So I’m in Vegas and dragged my poor boyfriend (on his birthday) to Vanderpump Cocktail Garden. We had to take a cab then walk another mile because Trumps dumb ass is here. Waited in a long line only to be SO DISAPPOINTED. We were seated right inside the entrance so the view was just the casino lobby. The place is super tiny so I didn’t care too much. Ordered some drinks and food. Waitress never returned to check on us. Had to eat with our fingers. No plates, napkins, utensils.. The chicken was processed chicken you would get at McDonalds. It was tasty but definitely not worth $18 for a slider. Anyway. SUPS disappointing 👎🏻
If I can in anyway contribute to fighting fake news, let it be this piece about Gen. McInerney (pls share)
Since McInerney is back in the news spreading conspiracy theories about our recent Presidential election, making up bullshit stories about US Special Operations raids, many will find this article I wrote six years ago helpful in learning who this guy is and what he is really about. While many are familiar with President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s famous farewell speech, fewer have read the original drafts which include dire warnings about the future of America and what Eisenhower termed a “military-industrial complex.” One of the original drafts, penned by speech writer Malcom Moos, reads: “We must never let power, implicit in this combination, endanger our liberties or democratic processes. We should take nothing for granted. Only an alert, knowledgeable, and wise citizenry can compel the proper meshing of the huge industrial machinery of defense with our peaceful methods and goals, so that both security and liberty may prosper. In the councils of government, we must jealously guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence by the military-industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists and will persist. We can ignore it only at our peril.” The tone is softened slightly in the speech that Eisenhower delivered, but his message remained intact. Since the Eisenhower presidency, the military-industrial complex has grown and gone through a metamorphosis, the rhetoric changing to match the current threats, real or perceived, to the United States. The Cold War gave way to the War on Terror. At the forefront of those who shape the rhetoric are often the same retired generals and admirals who staff the boards of directors of America’s largest and most powerful defense companies. Lieutenant General Thomas McInerney carries three-star clout following an extremely impressive career. Retiring from the Air Force, McInerney served four tours in Vietnam, including hundreds of sorties as a combat aviator. Afterwards, McInerney served in a succession of important military commands. He is a graduate of West Point and also has a master’s degree from Georgetown. Since his retirement in 1994, General McInerney has also served on the board of directors for perhaps a dozen different defense and defense-related companies. However, General McInerney says some very odd things. To the uninitiated, like MSNBC host Rachel Maddow, he sounds “nuts.” When McInerney makes outlandish claims as a paid Fox News contributor, people sometimes describe him as sounding crazy. Yes, the general’s claims, a few of which we will examine here, are bizarre, but McInerney is not crazy. In fact, he is very intelligent, highly rational, and each of his words are very calculated. The Pentagon’s Military Analyst Program When the Pentagon established the military analyst program in 2002, they did so largely to help build public support for the invasion of Iraq. Retired generals were recruited into the program by the Pentagon and given exclusive access to classified briefings, as well as tours of Guantanamo and bases in Iraq. While these analysts were presented on network news each night as being objective experts, they were actually being groomed by the Pentagon and fed talking points. Moreover, many of them had ties to major defense contractors with material interests in the war. Former Green Beret and member of the military analyst program, Robert Bevelacqua, later said of the program that the Pentagon was telling them, “we need to stick our hands up your back and move your mouth for you.” When the New York Times sued the DOD to obtain documents about the program, they found that the talking heads we saw on television were referred to as “message force multipliers” and “surrogates.” When one retired general in the military analyst program received talking points from the Pentagon, he wrote, “good work” and “we will use it.” That general’s name was Thomas McInerney. Malaysian Flight 370 While McIerney is known for his very hawkish stances on foreign-policy issues, he is perhaps better known for the straight-up outlandish claims he often makes. One of the most curious is the theory he advanced on Fox News multiple times when Malaysian Flight 370 disappeared somewhere over the Pacific. The theory: Flight 370 was hijacked by terrorists, probably the pilots, who then turned off the aircraft’s transmitters and flew the plane westward. The pilots then shadowed Singaporean Flight 68 in order to hide their aircraft’s radar signature as they flew over Indian airspace. McInerney insists that the Indian radar operators would not necessarily have picked up flight 370’s radar signature as most countries don’t have their “A-team” manning the radar late at night. If we are to accept this bizarre leap of faith, we then have to invent some way in which Flight 370 then broke away from Flight 68. McInerney insists that the Malaysian passenger plane then landed in Lahore, Pakistan, and the passengers are being held hostage. Fox News is always quick to point out on air how General McInerney has amazing sources and contacts within the Pentagon and elsewhere—an attempt to backstop his strange claims and theories. In this case, McInerney pointed out that it wasn’t simply his sources that gave him his information, but rather that logic dictated the plane was hijacked and flown to Lahore. But this isn’t the same type of logic advanced by Plato, Hobbes, or even Machiavelli. McInerney is making inferences based on inferences based on inferences and none of it adds up or can be verified by anyone. Despite McInerney’s incredible sources that Fox News pundits constantly reference, no one that SOFREP has spoken to in the intelligence community lends a bit of credence to this claim. DEFCON 1 “Something is happening out there and we are asleep at the switch.” Another interesting statement made on Fox News by McInerney is that the United States should go to DEFCON 1. Defense Condition One is America’s highest level of alert and means that nuclear war is imminent. McInerney reminds us that America has never gone to this level of alert before. Even during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, when the United States was on the brink of nuclear armageddon with the Soviet Union, we only made it to DEFCON 2. Why would America need to raise our alert status to DEFCON 1 in September of 2014? McInerney references a variety of nebulous threats. In various interviews he says that this threat could be nuclear, an EMP weapon, or cyber-warfare attacks against our infrastructure. Where does this threat emerge from? General McInerney said on Fox that, “unchecked, ISIS is an existential threat to the United States…” However, there is no evidence that ISIS is even remotely an existential threat to America. While ISIS can—and gone unchecked, almost certainly will—become a threat to America, the idea that a ragtag group of jihadists could destroy America has no credibility. Even the 9/11 attacks on the Pentagon and World Trade Center came nowhere close to actually destroying America. In the same interview, McInerney then repeats his suggestion that the government raise the alert level to DEFCON 1, and that he believes that multiple American cities are soon going to be attacked because ISIS has slipped through our porous borders and are already staging in American cities to strike. He then pushes for a “massive air campaign in Iraq and Syria.” Nuclear Iran “Getting the bombs or the components of bombs into the United States would be simple.” (End Game, 27) At the New Hampshire Institute for Politics, McInerney commented on one of his favorite topics: nuclear Iran. In this speech, he warns America that Iran could develop a nuclear weapon, possibly hand it off to a third party, and then it could be smuggled into the United States to be detonated in a city. McInerney would have us believe that while intercontinental ballistic missiles carrying a nuclear payload can be traced back to the country that launched them, a nuclear weapon smuggled into America would leave no fingerprints as to who the culprits are. Of course, this claim is patently false. The science of nuclear forensics would allow us to quickly identify who built a nuclear weapon set off on American soil. Iran knows this. So does General McInerney. Contrary to many alarmists, Iran is a rational state and the Iranian government does realize that, should they launch such an attack against America, the nation of Iran would cease to exist in short order. To effect a regime change in Iran, and according to McInerney, to prevent this nuclear nightmare, he advocates a 48-hour air campaign over Iran. The goal would be to set the Iranian nuclear program back at least 5 years. This would include the use of bunker busters, 70 stealth aircraft, and 400 non-stealth aircraft to bomb 2,500 targets inside Iran. America’s Nuclear Deterrent “It is very safe and it is very secure.” Considering the dire threats that McInerney insists America is facing on an almost daily basis, he made one curious appearance on television to assure the public that America’s nuclear stockpile is safe and secure. On January 14th, 2014, McInerney appeared on Fox to address reports of missile launch officers being caught up in a drug investigation and cheating on their certification exams. General McInerney responded to the question of the disposition of our nuclear stockpile by assuring us that it is, “very safe and it is very secure.” He goes on to point out that there have been some human failings in our nuclear command, but that our “nuclear-deterrent force is in very good shape.” The general pushed for modernizing our nuclear forces and said that these weapons needed to be maintained, but when it came to the personnel and overall capabilities of our nuclear deterrent, he was very positive. For someone who often warns Americans about dire threats against our nation and even insidious conspiracies from within (in a TruNews interview, he warned that Obama is carrying out a well-orchestrated conspiracy to transform America into a communist/socialist state), it is curious how he assures us that everything is fine with our nuclear forces. Nothing could be further from the truth. The problems plaguing our nuclear command are not just limited to our aging stockpile, a few drug users in the ranks, or cheating on exams. Major General Michael Casey, who was in command of three nuclear wings, was relieved of command in 2013. The reason? Casey was boozing it up in Moscow and hooked up with two local women at a hotel. He was drunk, incoherent, and belligerent during his trip, and went missing for hours at a time. This sounds very much like a “honey trap” engineered by Russian intelligence services. Vice Admiral Tim Giardina was also relieved from his position as deputy chief of U.S. Strategic Command, ostensibly because he used fake gambling chips at a casino in Iowa. With Giardina and Casey relieved within days of each other there may be a real conspiracy at play here. It seems likely that beyond a few human failings, America’s nuclear forces are heavily targeted, if not penetrated, by foreign intelligence agents. This raises the possibility that U.S. military counter-intelligence decided to clean house in October of 2013. Again, the implications of these scandals within our nuclear command would not go unnoticed by someone with the depth of experience and knowledge that McInerney has. All of this begs the question as to why he goes on television to tell us everything is fine with our nuclear forces when he is also constantly warning us about foreign threats and the destruction of American cities. END GAME “Syria is a domino waiting to fall.” (End Game, 54) In 2004, McInerney co-authored a book called End Game with Major General (ret.) Paul Vallely. The two graduated from the same West Point class and became reacquainted when they were both brought into the Pentagon’s Military Analyst Program. Their book opens with, “Today, America is at war with an enemy every bit as dangerous as Nazi 51D6TASMSFL._SY344_BO1,204,203,200_Germany or the Soviet Union: We know it as radical Islam” (End Game, 9). In order to counter terrorism, they advocate regime change (“major policy shifts”) using military action in six countries. Afghanistan and Iraq were two that had already been toppled when the book was published. They suggested further military action in Iran, Syria, Libya, and North Korea. Since 2004, Libya has experienced a regime change while Syria and Iran have both been under serious duress. Interestingly, two other countries were identified for reform rather than military action: Pakistan and Saudi Arabia. But, according to the book, if Saudi Arabia can’t shape up, we may have to bomb them, too. End Game tells us that we don’t have time to take these countries out in sequence, but rather we have to attack all of them at the same time (End Game, 38). To what extent McInerney and Vallely have actually influenced the policy decisions to target these countries is unknown, but it is a safe bet that they have been hard at work behind the scenes. End Game is also filled with predictions that never came to pass. For instance, they said that, if North Korea detonates a nuclear bomb, that Japan, and maybe even South Korea, would develop their own nuclear weapons (End Game, 25). They again assert that if a nuclear bomb was detonated in America that “evidence would vaporize,” making the weapon untraceable (End Game, 29). Regarding Afghanistan, they write that, “The force level that NATO needs to maintain in Afghanistan is relatively small, the duties in the long term, relatively easy.” (End Game, 40). When it comes to Iraq, they write, “We are confident that the Iraqi people are up to the task, based on how enthusiastically they have embraced the opportunities to vote in meaningful elections.” (End Game, 44) Considering the author’s failed predictions for post-war Afghanistan and Iraq, perhaps we should scale back from attacking the rest of these “rogue” nations all at once with massive American air power as they suggest. Maddow Gets it Wrong “We report, you freak out.” -Rachel Maddow Interestingly, journalists and media commentators have never really put McInerney in the spotlight for his many irregularities. On the rare exception in which a critique is offered, it always portrays McInerney as a far-out-there right-winger. Four years ago, Rachel Maddow did a story on McInerney for her show on MSNBC. The reason for her coverage was because McInerney was supporting an Army doctor who refused to deploy on the grounds that he suspected President Obama was not born in the United States, and therefore was not a valid President. In an affidavit written by McInerney, he praises the doctor’s courage and bravery for standing by his beliefs. Yes, apparently McInerney is a birther as well. Rachel goes on to say, “what is news is that someone with General McInerney’s qualifications is saying that maybe the President is secretly foreign.” While Rachel is correct in pointing out how preposterous it is that a three-star general would endorse such a zanny conspiracy theory, she is ignorant of the calculated intent behind his carefully worded and pre-rehearsed statements. She then wraps up the segment with, “the real story, it seems to me, is that a guy this nuts gets paid to comment on foreign policy and wars. The birther general is on Fox New’s payroll…” Rachel is directionally correct in pointing out the strange disconnect between the fact that McInerney is a retired three-star general and that his statements don’t make any sense. However, she misses the fact that, while his statements are off-the-wall, they are never off-the-cuff. In short, McInerney does not actually believe the bizarre things that he says on air, but rather, these are carefully worded statements fed to the public for political purposes. The Military-Industrial Complex Thomas McIerney is constantly on television beating his war drums and warning Americans about amorphous threats to our nation. According to him, we are just days away from a horrendous terrorist attack. But McInerney is not simply a television military analyst, rather, he is an active participant in the military-industrial complex via the various boards of directors upon which he sits. What he does is not analysis, but advocacy. He is an advocate for nuclear weapons, long-range bombers, UAVs (specifically Global Hawk), and he is an advocate of going to war with a half dozen countries simultaneously. This is not conjecture or secret information from anonymous sources, but rather McInerney’s own words. In his book End Game, he claims to have plotted the liberation of Iraq in 2002 on a cocktail napkin with Paul Vallely. They then pitched this plan to Bill O’Reilly at a party hosted by the Fox News network, who agreed to have them on his show to talk about it. In End Game, the generals write, “We knew appearing on The O’Reilly Factor to discuss the plan was something of a risk. In the past, we had acted solely as military analysts. Presenting our plan came close to advocacy.” (End Game, 85) General McIerney chose not to simply be a passive analyst, but to instead become an active participant in shaping history. He believed we could take down Iraq in 30 days, and that the rest would basically be a cake walk. The U.S. military invaded in 2003 and our soldiers fought, bled, and died in the streets fighting terrorists, Baath-party loyalists, foreign fighters, and run-of-the-mill gangsters in places like Mosul, Baghdad, and Basra for an additional nine years. Mcinerney is not to blame for the failures of the war in Iraq, but his rhetoric is suspect when the companies he works with have a material interest in the United States going to war—wars in which the products endorsed by McInerney, such as air power and UAVs, would be employed. In order for those products to be used, the American public has to be kept in a constant state of fear. That fear can then be channeled and used as a vehicle to support war. The vehicle of choice for McInerney is radical Islam. He isn’t a right-wing nut as people like Rachel Maddow would have you believe. If we were to take McInerney’s word’s at face value, the politics he endorses are actually divorced from any ideology in contemporary mainstream politics. Like Lyndon LaRouche, Thomas McInerney’s politics are so far out there that it is disingenuous to describe them as right-wing, Republican, or conservative. But it is highly unlikely that McInerney actually believes silly stories about Flight 370, Iranian nuclear weapons, and birther conspiracies. Far more likely, he says these things cynically for purely political purposes. McInerney honorably served his country for many years, but contrary to the lapel pin on his collar, what he does today is far from patriotic. In fact, it is the exact opposite. Misleading Americans with alarmism and hyperbolic statements is deconstructing our political process. An informed public is an absolute necessity for a democracy to function. When retired generals leverage their credibility to mislead the public like a pied piper for political purposes, we are in serious trouble. When they lend their name to conspiracy theories, it only contributes to polarizing American politics and driving wedges between the American people. When politicians see that the talking heads on television are saying something that does not match up with what our intelligence professionals are telling them, it is then seen as an intelligence failure. Thomas McInerney is not alone. He is one member of a clique of retired generals, admirals, and CIA officers who have created an echo chamber in which they cite each other as sources and stir up the political fringe of America. They do this intentionally, knowing that their alarmist messages will be diluted by the time they make their way down to more reasonable people. But in the meantime, the damage done to American politics is impossible to calculate. This is one facet of the modern military-industrial complex Eisenhower warned us of.
This is an ongoing drama- so any feedback from you guys will be deeply appreciated Male,40, two kids and wife,if that matters. About six families have come on a cruise together. One of the people who's come along is my cousin- she's been an alcoholic in the past and has been in rehab. Met up in Italy, got on the cruise and whatnot- everything was pretty cool for the first few hours. The trouble started when i took my kids down to the pool deck and met up with the rest of the gang. I ordered a beer and sat down, when she suddenly huffed and walked away. I didn't pay it much attention- honestly, i thought she was mad at her husband. I tend not to drink at dinner- so things were cool, that evening. I hit the casino alone and had a drink. No problem. It started again when we went out for lunch the next day. Ordered myself a cocktail, when she suddenly got up, asked the waiter for another table and moved her husband and kids there. It honestly surprised the hell out of me. That's when the group pointed out that i shouldn't drink when she's around. This is a cruise- we're always going to be around each other, and everyone drinks. I disregarded it the next day, and had a drink at the table when things really blew up. She lost her cool, told me that this was her ******* vacation too, and called me an inconsiderate prick for drinking in from of her, when i knew her history- i felt like slappong her when she threw her napkin across the table into my son's plate. This was in front of a restaurant full of people, so i didn't respond- gave her a stare and went back to my meal. I didn't move the glass and her husband didn't get involved either. My wife told me to chill and visit the bar. I work very hard. I need a break too. I put a decent chunk of my savings into this trip too, for god's sake. It isn't fair to me. Why should i be expected to sacrifice my leisure time because of her addictions? Am I the asshole here?
OBLIGATORY FILLER MATERIAL – Just take a hard left at Daeseong-dong…10
Continuing… “Well, if that doesn’t throw the damper on things.” Dax remarks on our trip back down to the ground floor. “Yeah. How rude. Up and deceasing your own self without bothering to tell anyone beforehand.” I noted. “This is going to be a bloody balls-up. Trust me. This is going to be inordinately messy. A bog-standard botch job. A total dog’s dinner, just wait and see.” Cliffs adds. “First, we have to contact IUPGS. Then what? Does Bulgaria have a consulate or embassy here? I wouldn’t think so…Then what?” I grieved. For once, I was rather low; both emotionally and on ideas. “Let’s go back to the conference room and let everyone know. We’ll pull a brain session together. We should be able to sort out what needs to be done. The hotel already knows, so the state security forces also do as well. Be prepared for lengthy interrogation sessions, Gentlemen”, Cliff advised. Back in the conference room, we relayed the sad information. All were taken aback and there were general notes of commiseration. However, since no one knew Iskren too well personally, it was more detached professionalism rather than overt weeping and wailing. “Let us toast to our fallen comrade!” was accepted as both entirely appropriate and a damn good idea. I got on the conference room phone and ordered up some more sandwiches, mixers, and bottles of booze. The moment was obviously structured that way, I reasoned. We made our toasts to our fallen comrade and we had half a chalkboard filled with suggestions of what to do next. The main consensus was: “Nothing.” As in there was not much we could do. We were foreign nationals in a strangely foreign land. Our comrade was the sole member of his country, that is, Bulgaria, and the closest geographically we had aboard was Dr. Academician Ivan. No one wanted to loose Ivan on the DPRK security forces and have to deal with all that international fallout. After some number of hours, after I suggested we all remain in the conference room as we’d (A.) be together, as in unity there is strength, (2.) we’d have each other’s backs when and if it came to interrogations, and, (iii.) this is where the free booze was. Then there was a polite knock on the door. I, as the den mother of this special education class, slowly got up and answered the knock. It was a cadre of DPRK internal security forces, kitted out in their spiffy, tailor-made, and actually, quite smart-looking uniforms. Shoes and buttons polished to mirror-finishes, pants creases that could cut flesh, and enough polished brass to construct a spittoon. “Hello? Yes?” I said through the semi-opened door. “May we please come in? If the time is convenient.”, the head military type, very treacly asked. “Of course”, I replied, “Please, do come in.” Four of them entered as one. They did a quick-step, tight-march formation together and went to the head of the conference table. “Good day, gentlemen. I am Colonel Hwangbo Dong-Hyeon of Internal State Security. First, we must offer condolences on the loss of your comrade. It must have come as a shock.” He intones. There are mutters of “Thanks.” and “Damn right it was.” “I have been entrusted to update you on the, ah, ‘situation’. First, Dr. Iskren Dragomirov Dinev, recently deceased, has been examined by the best medical practitioners in the country. He was obviously a foreign national and state guest, and we do not wish this to be a cause of suspicion or mistrust, especially during this auspicious Festival season.” He asserted. We listened with rapt attention. “I am authorized to tell you that it does not appear that the late Dr. Dinev expired of any untoward circumstances; or ‘foul play’, I believe is the western term. It has been ascertained that he expired due to wholly natural causes; namely massive myocardial infarction. Given his age, apparent health, and, ah, mass, this does seem a most reasonable explanation. This has been verified by no less than three DPRK medical professionals; one of which is the Emeritus teaching professor of Cardiology at Pyongyang Medical University. Again, you have our deepest condolences on the loss of your comrade.” He continued. “I do remember Iskren complaining of gas pains the other night at the bar,” Joon agreed. “Thought nothing of it, given the change in all our diets.” Colonel Hwangbo studied Joon like an entomologist examining a particularly fascinating new species of beetle. “Which has been fine! Just rather rich compared to our usual food!” Joon hastily added. Satisfied that Joon wasn’t making light of the ‘fine’ North Korean cuisine, Colonel Hwangbo continued, “As such, the Bulgarian Embassy here in Pyongyang has been contacted and apprised of the situation. They have taken over the case, as well as recovered the mortal remains and possessions of Dr. Dinev; all of which were conserved and authenticated by his Bulgarian national counterparts.” “Ah, that’s good”, I said, “I’m pleased that there actually is a Bulgarian embassy here.” “Ah. So.”, Col. Hwangbo continued, “Yes. They have already taken possession of Dr. Dinev’s mortal remains and possessions as I had noted, and will handle their repatriation to his country and family. As you can see, we have acted in the best of faith and with the utmost respect for your lately departed. Again, our condolences.” There were some “Harrumphs”, and “Yeah, rights”, from the crowd, but since I was the team leader, it fell to me to handle this situation from here on out. “Yes, indeed”, I replied, “We see that and do so deeply appreciate your efficiency and your keeping open the lines of communication. We have absolutely no room to complain. You, your team, your country, and your services have acted to the highest degree of professionalism and decorum. Let me extend, for the team, our heartiest appreciations in this most unfortunate matter.” That seemed to please the Korean security forces. So much so they didn’t see the rolling eyes and smirks of grudging compliance from the crowd. I gave the evil-eye to several who were twittering quietly at my delivery of a load of over-the-top twaddle in the name of international goodwill. “Thank you, Doctor…? Doctor…?”, he asked. “Doctor Rocknocker.” I replied, “It’s spelled just as it sounds,”, I chuckled a knowing chuckle. Colonel Hwangbo cracked a small smile for the first time since we met. “As long as our orders of business are concluded, “ I inquired, “Might we offer you and your men a drink or sandwich or…” “Cigar?” he suddenly brightened. I smiled the sly, smirking smile of one of those used to the old duplicitous game of international diplomacy. “Why”, I replied smilingly, “Of course.” Col Hwangbo gratefully accepted a brace of fine Oscuro cigars. Probably more tobacco he’s seen in one place at one time since the last he rousted a snozzeled Western journalist or hammered European tourist with an overage of custom’s tobacco allowances. His team eschewed cigars, but gladly accepted a pack each of pastel-colored Sobranie cocktail cigarettes. It still slays me to see these battle-hardened, armed-to-the-teeth, unsmiling servants of the great state of Best Korea mincing about the courtyard smoking avocado, baby-blue, and peach-colored pastel cigarettes. The Colonel and his team left after a couple of quick smokes, sandwiches, and surreptitious beers. I even enticed the Colonel into a couple of convivial vodka toasts when his team was otherwise occupied. “Well, gang”, I said, closing the door, “Looks like that situation has been handled, most appropriately at that. We’ll miss ol’ Iskren, but at least he went fast and hopefully painlessly.” I knew that last one was but a load of old dingo’s kidneys as I’ve had run-ins with cardiac disorders in the past and they are anything but painless. In any case, that was, as I noted, in the past. What was done is done. It was as it was. It is as it is. “So, gentlemen”, I say, “Let us get back to work. Reality calls. Now, we’ve given you landlubbers the lowdown on our seismic pleasure cruise. Now we’d like to hear what you who had stayed onshore have come up with.” Erlan, Graco, and Viv fill us in on the regional geology of Best Korea and lay out a plan to examine the sedimentary piles closest to the few paved roads in the north and east of the country. We’ll be traveling by bus, as my request for four or five off-road vehicles was denied due to timing and lack of availability. Yeah. Right. What a massive pile of bovine biogenic colluvium. A country with a military as huge as Best Korea’s and they can’t spare a few jeeps or Hummer reproductions? Truth be told, they still don’t trust us and don’t want to let us out of their sight. However, we did manage to snag some internal publications from the Central Geological Survey of Mineral Resources, which we figured as a major coup. Never before were Westerners allowed to even know of the existence of these materials, much less be able to research (read: slyly copy) them. That ‘personal shaver’ I carried was actually a sneaky personal copier, a Vupoint ST470 Magic Wand Portable Scanner with all the external stickers peeled off, and any serial numbers abraded away. Hey, they photograph us from every angle on the sly, listen in on our conversations, record our phone calls…hell, turnabout isn’t just fair play, it’s almost expected. It’d be rude to refuse to play along. Anyways, we learned that The Korean Peninsula (KP) occupies a junction area of three large tectonic domains that are the Paleo-Central Asian Orogenic Belt, Paleo-Tethyan Orogenic Belt, and the Western Pacific Orogenic Belt. Tectono-fascinating. To summarize:
The Archean Rangrim massif is divided into the Rangrim and Kwanmo submassifs, high-grade region and greenstone belt, respectively.
Early Paleoproterozoic rocks underwent metamorphism up to granulite facies, which may be correlated to the Jiao-Liao-Ji mobile belt in the North China Craton (NCC).
Proterozoic rift sequences in North Korea are similar to those in the NCC with rare late Paleoproterozoic strata and more Neoproterozoic strata.
Mesozoic igneous rocks are extensively distributed in the KP.
The main Paleozoic basin, the Phyongnam basin in NK, have a similar Paleozoic tectono-stratigraphy to the NCC.
Of most interest is item #5. The Phyongnam basin is the only sedimentary and depositional basin of mention in the north of the Korean peninsula; and therefore the center of our attention as it pertains to oil and gas. The potential source rocks, and possible reservoirs, include the Paleozoic Late Ordovician Miru Series was identified as the Koksan Series and subsequently renamed. The 170-meter thick limestone and siltstone centered around the P'yongnam Basin have extensive crinoid, coral, and gastropod fossils. Paleogeography researchers have suggested that corals formed in the Miru Sea-a branch of the South Yangtze Sea. At the base of the Taedong Synthem is the P'yong'an Supergroup, which lies disconformably atop older Paleozoic rocks. In the Pyongyang Coalfield it is divided into the 650-meter sandstone, shale, and conglomerate of the Nogam Formation, the 500-meter Kobangsan Formation, 350-meter coal-bearing Sadong Formation and 250-meter chert-bearing Hongjom Formation, all typically assigned to an Upper Permian shallow marine environment. In the Mesozoic, north of Pyongyang, Precambrian basement rocks are unconformably overlain by a Jurassic limestone conglomerate ascending to layers of siltstone and mudstone. The Upper Jurassic Shinuiju Formation northwest of Shinuiju has sandstone, conglomerate, and mudstone up to two kilometers thick. Offshore drilling in the West Korea Bay Basin indicates these rocks are the onshore extension of offshore units. It is subdivided into fluvial rocks and Upper Jurassic black shale, limestone, conglomerate and sandstone formed in a lake environment. There are very few Cenozoic sediments are known in North Korea, likely as a result of erosion due to uplift of the peninsula. Submarine normal faults along the eastern coastline may have driven crustal tilting. The 350-meter thick Bongsan Coalfield in Hwanghae Province on the west coast preserves and coal-bearing layers dating to the Eocene. Further to the north, in the West Korea Bay Basin Eocene and Oligocene sedimentary rocks up to three kilometers thick unconformably overlie Mesozoic rocks, formed in lakes and coal swamps during the Paleogene. What this meant is that we’d need to travel mostly northeast and/or southwest. This was fortuitous as the paved roads in the country were created in structural valleys formed by the primary fault trends in the country. The main trans-tensional set trended NE:SW and the conjugate set trends approximately 900 to the main set at NW:SE. The topography was heavily dissected by drainages and the terrain consists mostly of hills and mountains separated by deep, narrow valleys. The coastal plains are wide in the west and discontinuous in the east. The plan was to take the bus north to Sunchon, then hang a right off towards Unsan and Yongha. There were outcrops between the last two towns and they appear to be upper Paleozoic to Lower Mesozoic clastics. Ideal oil and gas hunting grounds. From there, we’d head north-northeast towards Yangwon. There appeared to be some fair to excellent outcrops of rocks that are as of yet, unidentified as to age. From there, we’d continue to follow the outcrop belts either to their termination at the basin’s edges or at international borders with China or Russia. But, once we hit the field, time goes into relative warp. Put a bunch of geologists out on some relatively virgin outcrops and just stand back as they spend hour after hour after hour first looking for evidence of the formation’s provenance, it’s age and field relations. Then begin the heartfelt, stalwart, and sometimes vicious, arguments between all concerned about each and every one of those salient points. We were all looking forward to it and wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s our intellectual and scientific equivalent of meat and potatoes. We all agreed on a way forward and generated a document to deliver to those in charge of our logistics on this trip. There would be a total of 11 Western geoscientists, four guides, perhaps a couple of national geologists or geophysicists, and whatever cadre the shiny suit squad wanted to include. There would also be a driver, his relief, and a couple of extra translators. Good thing it was a large bus, as it’s going to be a huge crew. We needed to allow our handlers a full day to arrange room and board for us while in the field, as we had to be bivouacked somewhere outside our fine hotel. It needed to be secure, pass sanctuary muster, and be ‘controllable’, referring to both Western scientists and nosy locals. One thing we found odd was the lack of concern for long-term logistics, not to mention the end of our self-ordained indentured servitude. When this trip and all the Western geoscientists were contacted, we were all assured of an opportunity to meet with the Supreme Leader, Kim Jong-Un once our trip was completed. We were to personally deliver one hell of an international photo-op. A ‘hey look how progressive we are’ meeting and our findings in this wonderful and progressive country. But lately, with what we thought was the fallout of the Festival washing out all the usual propaganda, we’ve heard nothing about Herr Comrade Leader Supremo, K1J1-Un. Nor had we heard one iota about our intended final meeting with him before we left for China. Since there are “absolutely no” COVID-19 cases in Best Korea, it seemed, well, odd that Beijing was our only possible current exit port of call, and onward to our individual homes. There were all flavors of rumors flying all throughout the basement bars and casinos of the hotel. One claimed that Kim was now receiving treatment at a villa in the Mount Myohyang resort north of the capital Pyongyang after cardiovascular surgery. That he was near death and that his sister, Kim Yo Jong, is already warming up in the North Korean political bullpen if her brother kacks it. Others said Kim is believed to be staying at an unspecified location outside of Pyongyang, with some close confidants. It was said that Kim appeared to be normally engaged with state affairs and there has not been any unusual movement or emergency reaction from North Korea's governing party, military, or cabinet. There was also one other that tries to cover up any conspiracy rumors by shouting over a raspy bullhorn: "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!”, “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!"; but most ignored that little crank. We all thought that rather odd, but of fairly low concern. In the final analysis, it would have little impact on our studies and their outcome. In other words, it wouldn’t affect our pay one way or the other. We all felt like we’ve given more than what was called for on missions such as this. And we still haven’t a clue as to when this will all come to an end. However, we all agreed to the consultation, it would have been fun to meet with him and have our pictures taken with the Supreme Leader. Dr. Academician Ivan Ivanovich Khimik. was especially cheesed that he might miss the opportunity to make finger-vee bunny ears behind the Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces of the DPRK during one of our photo sessions. We all agree if we do somehow find ourselves in the same room with Ivan and Kim Jong-Un, we’ll form a human shield around the latter. We want to get back home; as we’ve all heard the rumors of the horrors of ‘political realignment’ camps here in Best Korea. So the meeting breaks up and I’m left with Dax to take the final inventory. Two loads of sandwiches gone, piles of used napkins, ketchup-y table linens, bacon rinds and chicken bones, drippy ends of ice cream cones, prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, pizza crusts, and withered greens, soggy beans and tangerines, crusts of black burned buttered toast, gristly bits of beefy roasts… “The hell with this”, I say, I grab the last nearly full bottle of vodka and hand Dax a bottle of Royal Navy dark Rum. “Tally’s good”, I say, not really giving two tiny shits at this point. “At least, I think it is. Let’s make like horseshit and hit the trail.” “I’m headed back to our floor and going to zone out in front of some old, looped BBC for the next few hours with a cold drink and hot cigar.” I proclaim. “Oh, hell”, Dax says, “I agree. It’s been a weird couple of days. Let’s go.” And so we do. On the way, I leave the logistics concerns and itinerary for the upcoming field trips with the front desk clerk. I slip her 1000 won as its Festival! and I had a bulgy pocketful of same. She smiled and quietly said there’s be a surprise waiting for me in my room when I got there. “Rock, you fucking old hound!”, Dax exclaimed as he punched me lightly on the shoulder. “Taking a dip in the hotel secretarial pool?” “Dax, you surprise me”, I said in my defense, “I have been, and continue to be, happily married for the last 38 years to the most loving, most intelligent, most well-connected, and most accurate snap-shot with a Glock .380 Automatic I know of.” “Well, me ol’ mucker”, Dax smiles slyly, “If one has been happily married for 38 years, one must have a little something on the side. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge, ‘eh, Squire?” “Oh, nothing like that”, I replied, while waiting the obligatory 30 minutes for the fucking elevator to arrive. “I couldn't break my word to Esme, and not because I don’t believe in a God that will send me to Hell without an electric fan or because it's not the right thing to do. I simply don't want to. A man is only as good as his word; and if he loses that, he loses too much. I couldn’t function without people thinking that I’m square and on the level. My business would crumble to dust. As would my marriage.” “Yeah, there is that”, Dax agrees, “You say something is going to happen and God damn, it fucking happens. That’s what makes you honest and honestly scary.” I stare intently at the annunciator that tells me the fucking elevator is stuck on 4 again. “You’re not mob, are you?” Dax harshly whispers, snickeringly. I turn to face Dax and smile wistfully. “Я с уважением отказываюсь отвечать, потому что я искренне верю, что мой ответ может обвинить меня”, I reply quietly. “What the hell does that mean?” Dax demands. “I respectfully decline to answer because I honestly believe my answer might tend to incriminate me”, I calmly reply. “Oh, look. Bloody elevator’s finally here.” I note and stride aboard. Dax gets caught up in the tsunami of the crowd and is carried bodily inside. It was so remorseless, he almost lost his grip on his bottle of Dark Rum. Up on ‘our’ floor, I go to key open my room. Dax is just down the hall and looking around to see what special surprise might show up. I was too tired to wait so I just push in, and see all my field clothes fully laundered, pressed, and either folded or hanging. Someone broke into my room during the day and committed a compound neatness. “POUND! Pound! POUND!” Hmm, appears to be someone at my door. “Yes, Dax?” I said. “You too?” he fumed, “Everything, cleaned to within an inch if its life. They even polished my bloody field boots.” “Oh, fuck”, I said and ran to find mine re-pristinized. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCKITYFUCKFUCK!” I swore. They had polished my field boots and removed the fine years-of-work-to-acquire near-subsurface of the leather’s oil layer. They polished the water-proofing and conditioning out of the leather of our boots. “OK. OK.”, I said, “Minor emergency. Cool out. I have the solution.” I toss Dax a small can. It was brown, oily, and claimed to be “Neatsfoot oil”. It was the SPF- 500 of field leathers. “Go ahead and oil them up with that”, I told Dax, “I’ve got another can, so don’t worry. Use what you need, don’t be shy, but if there’s any left, let me know. I’ll combine ours and offer it to anyone else in the team who had their boots steam-cleaned.” So, a bit later, I’m sitting on my hotel room’s floor, on several sheets of newspaper, rubbing Neatsfoot Oil into my ancient, multinational size 16 EEE Vasque™ Tracker field boots. Then there’s a knock at the door. “It’s open. Enter carefully”, I say aloud. It’s a bell clerk with a room service cart. On the cart are a bucket of ice, a bowl of sliced limes, I think, several gimlet glasses, some Best Korean ‘Air Koryo’ carbonated citrus drink, and a fresh bottle of “Kaesong” vodka. “Compliments of the front desk”, the bellman says. I stand up, tip him a few thousand won, and set a new record in mixology; a fresh brace of drinks in less than 7.3 seconds. I offer the bellman the lighter one and he accepts with a wide smile. I say “건배” (geonbae) literally means 'empty glass', which is similar to the expression 'bottom's up'. For you see, my Korean’s coming along a treat. We clink glasses and send those drinks to the places that they’ll do the best. The bellman smiles offloads the cart onto the table in my room, shakes my hand, and departs. I finish my boots, my drink, and my cigar. After another drink or seven, I crater early. Dax was right; it had been a long, weird day. The next day, Festival! is still going strong, but still no word on the whereabouts of El Líder Supremo. I find that odd, only slightly interesting, and since it will impact the day’s events zero, I file it away for maybe later use. I go to the hotel pool around 0530 and there’s no one there. I’m able to get in a good 100 laps, unburdened with either small talk or by yammering kids blocking my lanes. I go early as I don’t wear gloves in the water, obviously. Statistically, there is less chance there will be others, adults and kids included, that would get freaked out by my gnarly left hand. I really don’t feel like recounting the old Russian Rig Accident story again. After a brisk shower and double shower-scotch back in my room, I dress casually and wander down to the casino and bar level. It’s essentially breakfast time, but with the revelers not giving two hoots to AM vs. PM, it’s surprisingly busy. I find a perch up on Mahogany Ridge and order a classical breakfast cocktail of one liter of beer and 100 milliliters of chilled vodka. I see Mr. Ho is manning the bar. I ask him to ring the massage parlor down the hall and see if Ms. Nang Bo-Hee is free sometime this morning. He does and reports that she has an open hour and a half at 0900. Would I like it or any portion of that time? “I’ll take the lot”, I said. “Tell them I’ll be there spot on 0900.” “That’s great.”, Mr. Ho says, hanging up the phone, “Doctor Rock, they tell me that with the Festival discount and you taking the full 90 minutes, they can cut you a very special deal.” “I’ll bet”, I replied, “Like what?” “Oh, I cannot say for they did not tell me”, he smiled, “They will tell you when you arrive.” “Marvelous”, I exhaled tiredly. “Another, Mr. Ho; make it a double, if you would please.” The massage center here is run by a group not employed directly by the hotel. It’s a separate entity altogether. They run specials and have different discount programs that are not only not controlled nor advertised by the hotel, but they’re also not in any way beholden to the hotel, except for rent, I suppose and run it like their own little fiefdom. Ms. Nang, my preferred masseuse, is a little, tiny Korean lassie about 5 feet tall and probably all of 90 pounds soaking wet. However, she is amazingly well trained and could probably put me in the hospital for a lengthy visit with her wiles and methods of flesh, bone, and muscle manipulation. She offers a whole suite of different massage genres: Swedish, hot stone, aromatherapy, deep tissue, sport, trigger point, reflexology, shiatsu, Thai, and Rolfing. Oh, fuck. I know Rolfing. I tried that nonsense back in grad school with an old east Indian lady that could have linebackered for the Minnesota Vikings. That shit fucking hurt. Today, it’d incapacitate me permanently. That’s a definite no-go. I decide that it’s going to be the Hot Stone-treatment today. A geological-manipulation inquiry. At 0900 I’m the only client at the massage ‘store’. It’s early, day two of the festival, and people are either sleeping off the previous night’s festivities or too wobbly to even think of partaking in a massage. I’ve had several major back surgeries over the years, including one bilateral laminectomy about seven years ago that removed 7.5 kilos of overgrown bone and muscle from my lumbar region, so I’ve been very cautious about soliciting a massage. The masseuse has to know that area is strictly verboten and will do everything to avoid annoying that particular piece of bodily real-estate. I’ve walked or limped out of massages before where the practitioner said they understood my reticence, but went ahead and kneaded and provoked that land of keloids and deep-body scar tissue. However, based on past experience, Ms. Nang knows full well my reluctance as well as my desires. That’s the reason I’m returning. She’s very, very good; a consummate professional and has a never-ending series of jokes and observations while she’s pummeling you into submission. Today, we retire to a private cubicle and she hands me a small robe or napkin, not sure which, of Korean manufacture. She tells me to get au natural and to wear the robe while she prepares the tools of her trade. OK, I’m not a small person; not by a long shot. This robe, however, is made for a sprite, not even for a small person. She returns to our massage cubicle as I’m sitting there, at the end of the massage table, sipping my drink clad only in my dapper red-and-white checkered boxers. “You need to be unclothed, Doctor. Use the robe. OK, sir Rock?” she says. “Ms. Nang,”, I said, shaking my head, “It’s one or the other.” I show her how laughable the robe is as I can’t even get it over my upper arm. It’s not even as a tea towel when it comes to covering my expansive acres of exposed epidermis. “I can close door.”, she says, “I’m used to it. I am professional. Does not bother me if it does not bother you.” I lost all forms of bashfulness, timidity, or prudery long, long ago. After years and years of Russian banya, Swedish massage, Turkish baths, and surgery; well, if it don’t bother you, it don’t bother me. “OK”, I say, using the robe as a small two-dimensional breechcloth. She tells me to ‘hop’ up on the massage table and lie down, facing the floor. After chuckling about the fact that I haven’t hopped for decades, I wander over to the nicely padded and extremely clean massage table and lie down. She rearranges the ‘robe’ to cover my backside and tells me to relax. She’ll be right back with the stones. I’ve never tried this type of massage before, but as a geologist, I must; if for nothing else, progress in the name of science. Ms. Nang returns with a large parcel consisting of many sizes of steamed stones. They were river-washed and tumbled basalt from the looks of them, all wrapped in a large fuzzy towel. Now she finds the large towels… She selects them one by one and places them in ‘special, strategic’ spots on my exposed back. From the lower 2/3rds of the nape of the neck, down the spine, over the fundus mountains, and down the back of each leg. It’s a warm, almost hot in some places, but not an uncomfortable feeling. She returns to adjust them, grind them in a bit in places, and flip them to extract all that igneous lithological thermal goodness. I have to admit, at that point, it was feeling quite delightful. Relaxed; I had my drink and was being kneaded My dorsal musculature was being de-lithified by the application of hot rocks and expert point massage. All was going quite well as Ms. Nang was building a huge tip in her ‘job well done’ bank. Then the rocks had all attained room temperature. She excused herself to reload with another minor outcrop’s-worth and told me to flip over for round two of the process. “In for a dime, in for a dollar”, I said, as I flipped over and use the robe as a laughable forward-facing breechcloth. Ms. Nang mentioned that she was always fascinated by Westerners and their surplus of bodily fuzz. With my long, shoulder-length silver hair, full Grizzly Adams beard that drooped down to my sternum, and torso that picked up where my beard left off; she was quite unprepared to see the beached silver-gray panda that awaited upon her return. “Dr. Rock!’, she exclaimed, “You are as a bear! So much hair. And silver color!” “Yeah, sorry”, I replied, “Just the hand genetics dealt me. I guess it’s an adaptation for ethanol-fueled organisms that never feel cold.” “I will soon return.” She titters excitedly and almost runs out of the room. “Hmmm. I wonder what that’s all about?” I muse as I lie largely undraped in the massage cubicle. Suddenly, the door bursts open and every female massage practitioner there herded into the room. They simply had to see the specimen upon which the delightful Ms. Nang was working. OK, truth be told, I was a bit taken aback. Here I am lying on an elevated, and heavily padded, massage table. I’m ‘wearing’ only a crooked, worried grin and a sheet of a cotton washcloth that measures about 12x12 inches. They Oohed! and Ahhhed! I did feel like some form of an alien animal suddenly thrust out into public view. It was a bit disconcerting, but as usual, I just tried to deflect any unease with jokes and idiot remarks. At my age, not much is going to bother me, and this I found all the more laughable than troubling. Suddenly, I was fielding their barrage of questions: “You are American? All American men so…hairy?” “Yes and no”, I replied. I also mentioned I hadn’t undertaken a study in that particular subject. “Why you so big?” one tiny lass asked, eyes as big as dinner plates. “Genetics”. I replied. “Just a corn-fed Baja Canadian doofus. We grow ‘em big back home.” “Can we touch?” one particularly brave little lass asks. “Touch what?” I asked. Look, I might be over 6 decades old, but there are still some areas reserved for my one and only betrothed. I did tell Esme of this whole event later that evening during our nightly call. She laughed herself silly. “Your beard! Oriental men never have such beard. We touch maybe?” she implored. I was going to say “Go nuts”, but I decided that a simple “Sure” would be more fitting. So they did. They were enthralled. They had never before, from what I was told, seen such a large silver-gray ZZ Top-style beard, especially here at the hotel. That part was weird enough, but when they started in on working their way south toward the equator, I had to say something to dissuade them. “Where were you girls 45 years ago?” I laughed. I don’t think they got the joke. They became somewhat bolder in their austral exploratory activities. “OK! Time out! Ms. Nang! We have an appointment to keep”, I said as I shooed the rest of the lassies away, “We need to finish what we started.” By the time that the third syllable of that last sentence came into being, I knew it wasn’t the right thing to say. They all laughed and tittered as Ms. Nang ushered them out of the room. I could have sworn I heard the door lock behind them. Ms. Nang reprieved her earlier stone placement therapy, with a couple of strategic detours. She wasn’t that type of masseuse, and I wasn’t looking for that type of massage. She did, however, knead and pummel me mercilessly. I’ve been bruised less from barroom brawls. Finally, she announces that she’s finished. She’ll leave while I shower, as she used essential aromatic oils, and would await me out in the lobby. After showering, I felt like a large bowl of pummeled Jello. I felt relaxed, and for the first time in weeks, my back was silent. My head was clear as a spring Sunday morn in Reykjavik. The full 90 minutes, plus sideshow, was 4,500 won. I paid the owner the required sum and handed Ms. Nang an additional 15,000 for a job well done. And for another anecdote that goes into the hopper. I left the massage parlor feeling quite fine, thank you. I wandered over to the bar to see if I could augment and prolong this feeling of harmony with the universe. The mental picture even now of all those cooing Korean lassies in the massage room never fails to elicit a laugh and head shake. A few hours later, I’m back in my room, tidying up my field notes and making certain all my paperwork was heavily encoded and up to date. It was, so I placed a number of expensive overseas calls to catch up with everyone on the outside. I’m thinking of calling room service to have my mini-bar repaired when my room phone rings. “Now who would be calling me at this hour?” I wondered. It was the tour group leader. He informed me that the itinerary had been worked out and we’d be leaving tomorrow for the field at 0600. We were to arrive with all our luggage and be prepared to check out. We would spend at least a week in the field, if not two, depending on our results, and be bivouacking in different places in the interior of the country. I thanked him for the information and said I’d inform the rest of the team. He told me that wouldn’t be necessary as they would come up to or floor, deliver the notice verbally, or by note if they were out of their rooms. If I wanted to later call each participant and ensure they were apprised of the situation, that would be most appreciated. I assured him I would do so and that we’d be ready, to a man, at 0600 the next day. I whip up 10 Post-it™ notes and stick one on each member’s door. “Leaving for the field. Check out 0530. Wheels up 0600. Bring all luggage. Road trip!” To be continued…
This is an ongoing drama- so any help from you guys will be deeply appreciated Male,40, two kids and wife,if that matters. About six families have come on a cruise together. One of the people who's come along is my cousin- she's been an alcoholic in the past and has been in rehab. Met up in Italy, got on the cruise and whatnot- everything was pretty cool for the first few hours. The trouble started when i took my kids down to the pool deck and met up with the rest of the gang. I ordered a beer and sat down, when she suddenly huffed and walked away. I didn't pay it much attention- honestly, i thought she was mad at her husband. I tend not to drink at dinner- so things were cool, that evening. I hit the casino alone and had a drink. No problem. It started again when we went out for lunch the next day. Ordered myself a cocktail, when she suddenly got up, asked the waiter for another table and moved her husband and kids there. It honestly surprised the hell out of me. That's when the group pointed out that i shouldn't drink when she's around. This is a cruise- we're always going to be around each other, and everyone drinks. I disregarded it the next day, and had a drink at the table when things really blew up. She lost her cool, told me that this was her ******* vacation too, and called me an inconsiderate prick for drinking in from of her, when i knew her history- i felt like slappong her when she threw her napkin across the table into my son's plate. This was in front of a restaurant full of people, so i didn't respond- gave her a stare and went back to my meal. I didn't move the glass and her husband didn't get involved either. My wife told me to chill and visit the bar. I work very hard. I need a break too. I put a decent chunk of my savings into this trip too, for god's sake. It isn't fair to me. Why should i be expected to sacrifice my leisure time because of her addictions? Any advice would be helpful.
It's been a minute. Your old friend SwanpJew had to lay low for a while, until the people he owed LockPoker chips to were bumped off by people they owed PokerSpot chips to. A few phone calls to Witness Protection later, and I find myself in Rose City. That's Portland, Oregon for my geographically-challenged readers. Let me tell you something about the coffee in Stumptown: it ain't no Dunkin Donuts. I went to order my usual 84-ouncer with extra cream and the guy behind the counter didn't even add the sprinkling of Adderall XR I've become accustomed to and highly tolerant of. Things are different here, and it didn't take long for me to get homesick. I knew I had to find a game, fast, and get back into the swing of things. Lucky for me, there's a Sharrita's here. In the short bus trip from my $900-a-night room at the Portland Super 8, I saw a tall skinny white guy dancing in his bus seat like an urban mime, a tall skinny white girl with dreadlocks carrying a hula hoop, and at least a half dozen tweakers. I'm from Nowlins, so I'm used to that sort of thing. I thought it might be some sort of Mardi Gras celebration, but then I realized Mardi Gras was a month ago. And it got worse from there. 1/2 NL at Sharrita's PDX Strip Club, Microbrewery, and Poetry Cafe Hero (SB): $300 Uncomfortably Close Fat Guy (BB): $175 Old Asian Nit (UTG): $34 Lanky Guy with Patchy Beard (MP): $105 Overweight Woman with Badly-Dyed Purple Hair and a Hyphenated Last Name (HJ): $42 Fat Guy with Absurdly Large Beard (CO): $87 [Villain] Some Guy from a Band in Portland -- You've Never Heard of Them (BU): $700 Background: Hero just sat down, and apparently this room has different rules about how much you can buy in with. At Sharrita's NOLA, you're welcome to buy in with anywhere from 10 BB all the way up to 100,000 BB, but due to Oregon's biblical stance on gambling, things at Sharrita's PDX are...different. Just so we have PDX logic straight: poker rooms bad, highest number of strip clubs per capita good. I pulled out my Triple Bajunky Platinum Card and made sure my name was visible, and even tried explaining to the young lady in the cage who I was by showing her the wallet-size photos of my babies -- the 54 poker strategy books I wrote (now sadly all out of print). But she assumed "SwanpJew's Power Poker System" is a local band or a local beat poet or both and was consequently unimpressed. (Damn kids with your Apple PowerBooks and your DSL internet speeds.) So, even if it doesn't make any sense, there's a reason for my ridiculously small stack for a 1/2 NL table. Preflop UTG folds. MP, HJ, CO, and BU have the most insipid conversation ever about a brand of cruelty-free, fair-trade, organic salve for styling armpit hair. HJ recommends it heartily. Hero vomits in his mouth a little and surreptitiously dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin. After what feels like an eternity, MP, HJ, and CO fold. BU takes his sweet time pouring a bit more of his IPA, which is 105% hops. BU says, "The math adds up. They add more hops after it's in the bottle." BU swirls his beer around in a mason jar like it's a snifter and takes in the bouquet. Finally, BU calls. Hero has Ah4s and raises to $10. BB folds. BB says, "Swanp, when am I ever going to be a legit part of a hand history?" BU calls. Pot to the flop: $21 Preflop Thoughts: I considered calling the clock, but then I remembered this is Portland and that beer probably cost the villain about 20BB plus tip. Flop8s2c5h Hero: Bets $15. BU: Raises to $42. MP, HJ, CO, and BU all titter amongst themselves over the "obscure" reference to one of the three books they've ever read in their lives (one of the other two invariably being Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins, which girls in the PNW read to seem "deep" and guys in the PNW read to be "deep" in those girls.) Hero: Raises to $666 and flashes the heavy metal horns. Dealer says, "Ah, sorry, sir. You don't have enough on the table to make that bet." Hero: Calls. Dealer says, "Oooh. This is awkward. Unfortunately, since you said 'raise,' I'm afraid it's binding." Hero: Sulks and raises to $84. BU: Calls. Pot to the turn: $189 Flop Thoughts: What, these people have never heard of Iron Maiden? Look, when someone raises you on the flop and tweaks the number of chips they put in the pot to match some novelty number, they're going to be weak 64% of the time. Don't believe me? The next hundred times you're at the table and someone raises a flop bet with some oddball number, take a note when they show up with the second best hand. You'll have 64 tallies. Bet on it. It's such a reliable tell, I can't believe I'm seeing it at a Sharrita's, even if it's one that has patchouli-scented soap in the bathroom. I called (well, I WANTED to call) because I think I can get another street or two of value out of him by slowing down. In this spot, Ace-high is a monster here like it always is, and there's no rush. I wish the Ace was a spade, but sometimes life is hard. Turn2c Hero: Checks. BU: Checks. Pot to the river: $189 Turn Thoughts: Those of you with exclusive SwanpJew Power Poker Dot Net access passes may remember the secret lesson about checking down to spring the trap on sixth street. But since the SwanpJew domain was seized on what I like to call Black Wednesday, I'll give you a quick primer here. Y'see, when you're sure you're ahead and your opponent is such a buffoon that he-- wait a sec. Hero says, "There's two deuces of clubs on the board. Dealer says, "Oooh. This is awkward. Floor!" Floor: Stalks over like he hates his life, glances at the board like poker cards nauseate him, and grabs the top card of the stub and lays it over the second 2c, then slinks off without saying a word. Really, it's some of the best customer service I've ever seen in Portland. Turn3d Hero: Checks. BU: Checks. Pot to the river: $189 RiverQd Hero: Bets $2. BU: Raises to $90. Hero: Raises all-in. BU: Calls. Hero says, "I got the tranny hand." Vinyl record: Scratches stopped. River Thoughts: I am initially annoyed to see a dumb cliche in one of my strategy articles, but that's until I realized the sound was genuine. Because they actually have and USE vinyl here. MP, HJ, CO, and BU cast baleful stares at Hero. Hero says, "Y'know...because it looks like Aces, but instead, one of the Aces has a dick." Aftermath Someone describes the language as "problematic." I can't say who, because they all have the same condescending tone of voice and it's hard to tell them apart in this dark room. I say, "What's wrong with calling it the 'tranny hand'?" But they clasp their hands over their ears and hiss like vampires exposed to a joke about garlic. "It's just a funny name for a poker hand. Y'know, like 'Big Slick' for Ace-King or 'Big Chick' for Ace-Queen?" "That's offensive to body-positive women," says Persephone Anderson-Gables-Lee, who isn't so much body-positive as she is exercise-negative. "Uh. Okay. What about 'Gay Waiter' for Queen-Trey? That's not really all that offensive, is it?" "We're called servers," someone says. "No, you're called English majors." No one has a pithy rejoinder for that; it turns out they all actually have English degrees. "Okay, I got it. What's offensive about dog balls for pocket eights? It's hilarious!" "I identify as a trans-species trans-person. I wish I had dog balls." "Not in that hand, you don't." My new tablemates look at me askance while I stack my chips and wait for the next hand. "Look, I don't want to sift through my language and scruntinize every word I ever use to see if it might offend someone. A) That's no way to live, and B) the world has much, much bigger problems than how a flippin' word affects your insidey-parts. I just want to play poker and have a good time and forget how shitty everything else is, but I can't well do that if internet poker is banned, the nearest legit casinos are a thousand miles away in Vegas, and innocent poker clubs like this one are forced to act like speakeasies during Prohibition. Meanwhile, you can't pass a convenience store that doesn't have a gigantic Oregon State Lottery sign in its window. I HATE PORTLAND. Why would anyone play here? The people are rude, the sky is constantly doing an impression of the last few post-pee shakes in front of a urinal, everything costs 20% more because someone wrote "organic" on the label, the women are somehow both uglier and more picky at the same time, and everyone here is in love with the place. Nothing says, 'I've never lived anywhere else with a population greater than 25,000' like treating Portland as if it's some bourgeois metropolis instead of the equivalent of a trap house with a gloryhole in the kitchen. I suppose this is where you live if you want to feel urban but can't afford L.A. and wouldn't be able to stomach New York or D.C. without constantly fearing the 'dangerous minorities' you read about in a book once. But West Coast is best Coast, amirite? Now I get you donks staring at me like I'm Mel Gibson on a bender. And how much rake am I paying on top of all that?" "Portland poker rooms don't charge rake." Tune in next week for some more poker strategy, arugula- and kale-infused cocktail recipes, and mustache grooming tips with your old pal SwanpJewPDX_420_ACAB. Good night, /poker!
Death’s Gambit A strong pulse shot up through a lifeless body and it felt like it had thrown up a mass of air. Two thin palish hands felt around the red leather back seats of a black car. A skinny body draped in a white dress shirt and black sweater ascended and slowly collapsed in a rhythmic tone. Carbon dioxide floated out of a pair of fair lungs, while fresh and honey scented oxygen although in an appearance, frantically clawed it way back in like a wild animal. Two blue and silvery like eyes dashed back and forth as they searched the black car’s interiors. A pale hand reached for a forehead hidden by a black drape of hair. The thin fingers combed through the hair and the boy’s body shaking slumped even deeper into the chair. The boy shifted his legs to sit up straight in the chair. He looked out the tinted black windows to no avail. Nothing could be seen from the outside of the car. He looked straight but there was a black glass like wall covering everything but the back of the chairs. Not moving his legs, he leaned his torso to look around the backseat. He was sitting in the middle, and on the back of the drivers chair there was a small pouch. The boy couldn’t remember what they were called, some kind of kangaroo pouch or something? He looked inside only to find a chapstick, a couple of napkins, a crumpled receipt and a magazine on a casino. The boy took out the magazine on impulse and began to observe the pages with interest. Although all he did was look at the pictures, he still didn’t know what was going on. As he put the magazine back, in the middle of his motion he looked at the chair in front of him. The drivers chair. He backed away and scooched to the left a little bit. He leaned his palish face against the window and sighed. His long eyelashes batted as he still desperately stared of in the direction of where he should be able to see the driver. At a loss of what to do he looked around the car once more. It was bright. Although the seats were a red leather, the ceiling was a soft brown as well as the doors. It was truly a high class car. He leaned his head on the window and finally opened the gates to all the question that dare enter his dull weak willed mind. The simple questions that maybe asked like, where am I? What am I doing here? Who am I? Who’s car is this? What's going on? Where am I going?, all these questions were not greeted at the gates nor were they permitted to enter. He kept them at bay, and decided to await his arrival. He took his hand from his small sharp chin and filled with the doors window buttons. Although nothing changed, he seemed to like the way they clicked back and forth, so he continued the melody. It’s not as if these buttons had any other purpose right? The boy pulled his black sleeves over his palish hands to warm them. Keeping his head down his eyes took a sharp turn to the left as if expecting something. The car seemed to have stopped, not that you could tall it was moving to begin with, and the boy didn’t remove his gaze from where he believed the driver to be. It was perhaps a sound of a door closing or opening that made him feel a cut to the gut. He heard footsteps walking over to the front of the car. There was a row of lights along the visible outline of the ceiling, and they began to dim and flicker in the direction the taps of foot and stone came from. The boy despite this was not afraid. Sorry by the way. My job is to tell you what is going on in this boys mind, yet there is not much to tell. His mind in this state isn’t functioning properly. It’s not confused but just to simple. It simply has finished it’s task of allowing himself to know where he is. To him he is simply in a car that has seemed to have stopped only 17 seconds ago. He was alone in the backseat and it was cold. Now of course I know where he is. I know the name of the driver as well as the boy. I know their ages and their futures, yet I only know of the boys birth. The cheufers cannot not be known for that is one thing he lacks as well as any affection. Yet that's a whole other story, and it’s only interesting if you can follow the mind off an unknowing character. Yes indeed our main character is none other than this boy here, and although I know his name, he doesn’t, so I’ll refer to him as boy until the time comes. Only 10 more seconds passed until footsteps stopped right outside the door on his left. Although not frightened he still shuffled closer to the door on the right, pressing his body next to it. The only thing in his mind was why the man had to walk to the front of the car. As he was staring at the left door his body got dropped to the right. He tries to use one lazy left hand to reach for something to no avail. Almost as if in slow motion his body falls out of the seat and out the car. He looks around him and he sees nothing but black. The only light there is is the one from the car and one behind him, which he subconsciously acknowledges. Like falling into water his body get stopped abruptly only 7 inches from the black hollow floor, and his body starts to float like a lifeless lily pad. He leans his head back to see a man standing above him. Presumably the driver. To the young boy’s dismay he had been tricked into thinking he was on the left side only to find out the truth. The man was tall and thin. He was wearing a suit so black it was almost a royal purple, and his tie was a snow white, in contrast to his dull black dress shirt. His hair was long and black, and he had thin beautiful red eyes that seemed to glow. He had a beauty mark and a smile of trickery. His long black hair was nicely combed down the back and on the right front half. The boy felt invisible like tentacles of air maneuver him to a vertical position, and then dropped him. Forgetting his own weight he stumbled as his slim black dress shows connected with the black floor. As the young boy looked around he noticed his height difference to the car. He was around 5.6 yet he looked taller because he was thin. There was no background to be seen. Where the car had come from there was no road, nothing but black. He turned in front of him to see a light post about 15 ft high casting a funnel cone of yellowish white to the ground. The driver turned around and walked to the light post that was only 5 feet away. The boy walked behind him yet he kept his distance. A white line of what looked like light fire sparked from the ground in front of them both. The light then ascended in a bright light casting shadows. The boy shielded his eyes yet the driver didn’t flinch. Almost as if this was the norm. When the light reached about 9 ft it split off to the right and left. As he watched, it began to take the form of a large box. The sparks and flames became more detailed and intricate. An elevator. With a chime the door opened and the driver looked down at the boy and motioned for him to walk in. Yet that wasn’t needed because a shove of condensed air pushed him in. By the time he turned around the driver was already inside and the doors began to close. He caught a quick glimpse of the car door and the light post. The elevator had the same interior design of the car. A bright room and a red carpet with fancy brown walls with a mirror ceiling. The driver turned around to look at the boy. He opened his mouth and a soft voice came out. “Good day to you young sir. I hope you enjoyed the ride” The boy stood up straight and opened his mouth to speak. “Yes it was quite nice. Anyway, do you mind telling me where I am? Also why can’t I remember who I am?” Surprised at how deep his voice was he lifted his hand to his throat. Then he looked up he looked into the man's piercing red eyes that seemed to glow, and looked away. His smile faded and he said, “Sorry but I cannot answer any of those questions. Yet I can tell you one thing. My name is Raven, and I found you in the back seat of my car not to long ago with a note to bring you here. That’s all I can tell you.” Satisfied with his answers he shoved his hands in his pockets and he looked up at the mirrored ceiling. Looking back at himself for the first time he studied his figure, for he did not know what to expect. He had large blue eyes that where glossy and seemed to glow just like Raven’s. His pale face was like ice, and his black hair was on the longer side. It went down to his ears and the back of his neck. He studied his small face that curved quite nicely to a sharp chin. His long eyelashes where pitch black and it contrasted his snow like skin. He looked like a girl if anything. He looked back down at Raven who stood still in a dark suit in silence. With a familiar chime the doors opened. The boy shifted at the sudden change and walked away from the back wall. Raven walked out as if expecting the younger boy to follow. The boy walked with a slump of boredom and followed at a distance. He searched the hallway which had a black ceiling roof, an red carpet as if leading the way, and light strips lined the floor. They walked for a minute in silence before Raven began to talk saying, “Just wait sin, you’ll get your answers soon enough.” The boy raised a thin eyebrow and asked, “Sin?” Raven spoke without turning around, “Yes, you are a Sin. The first one ever to show up here. Now before you ask anything, just wait a little longer.” The boy sighed and continued to follow the butler. They arrived at a double door entry way and Raven opened the doors with ease. The boy stood in the doorway with his little mouth opened wide. A large room that resembled a ball from a fairy tale lay ahead. A chandelier hung from the ever far reaching ceiling. The floor was covered in a red soft material. Colors like gold and brown could be seen even in the small details. It looked like a casino yet with no slot machines to be used, there were only a few tables. He walked in on impulse looking up, down, right and left. When he looked straight he saw a man standing at something that looked like a bar. He was tall yet he couldn’t see his details from the distance. A hand felt his upper back and motioned him forward. The boy looked up and saw Raven above him bowing in the direction of the bar. The boy walked forwards and finally arrived at the bar. Not knowing his age, he didn’t know if he was old enough to be there yet it was too late to think about that. He could see the man clearer now. He had a black classy hat with a red streak in it. His face was slim and handsome, and his left eye stood out like a green jewel while the right was covered by bandages. He smiled as he cleaned a glass. He had a white dress shirt with the first button undone, and he had a black ribbon laced around his neck were a tie should have been. His bright orange hair was strung back in a ponytail that hung on his shoulder. He wore a black vest and had his sleeves rolled up. His forearms where covered in wrapped bandages as was his visible lower neck. He chuckled a bit and said, “Welcome Sin. This is the Shi no Kake, my place. How you doin’? What can I get ya.” The boy sighed and said, “What’s this about being a Sin?” The man smiled brightly and said, “Well that's what you are. I thought since your the only one then that should be your name. Not that you remember your name anyway.” The boy decided that Sin would be his name and shrugged. “Well it isn’t nice to go out naming people who don’t even know your name.” The red haired beauty of a bartender smacked his forehead and called out in sarcastic agony, “My My! Your right! Well I guess I should tell you then. My name is Kit. My whole name is Kitsune but you can just call me Kit.” Puzzled by the strange names, Sin decided he would ask another question to further the conversation. “Well what exactly is going on? I mean I don’t even know where I am.” Kit smiled and put his cup down and said, “Well I tell ya straight. This place is a place for dead people. In the land of the living, there were people who were called psychics. Like the title suggests, they could use their minds to control things. It’s far more complicated yet those are the basics. Anyway, this place is only for dead psychics whose minds have been saved. Only psychics minds can be saved, normal humans cannot.” Sin scratched his black hair and said, “Well than what am I. A dead psychic.” Kit chuckled and said, “It’s a lot more complicated than that. Anyway that's the basics. Here we have them come in and play games. We can only send one person back into the world each time. Their mind can get put in the body of someone alive on the surface world. Yet when that happens, that person who was taken over gets sent here. To help with that we take pairs of even numbers in as parties. As they play, people get ruled out. Then the winner gets sent back to the living. The other players then get eliminated. Sin waited a while and then asked, “Well how did you take in all the minds of those psychics. Are we in a computer?” Kit’s smile disappeared and he sighed. “Well, were inside someone's mind. They aren't currently using it, so we inhabit it. There subconscious is right over there.” Kit pointed to his left to the far side of the casino main hall. Sin saw a girl sitting at a white piano and as he looked closer he saw she was about 14 or 15 years old. She had bright silver like hair and yellowish eyes. Like glowing lights. As Sin looked intently at the girl playing silently, Kit said in the background, “She is currently in a coma right now. Her mind is completely empty yet she is still alive, so that made it possible for the boss to inhabit her mind and construct this place.” Sin looked back at Raven who was dangerously quite and said, “How did she end in the comma?” Raven looked at Kit and Kit sighed and smiled. He set the glass down and motioned for him to sit down and said, “You should be worried about yourself. She’s nothing more than this building. She does talk but she still a lifeless blob. She can’t do anything for herself but we have to keep her subconscious safe. If she dies or gets hurt then this whole place could be lost, meaning all the minds in here would be lost or it would take over her mind killing her, and then we all die. Either way we die.” Kit handed Sin a drink though he didn’t bother to touch it. He then said kindly, “That’s why your here Sin. You supposed to make sure she doesn’t get hurt or die or anything. You also have a job here. You’ll be serving our guests. Some people should be coming here anytime now. Raven go wait for them please.” At that Raven bowed and turned the other way and walked out. Sin watched him leave and then took the drink without thinking. He turned to look at Kit and he smiled kindly. Sin took a sip and sighed. As he rested his chin on his wrist he said, “Well how exactly am I supposed to work here? I can’t make drinks like you can.” Kit raised his eyebrows and said, “You’ll just watch the first time around and then learn later. Our guests have arrived.” The door behind him opened and people stepped in. A group of 4. It went from right to left, girl, boy, girl, and girl. The first girl had long tannish orange hair. She was the shortest of the bunch, and was wearing a school uniform. The boy had short brown hair and was wearing a large white sweater and black pants. He had a cute face and freckles. He looked around 16, like the girl before him. The second girl had long slick black hair down to her mid back. She had bluish purple eyes and seemed to be in the background of the others. She was wearing pink pajamas and had a red ribbon in her hair. The last was a woman about 24 to 25 who was wearing a skirt and a had her black hair pulled back in a bun. She was wearing make-up and seemed to have been out before she got there. All the 4 of them and walked forwards as Raven had instructed them. Sin looked eagerly to see the expression on them. The same ones he gave when he had walked in not long ago. He put the glass down and stepped off from the high stool. He turned to Kit and he motioned towards the piano. Sin nodded to the group of people walking in and walked off to the left with his hand in his pockets. As everyone looked around he stole a few last glances of the group. Yet the girl in the pink pajamas started right back at Sin. Her bright purple eyes seemed to stand out from the obscurity. He continued walking towards the girl on the piano bench. He heard their voices from behind him. Questions like, “Where are we. Who are you people? What is this place? Who is this butler guy?” Those questioned seemed to bother Sin as he got closer to the white piano. All those people seemed to know their names, while he didn’t. Also they couldn’t have arrived in the car, because the car only had 3 seat’s in the back. As he got closer to the piano their voices seemed to dissipate. He happened to hear Kit introduce himself and ask them a few things. The closer he got to the piano, darker it became. The floor looked that of a dark blue ice, as well as the ceiling and walls. It was colder, and the air was sharper than before. While he kept walking, he slowed his pace, and turned around to see the other part of the main hall. It was the same old bron red and gold with bright lights all around. The last time he saw this girl at the piano it was nowhere near this. Something hit him in the gut shutting off his train of thought. He turned his head back around to see he had run into the piano side. It was plain white like before but as he looked at the girl at the bench she was a lot clearer now. She had an aura of ice, and her golden eyes stared back at him in a clueless fashion. She was wearing a white dress with frills at the ends with no sleeves. Her pale thin knees could be seen yet she was wearing no shoes or socks. Her expression didn’t specify anything. Not as if she couldn’t say what she wanted, but just that she simply had nothing to say. He leaned on the piano side and looked over to see the group sitting at the bar and talking to Kit. Raven looked over at him and motioned with his eyes over. Sin looked in the direction he had motioned and nodded back. He poked the girl yet nothing happened. She just looked back at him soulless. He asked, “Hey what’s your name?” Her yellow eyes lit up a tad bit and she responded in a familiar kind tone, “Hazel”. Sin leaned off the piano and carried her over down the hallway Raven had motioned to earlier. Yes of course his mind was in a million places at once. He couldn’t understand what was happening and who he was. He just continued down an ice like hallway. He walked down the dark cold ice path with a pale figure in his arms. As he walked down he could hear voices in the distance. They arrived at a door and it opened itself with ease. The room was dark, and about 20 ft by 20 ft. There were chairs in rows like it was a mini theater. On the wall opposite the entrance, there was a large glass wall where you could see the four new guests asking Kit questions, which he answered none of, to their dismay. He just smiled and listened to them speak. As Sin stood in the the door way, a hand pressed his back. Raven showed him to a chair and Sin sat Hazel down next to him. Raven set a glass next to them on a table that already had a cocktail on it. Sin looked up to see a man sitting next to them looking intriguingly at the glass TV like wall. He had brown scruffy hair that went down to his mid back neck, and it curved down on the sides of his face. He had grey eyes that didn’t glow like the other tenants of this building. They were dull, and deductive. He wore a white dress shirt and and a black vest over it. He had a long slim figure that was draped in a brown trench coat that he only wore like a cloak. Sin opened his mouth to speak but the man and Hazel in unison raised their hands to theirs mouths and shushed him. Sin sat back in his chair and quietly payed attention to the new guests. Kit only answered the questions he wanted to, and just waited for them to finish talking. Raven stood behind the audience of three who were watching them intrigued. He listened as closely as possible to their conversation as he could. It didn’t count as eavesdropping, for why have a room right here specifically for this purpose. Behind the screen Kit said, “Now that I’ve answered your questions, will you please remain silent as I ask some.” The group of four nodded in unison and Kit smiled as he said, “Great. Well for starters, do any of you remember what you were doing before he got here.” Again they all nodded in unison saying no. His smile became even more menacing as he said, “Well then let's begin. I’ll begin explaining the rules.” Kit set down a glass in front of the the first short girl and said, “ 1. Please follow instructions as closely as possible.” He set down another full glass in front of the boy saying, “ 2. Please play with all you’ve got.” He paused for a second and then set down a an empty glass in front of the girl in the pajamas. He said in a slyer tone, “ 3. We would like you all to please risk your lives on the games we have here.” He then set down a larger drink in front of the woman and said finally, “ 4. We ask you to enjoy yourselves here.” They all took a sip other than the girl in the pajamas. She asked keenly, “Where are we exactly.” Kit stopped, smiled and turned towards her. Almost like a Tv show, the camera angle switched to were you could see Kit’s face. His bright green eye seemed to glow lighter, yet it made him more menacing. He looked sly, and hungry for fun. He turned around and set a few things down. He turned back around and motioned towards the sign to his right. As he spoke, the lights lit up on the sign, “This is the Shi no Kake. My Casino.” The older woman scratched her head and said. “Wait where is that? Also why are we here.” Kit looked over to her and said, “Sorry but I may not disclose that information.” The boy said in a angered tone, “Why can’t you tell us?” Kit smiled and taped the bandaged side of his head and said, “Well the boss doesn’t take kindly to me not playing by the rules.” The shortest girl frowned and said, “Wait hold on, what is Shi no Kake? Is that some kind of soda flavor or car.” Before Kit could say anything the girl in the pajamas answered sharply, “It’s not english. It’s the name of this game that he wants us to play. It’s japanese.” The shorter girl asked quietly, “Well what does it mean?” The girl in the pajamas said in response, “It means, Deaths Gambit.” At that Kit smiled and chuckled to himself under his breath and nodded. He then sighed and said, “Yes you are correct. My you’ve stole my thunder young lady. I’m sure you’ll be very, oh so very…” His green eye lit up once more and all the lights in the room shut off. It was dark, and the only thing seen was a green light shard. The lights flickered back on and he said through a fox like smile, “...Interesting”
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