanded.
Bob and Emily immediately dropped their guns but Bob held onto his beloved baseball and went into one of his favorite subjects: the Roger Clemens/Fenway Park story.
“J.T. Snow, the last batter of the game, was up. He hit a towering fly ball right over the location in the stands where I was sitting. I thought the ball would never come down. When it did, I reached over the guy in front of me and with one bare hand, caught one of the most epic baseballs in history,“ Bob explained as he slightly changed the facts of the story for the situation before him.
“I’ll never forget the magnificent flight of this ball. As a matter of fact, the high ceiling of this slaughterhouse is just about exactly the altitude the ball reached,“ Bob said as the two terrorists seemed most interested.
“Here’s a bet. One that could save lives and get you what you want. I throw this ball as high as the ceiling and if either one of you catch it, these negotiations end, we immediately walk out of the room and see to it that all your demands are met,“ Bob proposed.
“If you miss, as I think you wimps will, the hostages are freed and you two can go as you please either now or after you’re sure we have left and that it is safe to do so,“ Bob assured them.
“You win either way. If you catch the fly ball, your noble aspirations are achieved with a lot less complications, guaranteed by your control of the two captives. If I’m right, all you lose is the hostages. You keep, however, your sorry-ass lives and freedom, at least for the time being,“ Bringston explained. “So what do you say boys? “C’mon hotshots, my mitt’s out in the car. Let’s take a break and go get it,” he urged. Or do you wait for the rest of my troops to eventually blast your fuckin’ heads off, the same way Clemens took care of his last two strikeout victims with this baseball,” Bob shouted impatiently.
As the two terrorists discussed the situation, Bob sensed they were not about to accept his wild wager. He was running out of solutions. The distraction factor though, was still available. He threw the baseball to the ceiling. The ball, at the hands of the master, went perfectly to the forty-five foot height of the ceiling without touching it. At its height, the ball was literally millimeters from the ceiling. With the backspin Bob put on it, the baseball seemed to hang up there as if in a state of suspended animation.
At first they pointed their guns at Bringston’s head. Then, just as the rest in the plant, they gazed up at the baseball as it fell back towards earth. As such, the window of opportunity presented itself. Tuttlehorn nailed one guy with a bullet in the ear and Ganji played some lethal chin music on the other, with a bullet or two in the face. In the meantime, the ball was thrown so high with so much hang time that Bringston had enough time to actually run over and make a lunging catch of the ball he lobbed up to the ceiling.
The Bringston-to-Tuttlehorn-to Ganji double play combination was as thrilling as they get. As Bob and his team of nine celebrated their big victory, he started to wonder about what just happened. Sure his baseball had a magical, mystical history, but just how far did it go and with how much power. After all, the day was saved by Bob’s pure, raw talents in not just tossing the baseball around, but management under pressure and his abilities to incapacitate his opponents by embellishing on an already fascinating baseball story. Maybe though, the legend of that wondrous baseball itself became reality. Bob was the mere conduit of the magic. Although an inanimate object, the bond between Bob and his baseball was not much unlike a long, loyal friendship. Strange as it may seem, that little globe in his hand gave him a deep sense of comfort and confidence wherever he was. Feelings so strong, so penetrating, that he resolved never to be without that ball as long as he lived.

Chapter 3-MAGNETISM

Over the two decades as a federal law enforcement agent, Bob Bringston was one who strictly complied with the myriad of rules and regulations governing those in his position. It was the easy and safe thing to do and the way he was raised by his disciplinarian father. Furthermore, playing baseball for most of his life trained him to focus on the mundane fundamentals in order to succeed. Oh sure, he was a great innovator and found creative ways out of life-threatening situations. His strategies and plans, however, were pretty much by the book.
Very much aware of the unbreakable regulation of not having sexual relations with agents within the Bureau, once, every long while, he ignored that rule over the last five years in regards to Special Agent Emily Sanchez. Agent Sanchez was far from any ordinary female. Anyone in a room that she entered was literally overcome by her physical and psychological presence. Her wonderfully shaped body was just the beginning. Her big brown eyes, inviting lips and smooth style attracted both men and women. Emily’s enthusiasm for life emanated from within her. She’s a winner and her powerfully positive aura attracted other winners over the years. Despite these dream features, her 5 foot, 7 inch frame and her perfectly distributed 131 pounds, this El Paso, Texas native from a wealthy Mexico City family, was somewhat intimidating to men. Few were at the level of her intellect. The independence streak etched deep into her spine by her father made it difficult for her to cultivate close relationships with anyone.
This University of Texas-trained lawyer made a highly respected name for herself along with a boatload of cash mostly by providing criminal defense to illegal drug dealers, distributors and growers. Defending the drug kingpins and their lieutenants was her bread and butter. It was her representation of the mushrooming market of hard-working family farmers who cultivated cannabis across the USA from North Carolina to Oregon that provided her the foundation of a solid law practice that expanded into other areas.
She first met Bob when she was working on a civil case years ago wherein a man accidentally killed his young son as he took his shotgun out of the case on the wall. He was going to show the boy the gun and clean it with his son’s help, however, he never got the chance. As he brought the gun over to where the boy was sitting, it misfired even though the safety mechanism indicated that it was engaged. The shot entered directly into the boy’s heart killing him instantly.
She accepted the case but knew it was set to be an uphill battle to prove that the gun manufacturer was liable for the death of the young child. To do so, she would need a top-notch gun expert to testify that the safety mechanism was defective and that this defect directly caused this horrible incident. The typical “whore“ who would testify as to anything for a price would do no good. She needed an expert with both competence and credibility. Her sources led her to Bob Bringston whose reputation as an ATF agent was impeccable and whose record as an expert witness for both plaintiffs and defendants was equally impressive. In all the 11 cases in which he previously testified, the side that retained him either won or did far better than expected. In other matters, the cases favorably settled before trial mainly because the other side knew Bringston was prepared to testify against them.
All one need do is see Bringston testify once to understand why juries hung on to every word he said. His cutting-edge knowledge of guns and ammunition from the barrel to the handle and his interesting and entertaining way of conveying that knowledge in court were consistently the winning factor in the cases in which he was involved.
Sanchez and Bringston arranged to meet in a Santa Monica coffee shop. Bob got there a few minutes before the scheduled meeting time and looked around for a woman who was by herself. Neither one of them knew what the other looked like since they had forgotten to exchange physical descriptions of each other. All Bob knew about Emily was that she was a successful lawyer of Latino heritage and based upon their brief telephone conversation had a firm, feminine and provocative voice. He walked around the eatery, asked a couple of woman who could have been her, settled in at a table facing the entryway of the restaurant and observed those arriving.
Exactly three minutes after the scheduled meeting time, she walked through the glass door. It was Emily and Bob’s gut told him so. She exuded a confidence and control that seemed to overwhelm the room. She was smartly attired in a beige Liz Claiborne business suit with a pleated skirt down to her knees. The matching jacket, adorned with brass buttons and the nearly knee-high brown suede high-heel boots added a certain chic to the pronounced curves of her chest. The first few buttons of her maroon blouse were unfastened exposing her neck and just a few inches below. She gazed at the crowd with her engaging brown eyes. Her skin was a deep, rich light brown like a finely polished piece of basswood. She had a grace and style as she strutted along the front area of the restaurant as if she expected whomever she was meeting to come up to her. She was the ultimate Queen of Cool, the epitome of the Twentieth Century Fox.
Their eyes met as Bob walked towards her. Besides his renowned expertise, Emily soon found out the other reasons why Bob was such a key ingredient to the success of any gun case. Bringston’s rugged good looks and innocent charm were mesmerizing. Even in his walk alone, Emily sensed a pure genuineness. From the moment the two sat down together, the physical and spiritual attraction to each other was quite evident. Bob looked straight into those big, beautiful brown eyes of Emily and told her,
“Let’s get something straight right now Ms. Sanchez, I will examine the firearm in question and investigate the surrounding facts of this case. If, after such investigation, I conclude that the manufacturer is liable, terrific, I will do everything scientifically possible to further your client’s claim, provided you pay my $250 per hour fee with a $ 3,000 up front retainer. If I find otherwise, however, I will tell you that you have no case and that you should save your time and money,“ he warned her.
Emily was astounded by such pure, undiluted candor.
“ Well, Bob, all I can tell you is that you are just the man I need, as an expert witness that is.”
“It appears, my dear, that I will enjoy working with you,“
At this moment, their body language was in sync; they were thinking little about the important legal business at hand and more about the feverish pitch their attractiveness for each other had reached. Right smack dab in the middle of this rather serious legal discussion, Bob boldly inquired, “ Emily, do you work out? “
“Well, gee Bob, why do you ask? “ Emily responded as she returned a smile to Bob with her luscious lips and gorgeous teeth that nearly melted Bob right in his seat.
“It’s just that you are so marvelously defined and curved, it seems to me that you would have to work pretty hard to achieve such an ideal,”
“How sweet of you to say. If you must know, I do 100 sit-ups and 35 pull-ups every other day, “ Emily informed him. “ And how about you Bob. What do you do to achieve your rather appealing shape? “ Emily asked.
“Well, Emily, one word: Baseball. Playing it, thinking it, living it,“ Bob declared with a serious, yet magical look in his wide, green eyes and the fire within them drew Emily in like a tidal wave engulfing an errant surfer. This overwhelming and competitive flame that burned so deep and so strong within Bob’s heart seemed to consume the entire coffee shop. Emily sensed it right away because she too was on a life-long pursuit to succeed. A trait instilled deep within her by her father since as far back as she can remember. It was in her early teenage years when she first learned why her father was so competitive. It was sort of the nature of his job.
Emily’s dear old dad was a drug dealer. More specifically, a drug importer/exporter. And a rather successful one. Since 1963, nearly one-third of the total marijuana shipments brought into the U.S. from south of the border was under the control of Salvador Sanchez. He moved to El Paso, Texas from Mexico City in 1960. Four years later, Emily was born. It was Salvador’s first daughter and last child. He had two sons previously. By the time he moved to Texas, Sanchez had established a North and South American empire built on cannabis that passed through his control. After all, to Salvador Sanchez, it was only natural. Since the ancient times of his Mayan ancestors, the hemp plant was an integral part of the Sanchez clan like cars are to the Fords. They grew it, smoked it and processed it into, paper, clothes, medicine and other helpful chemicals. The House of Sanchez has been acutely aware of the societal benefits of the cannabis sativa plant and how to bring those benefits to market.
For hundreds of years, the Sanchez family pot business was respected and highly profitable throughout Mexico. Then in the early nineteen hundreds, their world was turned upside down. That’s when marijuana was declared an illegal narcotic in the U.S and soon after in Mexico. Not until Emily’s father grew into the leadership of the family did they learn to work with government rather than against it. Salvador Sanchez possessed a special talent for negotiating his way to power and wealth amidst the deep bowels of the bureaucracy in his native Mexico and in the more complex U.S. government. Soon after moving from Mexico City to the border town of El Paso, he discovered that immersion of his pot business into the American system was a bit trickier than was mastering Mexico. Salvador Sanchez learned long ago how to play the layers. Dealing with the levels of law enforcement in his native land was hardly complicated. There was always a friendly amigo around who was ready to deal his power, prestige and contacts for a little cash or contraband. There were plenty of government officials in the U.S who couldn’t resist the constant temptation either. They were just harder to find in America with its uniquely complex, multi-level bureaucratic structure. To get properly hooked into the American system as a drug dealer, one must spend a lot of time and have heavy financing. To Sal Sanchez, it was just an increased capital investment for the opportunity to profit from the U.S. cannabis consumer market, which, in the early 60’s was in the infancy of its exponential growth.
He was a fierce competitor, but unlike his competition, rarely resorted to violence. He let others get distracted by the heavy costs of killing, even when he lost his second oldest son at the hands of a rival marijuana family about a year before Emily was born. As devastated as he was by the death of his son, he did not seek meaningless revenge that he knew would only lead to a never-ending war. The result would just be a draining of resources including lives, time and money.
Emily’s Dad always taught her to trust her gut, stay focused, and never compromise her independence. When she told her father of her desire to become a lawyer, it seemed a bit risky given the nature of his business, but he saw within his daughter’s eyes a woman on a determined path. He was not about to get in the way and fully supported her throughout law school and her career. It paid off, in more ways than one. Most importantly, Emily was happy practicing law. Additionally, she was able to open her office, fresh out of law school, with a long list of criminal defense clients referred to her by her Dad. She put up a zealous legal defense for her father’s soldiers and soon, by word of mouth, was generating significant attorney fees for defending mostly pot dealers and growers across the nation. Over the years, her trial skills became razor sharp and her practice expanded into a blossoming civil practice. Inspired by her Dad, she was able to offer her clients a uniquely competitive edge with a purely feminine touch. She was a rare woman lawyer in that she did not lose one iota of that femininity and become bitter and miserable in the midst of the exclusive male club of lawyers.
Not since her father, had she ever seen a competitive flame so deep-rooted and intense as when Bob made his brief, yet revealing, statement about baseball. As he uttered it, everything seemed to freeze. Though he said just a few words, they were spoken so dramatically, yet so genuinely, it made Emily’s heart miss a beat or two.
Bob’s will to win was so strong, he even viewed losses as wins. He has yearned to win since a young lad in the 1960’s. He learned early that “losses” too were actually wins when properly examined and analyzed. Bob earned his mechanical engineering degree from Arizona State University. Besides being at the top of his class academically, Bringston was a star fireballing pitcher for the Sun Devil varsity baseball team. During one regular season game, Bringston was hammered by a UCLA hitter who went 5 for 5 against him with 2 homers. Bob’s ASU team lost a crucial game to the Bruins 7 to 6.
Bob was disappointed and frustrated but not angry, depressed or in any sort of negative frame of mind. Shortly after the big “loss“, he reduced his mental and written notes to his computer file regarding each and every pitch thrown to the UCLA slugger and the pattern of pitches thrown to other opposing hitters. He’d be able to use this vital information if, by chance, ASU made it to the College World Series against UCLA.
That chance was realized, as the Sun Devils, lead by the positive spirit of Bringston, made a furious comeback during the remainder of the regular season to qualify. They charged through the initial rounds of the World Series to meet the rival UCLA Bruins in the final Series for the national title.
Bob Bringston, the scintillating strategist, armed with his thorough research from his experience of the previous “loss “, shutdown the Bruin hitters in the opening and final games as if they had no bats: A 2-hit 3 to 1 victory in the first game and a dazzling 3-hit shutout in the finale to bring the national championship home to ASU. The ever-feared big Bruin bopper who so dominated Bringston in the regular season was shut down with only one hit in 8 at bats. Bob had him off balance each time they faced as he seemed to know what pitches the batter was expecting.
Though she knew Bob only briefly, Emily sensed that powerfully positive influence Bob had over people and an entire situation. It was a force so raw, so true; she just had to tap into more of it. Bob was retained as the expert and after his examination and investigation of the firearm in question concluded there was, in fact, liability on the part of the manufacturer.
In trial, bringing that point across to the jury, Bringston was nothing short of spectacular. He was not only informative, but also entertaining. He seemed to be having an engaging conversation with the jury as opposed to the typical stiff testimony of an expert. The jury was pleasantly refreshed that they were not forced to hear another boring scientist. It appeared the jury, men and women alike, were ready to hop over the jury box barrier and give Bob a big bear hug. Instead, they gave his side a $12.9 million verdict for the plaintiffs.
It was clear to Bob that he was just one factor leading to the big verdict. Emily Sanchez, with her, thorough preparation, aggressiveness and charisma was the major force behind the big win. As Bob and Emily basked in their legal glory at a fashionable L.A. restaurant, Bob started thinking about what a great addition Emily’s winning presence would be to his law enforcement team.
“Emily, I sense that you’re ready to take your winning ways to the next level. I want you to join my ATF anti-cult team and protect the nation from the ever-growing threat of domestic terrorism,” Bob proposed.
“Whew! That’s a shocker. I am honored by your compliment, but, you know, I don’t really know much about guns and I’m not sure I could ever be a cop . . . “
“Yeah, but have you thought how much better a criminal defense lawyer you could be after working with and learning more about the other side for a few years?” Bob asked rhetorically.
“Hmmmmmm, interesting.”
“You take as much time as you want. I can tell right now though Emily, I know enough about you to be sure you have the relentless drive to win and patriotism to be a superb ATF agent. I need you on my team,” Bob appealed.
As Bringston made his pitch for the good old U.S.of A. to Emily, he reminded himself of the irony of his personality and philosophy. His deep devotion to America and its freedoms, both social and economic, was unwavering. His distaste for government and bureaucracy, however, had been on the rise the last several years. As Bob observed over the years of being on the inside, the U.S. government was on a steady path of inefficiency and ineffectiveness and squelching the individual freedoms that drive the most magnificent economic system in the history of man: free enterprise. Bob, a self-made millionaire by investing in the stock market, real estate and small businesses, had become disgusted with the heavy burden of local, state and federal taxes and regulation which had dampened his fire to invest. He knew that he was only one of millions disgruntled entrepreneurs across the nation. Social and political freedoms also seemed to be eroding as political and bureaucratic leaders were now so fully entrenched with the aphrodisiac of power. Their actions were focused on maintaining that power and doing everything to gain more, even at the expense of the core values which made our nation preeminent in the world.
One of those corrupted leaders was Victor Marsh, the head of the federal Drug Enforcement Administration. Once Bob’s mentor, he was the man who led Bringston through his training as an ATF agent and laid the solid foundation for Bob on his way to a stellar career with the Bureau. Marsh left the ATF upon appointment to the DEA. It was clear to Bob that Marsh had fully compromised his integrity in soliciting the appointment. He had heard from reliable sources that Marsh was using his DEA post unscrupulously as a stepping-stone for his acquisition of wealth and power.
Sometimes, Bringston’s distaste for government sounds similar to those he battles everyday. Bringston, in fact, has much sympathy for the adversaries he struggles against, at least in regards to their basic doctrines. It is their violence and destruction with which he vehemently differs. Though Bob lives and works in a world of violence and death, he is a man of peace and no matter how much he has lost faith in government, he would never advocate its overthrow, violent or otherwise. Bob Bringston stood for drastically reducing the size of the U.S. government, not eliminating it violently. Though he has contemplated the idea of a society without government, much like American colonial hero Thomas Paine and many thinkers since, he concluded that the structure and discipline of government are necessary. Despite the growing excessive burden of government, Bringston continued his fight for the concept of the US government, the only sovereign entity in the world foundationally devoted to the existence and rights of the individual.
After 11 years of a successful practice covering many different areas of the law, Emily was 36 years old and, frankly, bored. She had a thirst for action and was not getting it anymore in the courtroom. She knew enough about Bob to recognize that he would be one fascinating man with whom to work and she would experience a life of exhilaration as she never imagined. She didn’t need any more time to think about it. She was so comforted by the strength of Bob’s conviction and his eternal journey to victory. She decided to take the plunge by putting her law practice on hold and becoming an ATF agent.

Government Intrusions

2009-01-08T20:29:00.000-08:00

I am sick to my core of government getting into my personal individual life. Every living day the government thugs intrude more into our lives and for some reason we just accept it. Take the traffic laws for example. if you think that any of the laws, from speeding to cell phone use, are designed for your public safety, think again.

The laws are there for one reason and only one reason: to dig deeper into your pocket. Without any reliable studies, the money-hungry California legislature passed a law last year barring the use of cell phones while driving. This year the a-holes added text messaging. Question-what about pushing all the buttons in my phone necassary to set up the fucking bluetooth so that I can comply with the draconian law? Sooner or later I'm going to get a ticket as I prepare to follow the law.

Here in LA County our mass transit creates a climate ready to explode. We are on the honor system in our mass transit system. That means you board the trains freely whether you have a ticket or not but you are supposed to have bought a ticket. If not, you are subject to a random search by the Nazi sherrifs who ask to see your ticket. Lost it? Too bad. When I get the money, I plan on challenging the dumbass deputy on his authority to search me without a warrant. I'm taking the thing as high as I have to to establish the law that they have no such authority. The governments grunts will invade my life no further. Fuck them and those that succumb to them.

No more Hardball for now. I've recieved no comments and will not waste my wonderful words. Let me know if you really want to see more.

Hardball-Chapter 2

2008-10-05T16:19:00.000-07:00

I'm not particularly tek savvy which is probably why few, if any, have come to this blog. Well, I'll just have to keep pushing. Let me know what you think at andyweitz3@gmail.com.

Chapter 2-MAGIC

Bob hadn’t played ball in months. It was the first time in his life he could remember not playing for such a long period of time. Without baseball, there was a wide void in his life. But his mission to find and reveal the truth was emerging as his only focus. Now the only reminder he had of the game he loved so much was a special baseball he carried around with him virtually everywhere he went. The day he got that ball was etched in his mind as clearly as it was yesterday.
It was the summer of 1994. Bob was a federal law enforcement officer on assignment in Boston where a domestic terrorist group was threatening to blow up an internationally influential New England bank or some other Boston landmark. One of the most likely targets was old Fenway Park. Everyone on the force knew of Bob’s devotion to baseball so he and his partner got the assignment of attending the Red Sox and Anaheim Angels 7:05 game at Fenway. The threat received from the terrorists was serious. As such, Bob could only remain in his seat for a few batters at one sitting before tending to his mission. He must have checked every square inch of his side of the stadium for any clues of bombs, other ballistics or unexplained behaviors. Despite the many lives potentially in danger, he just couldn’t resist the Fenway snack stands where he partook in a famous Monster Dog, a mini Papa Gino’s pizza and a bowl of authentic New England Clam Chowder.
Flamethrowing Roger “The Rocket” Clemens was on the mound and, shall we say, was “bringing” it to the plate from the first pitch onward. As the legend goes, Clemens, who normally approached and sometimes exceeded the speed of 100 miles per hour with his fastball, was beyond comprehension on this night. If he regularly fired his deliveries with a shotgun, on this night he launched them with an atomic cannon. The radar gun was put to the test. He seemed to get stronger as the game wore on and the heat generated from his right arm intensified. Twice the Rocket was clocked at 106 miles per and plenty of other pitches were somewhere in three figures. Despite the noise of the crowd of nearly 40,000 at the cozy confines of Fenway Park, one could hear the catcher’s mitt popping in the right field stands, at the Green Monster high above left field and beyond.
Clemens went into the ninth inning with a perfect game. That, in the long, magnificent history of baseball has happened before. But not combined with 27 dazzling strikeouts, some by way of a curve ball or a change-up, but mostly it was the pure, unmerciful Heat of the menacing right-hander that blew the hitters away. From where Bob was sitting, a few rows up behind the Red Sox dugout, he, as he told the story years later, could have sworn he heard a humming, radio-like sound being emitted from the balls as they were launched from the hill and whizzed down Roger’s 60 foot-6-inch speedway where velocities reached seemingly supersonic dimensions.
Yes sir, that bad boy from Texas was mowing down Angels with the coldness and precision of an executioner. After just a few innings, the Angel batters reluctantly stepped into what seemed like the gallows rather than the batter’s box. Bob, seated in a perfect position to realize the dream of any boy or boy at heart, managed to catch a foul ball hitinto the seats in the ninth just before Clemens fanned his 27th and final Angel. It was like some magical dream. Every hitter the fireballer faced went down swinging or just stood there helplessly. In fact, Bob was in possession of the best the Angels could do against him that night: a line drive foul ball into the stands. He had been going to ball games for over 40 years and never came close to experiencing the feel of a major league baseball that had just been in play. This one was better. It was historic. Twenty-seven strikeouts in a nine-inning regulation game is one of those rare sports records that is truly unbreakable. A pitcher cannot be any more perfect. Bob had one of only sixteen foul balls hit by the Angels during the game.
Bringston used his priceless memento as a handy aid in the healing and strengthening of a broken wrist he had suffered recently. Throughout any given day he could be seen squeezing and rolling the ball in his palm or tossing it lightly to himself. Playing the game with a passion since he was a small boy had already made him a master craftsman with the ball. During these few months of therapy with the baseball, he created ways to toss the ball to himself and otherwise cagily, craftily and controllably move the ball around his body and around the room. He put quirky rotations on the ball or sometimes no rotation at all to mysteriously move the ball around all kinds of places. What Bob accomplished in creating new and interesting solitary games out of the seemingly simple act of tossing around a baseball to one’s self should itself go down in baseball history.
For instance, Bob could lie on his back, stand, or sit and toss the ball up towards the ceiling with such precision, the baseball would be just fractions of an inch from the ceiling, or, by design, merely graze the ceiling before falling straight back into his hand. He would bank it off the wall, skip it off the floor or curve it around a lamp in the den as he relaxed on the couch. In addition, that silly little ball conjured up nothing but happy thoughts of smokin’ fastballs and strikeouts and served Bob as an inspiration throughout an otherwise dull, sometimes dangerous day.
The games Bringston played at work were scored with lives defended and lost. Bob Bringston was a special agent in charge of the anti-government cult enforcement division for the U.S. Treasury Department’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The hardball Bob plays against his opponents during the average day on the job ain’t no little league. With all the bullets being bandied about, the battles are hard involving blood not baseballs. Somehow, though, Bringston found a way to put a baseball in the midst of his violent world. Always looking for a way to avoid using his gun, Bob discovered what a powerful weapon the baseball can be in the right hands.
Bringston was a man whose life was in constant danger. His survival depended on remaining one step ahead of the competition. To do this required focus, concentration and innovation. Bob’s creative mind led him to first use his cherished baseball while on the job in a 1996 violent conflict against a group of mad militiamen from Montana. The wacky warriors were as determined as they were desperate. They were dedicated vegetarians and got word that a team of United States Agriculture Department agents was going to inspect a large Chicago meatpacking plant.
They called themselves the Meatless Militia and five of its members took over the plant in the early morning hours soon after three high-ranking U.S.D.A inspectors had arrived. Violence certainly wasn’t part of their formula a few years prior when the Meatless Militia first organized. They were called Planting Earth and the most brutal act they performed was cutting spears off broccoli plants. Their passion for their cause resulted in their inability to hold any conventional job.
To continue their campaign, contraband was the only answer. Drugs mostly, along with some black market tobacco. Their illicit territory had to be protected and the premium for the protection was blood. Some lost. Some taken. In any case, the cost of doing business with lives as the currency had been consistently on the rise. Recent government pressure of surveillance and infiltration made things more difficult. It wasn’t even the fruits and vegetables thing anymore. It was a matter of survival and the Militia saw the desperate measure of taking over the meat plant as the only answer.
The government men were there in response to complaints that the slaughtering methods used at the plant were cruel and unsanitary. Among the accusations were that oftentimes, the animals were placed directly on the meat hooks before they had even perished. The vegans were seeking victory by slaughtering the three agents in the same fashion, but not before assuring certain demands were met. Bob and nine other agents from the ATF and FBI got the assignment. He was on the rescue team for not only his proven bravery and sharp shooting skills but his adept abilities in negotiation of hostage situations. His creative killing talents were now a legend amongst the anarchists’ community, who, respected, if did not fear him. Bringston’s decades of experience as an ATF agent with exposure to countless numbers of life-threatening situations amply prepared him to attack these tense moments with patience and calculation. Regardless, he and the others were the only ones around crazy and capable enough to handle this explosive situation.
When the team of 10 government rescuers arrived, Bob immediately took charge with no objections. He ordered the nine others, six men and three women, to surround the building to monitor and report the activity and status and communicate with each other by hand-held radio. With the reports he received from his team of agents and the briefing they all reviewed earlier that morning, Bob was armed with a considerable amount of helpful information. All 10 on the team were verse in the layout of the meat plant from the location and size of each door and window, to the amount, location and dimensions of each meat hook inside.
One of his agents, Emily Sanchez, reported that one of the inspectors had already met his demise and was on gruesome display near the main entrance. His body was extended from the ceiling with a large meat hook protruding through his front torso. The radicals clearly put the body on display for strategic purposes. They called for a government representative to personally meet them in the slaughterhouse so their demands could be conveyed. No one else volunteered. Bob jumped on the opportunity.
Upon entry into the plant, Bob was greeted by two heavily armed goons who nearly strip-searched him. Their leader, standing nearby, in front of the dangling dead agent, asked about the ball in Bob’s hand. Bob explained he carried the ball around with him to squeeze it and relieve the pain in his arthritic wrist. He nervously tossed the ball around close to his body.
“Do you remember the 1994 Red Sox-Angels where Roger Clemens struck out every hitter he faced? This is one of the balls he used to nail the last two Angel hitters,” Bob proudly proclaimed.
The leader smiled and said, “Yeah, I saw that game when I was in the cooler, I’ll never forget it. But never mind that. No more fucking around. Toss that ball to the side before your sorry ass is hanging on a hook like your friend behind me.”
“Well, excuse me, but isn’t your love of baseball in violation of vegetarian protocol? After all, the baseball itself is made from slaughtered cows and there are probably enough weenies consumed during baseball season to fill ten of these slaughterhouses, probably 20 . . . ”
“Fuck you, prick. Either you toss that ball to the side or you can join our bovine brothers on the slaughter assembly line,“ the leader screamed as his veins protruded far from the surface of his neck.
Bob sensed he was reaching the end of the line of the leader’s patience. If he was going to earn a save of the remaining U.S.D.A. agents, himself and his cherished baseball, he had to do something and do it without any further delay. During this verbal exchange, Bringston closely gauged his immediate surroundings. He was directly facing the crazed cultist about 20 feet away. Between him and Bob and slightly to Bob’s right was an empty low-hanging meat hook on a curved track less than 10 feet from the intended target. The two thugs were directly to the left of the leader about 50 feet away. According to reports received from his fellow agents, the two other militia members were in the second story of the plant holding the other two U.S.D.A. agents hostage.
“ OK, pal,” Bob cautioned,“ but I may not be as accurate as I used to . . .”
Before he finished his sentence, Agent Bringston made one spectacular pitch. He hurled the ball, without a full windup at about 70 miles per hour and it hit exactly where he intended: At the top of the meat hook chain and just below the track. Since his high school days, Bob always had speed and control as a pitcher, but never had he thrown a payoff pitch like this one. Major League pitchers from Koufax to Clemens would have been proud. In what seemed like less than a second from the time of Bob’s release, the meat hook sped down the track directly towards his adversary’s head. As he put his arms up, the hook drove through one of his arms and into his neck like a fisherman baiting his pole. As the three-inch diameter stainless steel hook plunged through the front and exited the back, large sections of neck and throat tissue were sprayed all over the floor beneath. The AK-47 he was holding was flung in the opposite direction towards Bob. Fortunately, the two goon guards were disabled for just a split second as they stood in amazement at Agent Bringston’s spectacular feat. It was just enough time for Bob to safely grab the weapon off the floor as he successfully sought refuge a few rows back behind a hooked side of beef and a large solid metal beef cart.
Once the guards realized what happened and got over the awe of Bringston’s pitch and its results, they randomly and harmlessly fired their high-powered automatic weapons in the direction where Bob had leaped. Bob’s fabled baseball was still lying harmlessly on the floor only 10 feet away. But if he stepped over to get it, he would be in view of the thugs. He needed that ball to deploy other plans and besides wanted it back for sentimental reasons. His moment came as they scampered around the plant in search of Bringston. He grabbed his ball and raced back under cover. With his cannon-like arm, Bringston hurled the baseball at the far end of the building nearly 200 feet away.
It was like a throw from the deep part of the outfield that nails a base runner speeding around third for home. The ball hit the far end aluminum wall and made a billowing noise that emanated throughout the plant. When the two thugs turned their backs on him, that was all Bringston needed. He eliminated them with a few quick rounds to the back of the head. Each time Bob ended a life, it took another bite out of his soul. Each one that died by his hand was another reminder that in striving to stop the murderers, he himself was becoming as much a cold-blooded killer as those he pursues. He couldn’t let such deep-rooted dilemmas drag him down. He was focused on detaining those two remaining radicals and protecting the safety of the two U.S.D.A. inspectors.
He could not help but thinking about, however, what had happened to his precious baseball. He was frantically searching on the floor for it near the far-end of the plant as he kept tabs on the terrorists whom he expected to come downstairs any moment. Just then Agent Emily Sanchez came up from behind him. She had heard the gunfire and noise of the baseball crashing against the wall and decided to march in to lend her support.
“Looking for something?“ she said.
Anytime she spoke with her sexy Latina accent, to say nothing of her effervescent aura, it always inspired Bringston. Now, however, she had the cherry on top of the sundae with the delivery of Bob’s cherished baseball. He accepted the ball; the lovely Emily would have to be encountered off the clock. He used Sanchez’ radio to order FBI agents Frank Ganji and Tim Tuttlehorn into the complex via the rear utility entrance furthest from where Bringston and Sanchez were standing to assist the team’s efforts. He briefed them as to the status and told them precisely where to place themselves within the plant in preparation of an assault on the remaining terrorists.
He wanted Ganji and Tuttlehorn because of their unequivocal will to win and their equally unflappable abilities to stop the enemy under the most difficult of circumstances. Bringston anticipated what lie ahead and how the two agents would be a vital part of the success of the operation. Bob positioned Ganji and Tuttlehorn. Then that persistent feeling of hesitation entered his gut. No matter how much he succeeded in his life and career, Bob suffered from a crippling fear of failure that oftentimes overwhelmed him. At any given moment, it has gripped him tightly like a vise, reducing him to a meek, harmless participant in whatever endeavor he was engaged. Typically, it hit him when he is on a roll, on the verge of victory and something deep down made him question his success. Sometimes his strong self-confidence squelched these deep-rooted self-doubts. Other times the failure he feared became reality. Fortunately, the guerrillas were detained upstairs by untying the two hostages before they came down. It was just enough time for Bob to do a few yoga chants, tell himself how much he liked himself and otherwise tap his plentiful well of a winning attitude. It also gave him time to think about the deployment of his plan. The kidnappers and their captives descended the stairs and walked towards their fallen brethren.
“You will pay for this,” said one as he discovered his leader grotesquely hanging from the ceiling and his two other comrades soaking in growing collections of their blood.
“Now come on,“ Bob cracked. “Is it my fault, your vegetarian friend got hooked on this place?“
“You’re a fucking comedian aren’t you? Now, drop your weapons, including that stupid ball,“ the militant demanded.
Bob and Emily immediately dropped their guns but Bob held onto his beloved baseball and went into one of his favorite subjects: the Roger Clemens/Fenway Park story.
“J.T. Snow, the last batter of the game, was up. He hit a towering fly ball right over the location in the stands where I was sitting. I thought the ball would never come down. When it did, I reached over the guy in front of me and with one bare hand, caught one of the most epic baseballs in history,“ Bob explained as he slightly changed the facts of the story for the situation before him.
“I’ll never forget the magnificent flight of this ball. As a matter of fact, the high ceiling of this slaughterhouse is just about exactly the altitude the ball reached,“ Bob said as the two terrorists seemed most interested.
“Here’s a bet. One that could save lives and get you what you want. I throw this ball as high as the ceiling and if either one of you catch it, these negotiations end, we immediately walk out of the room and see to it that all your demands are met,“ Bob proposed.
“If you miss, as I think you wimps will, the hostages are freed and you two can go as you please either now or after you’re sure we have left and that it is safe to do so,“ Bob assured them.
“You win either way. If you catch the fly ball, your noble aspirations are achieved with a lot less complications, guaranteed by your control of the two captives. If I’m right, all you lose is the hostages. You keep, however, your sorry-ass lives and freedom, at least for the time being,“ Bringston explained. “So what do you say boys? “C’mon hotshots, my mitt’s out in the car. Let’s take a break and go get it,” he urged. Or do you wait for the rest of my troops to eventually blast your fuckin’ heads off, the same way Clemens took care of his last two strikeout victims with this baseball,” Bob shouted impatiently.
As the two terrorists discussed the situation, Bob sensed they were not about to accept his wild wager. He was running out of solutions. The distraction factor though, was still available. He threw the baseball to the ceiling. The ball, at the hands of the master, went perfectly to the forty-five foot height of the ceiling without touching it. At its height, the ball was literally millimeters from the ceiling. With the backspin Bob put on it, the baseball seemed to hang up there as if in a state of suspended animation.
At first they pointed their guns at Bringston’s head. Then, just as the rest in the plant, they gazed up at the baseball as it fell back towards earth. As such, the window of opportunity presented itself. Tuttlehorn nailed one guy with a bullet in the ear and Ganji played some lethal chin music on the other, with a bullet or two in the face. In the meantime, the ball was thrown so high with so much hang time that Bringston had enough time to actually run over and make a lunging catch of the ball he lobbed up to the ceiling.
The Bringston-to-Tuttlehorn-to Ganji double play combination was as thrilling as they get. As Bob and his team of nine celebrated their big victory, he started to wonder about what just happened. Sure his baseball had a magical, mystical history, but just how far did it go and with how much power. After all, the day was saved by Bob’s pure, raw talents in not just tossing the baseball around, but management under pressure and his abilities to incapacitate his opponents by embellishing on an already fascinating baseball story. Maybe though, the legend of that wondrous baseball itself became reality. Bob was the mere conduit of the magic. Although an inanimate object, the bond between Bob and his baseball was not much unlike a long, loyal friendship. Strange as it may seem, that little globe in his hand gave him a deep sense of comfort and confidence wherever he was. Feelings so strong, so penetrating, that he resolved never to be without that ball as long as he lived.

Why am I so Angry?

2008-06-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

That is a question that is painful to not only answer but hurtful to even try and answer. As they say in the gym, however, "No pain, no gain."

Right off the top of my head, over 11 years ago, I sat at my keyboard shortly after my 40th birthday and I contemplated. I said to myself, that many thoughts have passed through my bipolar mind over all these years and some of the some would excite, inspire and otherwise move many around the world. I was now about half way through my life. I vowed to spend the second half recording some of those provocative ideas.

I thought long and hard as to how I was going to share my mind with the world. Poetry? Maybe. I'd dabbled in that since as long as I could remember. I needed something though that many people would read and poetry just didn't seem to fit the bill. A journal or diary might do the trick but then suddenly it came to me. It was obvious really. I concluded that I would now commence on a bestselling novel.

So there I sat, 40-years-old and change, a man who had written plenty but had published nothing and was actually nutty enough to think I really could only write something publishable but a book that a lot of people would buy.

With no plot, no outline or any other plan, I started writing. Actually, there were two aspects of this story that were mapped out. The narrative was going to have bloody unique violence and detailed descriptions of meaningful sexual encounters. That was all that was in my head when I got started. Everything else just happened as I continued to write.

Let's fast forward 11 years up till today. After 8 some-odd years off submissions, few if any of the so-called literary expert agents mostly in Manhattan have expressed even the slightest bit of interest. Yet of the 30-50 people to whom I have shown this book, every single one of them tells me they could not put it down. Some were family, some friends but most were strangers I met on the street or in book stores. Yet there is nothing.

I'm confused. I'm frustrated and yes I am damn angry. Maybe the story isn't as compelling as I think. Or is the ultimate challenge to government it poses just too hot to handle for the mainstream literary society. I am an objective reasonable man. I would not have slayed on this 11-year journey unless I thought there was really something here.

Are you interested in the biggest "Fuck you" to the assumed sovereignty over you. Email me at andyweitz3@gmail.com and I'll send you a sample.

Anger

2008-05-26T16:30:00.000-07:00

What am I so angry about? Well, among other things, I have writtten a compelling story that connects to a vast audience. The novel is entitiled Hardball and the sex, violence and overall intensity will make the blood race through your body and sizzle your spine. The audience attracted is that classic 4-corner demographic. Men will stimulated by the unique and vivid blood throughout the story. Women will be inspired by description of the meaningful relationship, sexual and otherwise, between the two protagonisits. Young people will be provoked by the direct challenge to a powerful authority. Older folks will be comforted by the underlying baseball theme of the story.

I am mad because I have been actively trying to publish this 64,088 word novel for nearly ten years and have barely gotten a bite. No agent is interested and believe me, I've submitted to a lot of agents. There are, of course, a lot of possibilites as to why this has occurred.

First of all, the nature of the publishing business these days is that one could have written the greatest story of the century but if he doesn't have a literary industry connection, the story will never be looked at. With the rise of the personal computer, the internet and other digital communication devices, literally anyone can sit down and write a novel. What this means is that agents are swarmed with query letters everyday and there is not enough time in the day to look at them all. I either get no reposnse at all from agents or a form rejection.

The other reason could be fear. Hardball goes right to core of the US government, looks it right in the eye and says,"Fuck you", and it does so in a powerfully dramamtic and entertaining way. Is it possible the government is afraid that its credibility would be damaged by a story with a premise that the federal Drug Enforcement Admisistration director is in reality a drug lord. The story is, of course, just a piece of fiction, but I think this little figment of my imagination may have inadvertently hit the nail on the head of the truth and those in publishing know that a story like this will be most certainly frowned upon by those in power.

The other possibility is that I'm just a bipolar parnoid. The story sucks. My writing stinks and the 300 pages it takes up should go into the recycling bin. That is as viable a scenario as any. But how about you tell me? Through the miracles of blog digital technology, Hardball will finally be published. We'll start off slowly. Next week, Chapter One-Comrades will be published on this blog. Not only do I ask for your open and honest comments. I urge to tell me what you think. I look forward to hearing from all of you.