I don't know! I don't know - if I could do something about it it wouldn't be a nightmare.
I don't know what to say.
I know...I'm over 50, I'm old, fat and ugly now. My skin is deteriorating from the stress - I dare not even go into a spa I'm so ashamed.
That's awful. Is he still seeing that girl?
He's got another one now. He's gone. I've lost him. I gave everything to him and this is how he treats me.
Maybe you shouldn't have done that.
Done what??
Given him everything. Maybe he didn't deserve it.
It's a marriage. You're supposed to give everything.
Is that for every marriage or just the right marriage?
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I mean you let him use you. He used up the best years of your life. You told me at the time how exciting it was, how he humiliated you and ordered you around and how you liked never having to think.
What? I'm not supposed to have any fun?
I'm just saying there's a price to pay for prostituting yourself.
A wife can't be a prostitute. We are a legal couple, OK? Bound in the eyes of the church. You were there for the wedding, you know this.
Maybe a wedding and a marriage was all you wanted.
Who doesn't want that?
You.
ME?
Yeah, you. If you'd wanted that that you'd have one now. It was all a big act, wasn't it? Now it comes to light: you were two people looking for a free ride.
Oh, you don't know anything. You're no help. I don't need that sort of judgement on me.
Grow up. Facts aren't judgement. And fact is you need a way out of your phony marriage.
It's not a phony marriage. It's a real one. It's all his fault this isn't working.
Then leave.
You know I can't! There's no place for me to go. I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone, scrambling to survive. You know what the economy is like. I can't live hand to mouth till I die.
Then fix your marriage!
What marriage?...
See! You admit it's fake too!
I didn't mean that. It just slipped out. You got my head all turned around.
PTSD will do that to you.
I pray to God every night to help me. Not a thing. I pray God will change his heart and bring him back to me.
Oh, please...
There you are being judgemental again. You should try some prayer. You're all alone.
Maybe so. It's done you so much good.
Yeah, well...I gotta do something. I can't stay in this house with him coming home with the smell of another woman the rest of my life. It's killing me. He spends a fortune on them too. Young girls, doing everything...
Everything, what? That you used to do? It's just more of the same, swapping sex for money.
If I could make him poor he'd come back to me!
Is that your plan?
I don't have a plan. Believe me, I've asked myself over and over how can I find a way to live but after all this time I've got nothing left. I had a dream the other night where a tornado came down the street and I didn't even move. It was like I wanted it to come and blow me away without me having any say. Cripples can't live alone.
You really can't say you've made good decisions can you when you end up sick and pathetic like this.
I can't face it! I can't face it!
You should have bailed a long time ago. You waited too long now you got no way out. It's like a debt you just let get bigger and bigger and now you'll spend the rest of your life paying on it. You wanted all the goodies without paying for them but stick around long enough and the bill comes due.
I was hoping to die before then.
There are no simple solutions.
This wasn't supposed to happen to me. It's the people who can't get married and have a nice house who are the losers.
This isn't high school anymore, sweetie. You've been hiding in there too long. No one gets to hide forever.
I could just die...I could just die...
You should have bailed a long time ago. You waited too long now you got no way out. It's like a debt you just let get bigger and bigger and now you'll spend the rest of your life paying on it. You wanted all the goodies without paying for them but stick around long enough and the bill comes due.
[After 468 days in a row roaming from one backwater motel room to another, ex-assassin Goupil has not reappeared on the Federal radar. But while he has not been captured, outside of that in no sense is he free. Bottomless boredom and depressed isolation have eroded his mind, robbing him of his will to live. Still, he faintly fights, giving up his vodka to prevent further breeches of security like the night he stumbled outside naked.]
Keyboard Courage1: A quality or characteristic displayed by a person through the written word that this person would not ordinarily possess. 2: The confrontational attitude exhibited by someone via an anonymous entry to an internet web-page or posting. 3: An attitude demonstrated by someone when they realize that actions taken by them or words written by them across a computer connection will have little, if any, personal repercussions. 4: A false bravery possessed by an individual who does not possess the true quality in person.
*****
How many parks, zoos or museums can one visit before they bleed into one long, meandering journey to nowhere? Goupil had gotten to the point he saw no reason even to leave his room/cage except for necessities. Having verified the Feds were after him he knew the low profile he must keep. His limited options cycled through his mind day and night searching for a possible way out.
"There's got to be a way..."
But slowly, he slipped deeper into despair, swallowing him up, emptying his eyes, until ultimately: surrender. Goupil's final bullet would be for himself. He wondered if he'd even make it that long. He'd heard of men who so lost their will to live they simply turned to the wall and died. Living in the lost world of an assassin made him so clever he once believed. "God, what was I thinking?" Decades more of wandering through rented rooms as his soul rotted. Why bother?
Paralysis of inertia took control. If he was in bed he stayed in bed. If out of bed, he stayed out of bed. Days long bouts of insomnia, days long bouts of uneven sleep. A beaten man, dark circles formed under his eyes, his mouth hanging open. Conversation disinterested him to the point he could barely get the words out to communicate. Over and over in his head: "What's the point? What's the point?" Goupil faded in silent response.
And that's how he found himself on old Highway 80 (once used by Bonnie and Clyde) in a Mesquite, Texas Motel 8. A used gun would be easy to purchase in Texas, time to end it all. He literally stood in the corner of the room hoping he'd drop and die, while the TV murmured its usual nonsense in the background to distract his mind from going mad. "What happens when you commit mental suicide?" A vegetable for life, crushed by his sins. He must be the last sinner left in the world.
Former Senator Jeffrey Skilling stood with the President today, lauding the tenth anniversary of our Noble Foreign War. "We didn't want to fight this war, we are reluctant warriors but determined warriors! - " Skilling? Skilling... "- We may not have started this war but we will finish this war! God bless America!" Rusty gears inched into motion for Goupil. "Former Senator Skilling currently heads Hellonearthen, the world's largest defense contractor. Some have questioned his revolving from warhawk Senator to CEO of a corporation receiving billions from government contracts but the President derided such critics who would question Mr. Skilling's patriotism...
Goupil had not forgotten the name Skilling, his assassination target contracted by the Russian mob. God damn those Russians! In order to buy time to escape what surely would have been a death sentence had he carried out the contract, Goupil stole incriminating papers the mob was holding to blackmail the Senator into buying Russian surplus arms of which the mob had purchased in huge ammo dumps across the country. The Russians had been played by the their CIA contacts who were trying to opt out and they wanted revenge in the worst way.
False flag operations had been done before. The operation in the Gulf Of Tonkin in Vietnam the most blatant in recent history, claiming attacks that never happened in order to justify a politically based war. After the 9/11 attack was allowed to happen, a furious supply of arms was funneled to Afghan, Taliban and Al Qaeda rebels - all courtesy of the CIA. The Russians were confused - but laughing - at the CIA funding of the munitions but the mob was never one to turn away tens of millions of dollars in profits.
Suspicious, they kept tangible proof of each transaction and delivery even though such evidence could be used against them later in world court to hunt them down for illegal shipments. (Eventually, notorious arms merchant Viktor Bout was made scapegoat for supplying both sides). According to the CIA, Bin Laden was the last person the American government wanted captured. What they needed was a formidable enemy to justify a massive Middle East presence to take over the oil supplies that all too soon were forecasted to be needed by an oil thirsty populace.
Goupil clicked alert."Those papers must be the evidence of the shipments. Of course! It fits..." The Russians, expecting to supply munitions for years, had invested heavily into stockpiling as much they could buy in Russia's vast cold war surplus. But then Senator Skilling killed it on his "diplomatic sojourn", clearly stating to the Russians that if any information of the CIA funding ever came to light, the full weight of the American government would be used against them. They had no choice but to turn over their copies of invoices and - most damning of all - authorization letters the mob demanded before agreeing to participate.
Problem was, Goupil had stolen those papers. He didn't know why the mob needed them but he knew he could threaten them with their exposure. Goupil always kept an ace up his sleeve. His theft caused the Russians to hesitate to act and during that window he escaped to New York depositing the unopened brief case (a broken one would look suspicious and he had no time to switch) into a private security box. "But surely that box was blown a long time ago and the papers taken, or..." Goupil's eyes focused into narrow slits like they had not in years. At last, focus and direction!
Two weeks later, Goupil's heart had yet to recover from his discovery. The safety deposit box had not been watched, must less emptied! Now he sat on the most explosive information of the 21st century. No citizen wishes to believe ill will of his government. Not even Goupil believed a government would supply an enemy means and method to kill its own soldiers. His world was bleak and corrupt and he long treasured the idea an uncorrupted world existed outside his. But that spell had been broken and the delusional devastation wreaked in the name of "national security" lay exposed before his very wide eyes.
"No wonder they want me dead. They must be going out of their minds!" Goupil gave up his assassin's gun only to hold the smoking gun - of the American President. "As authorized by the President of the United States..." No good soldier was willing to fall on his sword for this escapade, however, as senior officials made it obvious they had the authority to do what they did not as rogue operatives but as fully sanctioned agents of the commander-in-chief. Sitting on this Mount Vesuvius of a powder keg pumped life back into Goupil - but no answers.
Click to see full size image
The internet was the answer. Any other avenue would require meeting someone or giving up the papers or some other form of human contact Goupil could not risk. Goupil knew now they would stop at nothing to kill him, and would apply pressure on anyone whom he contacted. "Enough people have died because of me. Only I will take the risk." But he needed a public forum, a place to display his factual dynamite before all the world. After much searching he thought he found the ideal spot. "What is this Open Salon, 'Where You Make The Headlines'? Exactly what I need!"
Headlines and hero worship rushed through Goupil’s excited, nervous fingers, barely able to contain himself with the thought of making history and perhaps even changing the course of a country! His name would go down in text books - and to think he’d been on the verge of suicide, of missing out on this chance of redemption he'd never dreamed even possible. "Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you! My blind faith on surviving has been rewarded." Never in his life had Goupil felt so alive, felt a greater sense of gratitude or as hopeful as he did when he clicked the blue button marked "Publish".
*****
With the speed of blazing electrons, Goupil's posting quickly came to light on Big Brother's eye in the sky.
"Posted it? Posted it where?" queried an angry grey suit.
"Open Salon -"
"Open Salon? That mental ward! We can squelch it there. Who's monitoring that site?"
"No one, sir. Everyone lost interest after Mrs. Michaels left."
"Point taken. But all it takes is for one idiot reporter with an ax to grind to get a hold of this and run with it - even if the sourcing is of the highest dubious nature possible. I'll kick it upstairs to see what they say. I assume you've already started a forensic trace?"
"Oh, yeah."
"OK, but this time keep the Fumbling Bureau of Investigation out of it."
*****
In great detail Goupil explained his entire ordeal complete with scanned documents and - in his mind - the smoking gun.
"While an initial surge will not be questioned by a frightened and angry public, in order to maintain a long term presence we must arm the enemy to the point of appearing to be a formidable strategic force. This also gives the added benefit of creating a continuing outrage as our casualties mount, allowing a full scale operation unhindered by politic or press. Once a foothold is secured under the guise of rebuilding infrastructure we will be in position to control Middle East oil fields regardless of regional fluctuations.
"This, in our opinion, is more than enough justification of national security interests in the deliberate sacrifice of American soldiers' lives. All munitions will be funneled through disposable Russian arms merchants, which we can also use as a pretext for further military intrusions if need be."
Chief of Staff to the President Of the United States of America
Goupil's expectations of headlines on the nightly network news, however, did not quite come to bear the fruit he'd hoped.
LeftWingNut: This has got to be the fakest posting in the history of the internet! This is the greatest President in fifty years and I'm quoting myself as an unassailable source on that. Drop dead and die, you slimy fuck!
Goupil: I only present the facts! Why do you not accept them? I am not responsible for their consequences!
LeftWingNut: Not responsible? It's YOU posting it on here, not anybody else, you slimy fuck!
Goupil: But I did not issue these shameful orders. Do you wish to be kept willfully ignorant?
LeftWingNut: You idiot! Don't you know anything about politics? If the President doesn't get re-elected then the bad guys will be in control. Be proud of yourself, you slimy fuck!
SuperCynic: Thank you for exposing this war crime. All of 9/11 was staged as a coup d'état on the American government as an excuse to seize power and institute martial law.
Goupil: Please, just stick to the facts here.
SuperCynic: Oh, so you just want to hide your head in the sand like everyone else, is that right, you slimy fuck?
LegendInOwnMind: You must think we are real idiots here at Open Salon, Goupil asshole! We will not be streamrolled into accepting your facts no matter how much I agree with them. I am the OS Defender! You're going down, you slimy fuck!"
Goupil: What is it with you people? What battles rage in your head no one else can see? I simply lay the facts before for you to decide. I present nothing that is not observably true to me. What more can I do?
LegendInOwnMind: "I present nothing that is not observably true to me." We don't need your preachy, self-righteous shit here on our beautiful, beloved Open Salon. Now you've done it, you slimy fuck! I'm going to post a blog titled: "Goupil: Preachy, self-righteous bastard tells you what to think!"
Goupil: But that is a blog reflecting your own behavior. Why is it everyone is talking about everything but the point of my post? Is this not treason I show you here?
IntellectualFartSniffer: Actually, it's not treason. There's a clear legal justification for arming the enemy in the interests of the greater good. Soldiers' lives are expendable in the first place. The few we sacrifice now will save lives later. The whole purpose of war is to save lives, you slimy fuck.
Goupil: Is this all you people care about? Name calling and posturing? Is there not a greater good to be had?
FuckMuppet: I think you're wonderful, Goupil! You've done a great service to your country and history will thank you. And I'm not just saying that because I think all the people calling you a slimy fuck are really the true slimy fucks!
Goupil: Don't compliment because you have some sort of vendetta here! Can no one speak from conviction?
LegendInOwnMind: There you go again, acting like you're the only one with conviction when it's really me! And FuckMuppet, you can kiss my ass you slimy fuck!
FuckMuppet: I'm rubber and you're glue!
LegendInOwnMind: OK, now my anger is TOTALLY justified! I've been waiting for this moment! I hate, hate, hate you bastards!
Goupil: I feel like I'm caught in some world anger tour. Let me know when you want to discuss facts.
FuckMuppet: Facts only get in the way of their anger, Goupil. I will defend you! Our side will win!
LegendInOwnMind: I'm too tough to be driven away by Fuckmuppet drivel! You thought you'd get in the last word but I did, you slimy fuck!
FuckMuppet: Don't bitch about me wanting to get in the last word when you just did it!
LegendInOwnMind: But I SHOULD get in the last word because I am right!
*****
Two days later, Grey Suit laughed reading the transcript. "These morons are doing our job for us! Are they still carping at one another?"
"More than ever. I even created my own grey head account to help stir things up. I was actually accused of being someone's alter!"
"Will these people ever get over themselves? Unbelievable. I think we're safe on this one."
"What did the White House say? They satisfied?"
"Haven't heard back yet. But you know how bloodthirsty President Kill List is."
Life was no calmer in the Oval Office. "Please, Mr. President. We let this die and starve the beast and we can actually use this memo in our favor. We can show to what extremes the other side will go to discredit us with phony evidence."
"I don't want to hear that. The American public creates an image of me in their mind and that image is all that matters for the welfare of this country. "Arming the enemy." That's a concept even moronic voters can grasp! How the hell are we to argue feeding arms to an enemy who kills our children!?"
"They public is as dumb as a box of rocks. You are a father figure, someone they must see as an almighty and all-knowing hero who cannot be doubted. That's how people sleep at night. Someone shows them a document contrary to that and they will call it fake long as the day is true. That's what they think is in their national interest. Bottom line is, it will not be believed."
"But I believe it. I know it's true. And I will not go down in history for aiding and abetting the enemy. We have to make corrupt decisions if we want to keep our oil going! What would they say then if we ever got cut off? I want that bastard found, shot and dead in twenty fours and every trace of him wiped off the face of the earth."
Henry L. Weinstock knew from birth what he would be in life: a cop. His father was, grandfather was, uncle was, and God knows how many others - I never knew the final family tally. All I knew was I lived down the block from him and for whatever reason he took to me right away. His opinion of me always exceeded my own but the funny thing was when I was around him he got me started to believing it too. It makes me feel like a missed opportunity.
I've had time to think about it now and maybe it's because neither one of us ever found our identity. His had been force-fed down his throat while I drifted aimlessly. Henry, I believe, would have bet his life on my so-called potential. To him it was as real as the sun. Maybe I represented his own unfulfilled promise. I'll never know now.
On last July 4th, our traditional time of holiday, Henry put a gun up under his policeman's chin and pulled the trigger. It has been wrestling on my mind this tragic event. Not only because I knew the man but something more. It's that something more I have to find out. Maybe writing about it will help.
I intentionally never made myself part of Henry's running pack. The Cop and I don't mix. I never felt comfortable over at his house with its gun culture and limited outlook on the world. It was like stepping inside a pigeonhole world with all sorts of undeclared enemies. A natural nonconformist I found myself wanting to say things like, "Isn't it better to hug criminals than shoot them?" and "If we can reform criminals we can reform cops!" Dear God, I wanted to rattle their rigid cages!
Stepping out of their black and white house back into the world of color must be how a prisoner feels upon release. "I'm a realist!" Henry’s father would declare repeatedly over the years. Bugged the hell out of me. Finally I realized the only man who's a realist is the man who realizes he's not. Maybe Henry sensed my internal liberation from his father and that's why his face always lit up when he saw me. Ah, but I have prisons of my own, dear Henry.
What I regret the most is what most people regret: that I didn't say more. I was scared of Henry's father just like he was. But I thought if I spoke my peace, that his father was no realist, I'd somehow set off a chain reaction of events that would land him Henry trouble. "Who put these ideas in your head?" Then his father would come looking for me. Fear and pain are the gods of this world. Guilt is their godforsaken child.
But I suspect my never voicing approval was alone enough for Henry and oftentimes he'd confide his doubts in me. I wondered if I was the only one since in many ways we were not that close as friends. I was both honored and a bit burdened by his telling me of his true wishes, of hoping to escape his fate as future policeman of the planet. But he felt he was in the position of having to prove himself worthy of another endeavor before being allowed to pursue it. But how can that happen if you're never allowed to first pursue it?
"As soon as you're born
"They make you feel small,
"By giving you no time
"Instead of it all." - John Lennon, "Working Class Hero"
"That's just self-pity. What a loser. You can make time for anything." I was crushed by Henry's reaction to my playing of the song. I thought he'd relate and take succor in Lennon's truthtelling. Henry's livid anger shocked me. Not until years later did I realize his were the words of a boy who'd given up. He had to believe he had time - even without time available. He could never go against his father's wishes. He was steeling himself for a lifetime of lying and "decided" he would be happy. But it's one thing to make lemonade from lemons, it's another to squeeze blood from a rock.
In high school our paths seldom crossed. I heard about him. He was a bully, getting into trouble. I always imagined he was acting out his rage against his father, forcing his victims to act happy when pained. Magically, his reaction to me stayed the same, always with the bright smile. Still silent, I didn't tell him we were in enemy camps. I hate goddam bullies. If anyone had asked me, I'd of said he needed help.
But Henry by virtue of his genes was strong and good looking. He got girls though his relationships disintegrated. He was considered a "winner" by high school standards. Girls and good athleticism make you a god in those times so his bullying was chalked up to just "boys being boys". I ended up taking (for no reason) accelerated courses while Henry was just happy to graduate. After graduation, he entered the police academy. I washed dishes and worked part time as a fry cook.
So guess who gets pulled over in Henry's rookie year? It was the only time I'd seen him nervous around me, writing me up in front of his senior partner. It's like Henry was afraid I was going to spill the beans and yell out, "Henry doesn't want to be a cop!" I sorted of wanted to but by now I was already stuck in the cowardice of my ways. I pretended not to know him as he pretended not to know me. Neither one blew the other's cover.
In the forced march of his life, Henry had much that I envied: stability, status and a steady income. I was living on the edge, buying cars for $200 that would last two weeks before throwing a push rod to enter the car graveyard. Without a car, I was forced to beg rides to work. Vacations, savings, health care - these things were the furthest thing from my mind. Eating was all I could hope for. I've thought many things of this world of ours, but to trust it was never one of them.
Henry, I found out, had moved into a very nice townhouse. I knew this because for a while I was his paper boy. I never let him know this and thanked God in Heaven he paid through the paper's office so I didn't have to collect in person. To me, his house was the Versailles Palace. And maybe since I'd never experienced it I just assumed since he was living the American dream, he had somehow made peace with himself and righted the ship in ways I never could. "Maybe there is no price to selling out," I mused.
But now I can fit all the pieces together if I may. I mean to judge him not, but only seek a deeper understanding. I know that to many people those are one in the same so I pray you keep your misunderstanding (and hate) to yourself. It seems clear to me Henry never made any peace with himself, his father or the world. When I heard he was moving from Amarillo to the big city of Forth Worth I'd have bet money at the time Henry had made it at last, no fucking doubt.
Truth was, he was running away from his father. From what I understand they never spoke again after his leaving Amarillo. I don't know what the pretext of their falling out was but I feel the real reason was Henry's deep unhappiness with his life, that he was on a runaway train hurling him closer and closer over a cliff. I'm sure if I said that at the time I'd be accused of over-analyzing and seeing ghosts in the shadows. "He has a house and a car and hot women. He's fine, ya stupid schmuck!" It's true: we artists are spies.
Henry's secret life was telling a different story. Like many who try to compensate for a failing inner life he tried by pursuing greater outward success. Steeling his heart, he moved up into the Fort Worth vice squad, a big city operation. That was 1997, and there he wheeled and dealed for the rest of his next 15 years. Amarillo is a minimum wage town with minimum wage prospects. With the dot com collapse of 2000 I too found myself in the DFW area scrounging for work.
Temp jobs eventually stabilized into a steady paycheck for me working in computer libraries around the area. Finally able to come up for air and breathe it suddenly hit me I lived a mere half hour away from Henry and yet it never crossed my mind to look him up. Not knowing any better, I figured his success would cause him to look down on me as a bum. Yet even I get tired of my cowardly ways and I picked up the phone to see his reaction.
Man, did he sound happy I called him! Sure, I'll come over this weekend. But the person I found here was not Henry. Or maybe I should say it was Henry unmasked.
The same bright grin he gave me at the door was the same but this was a darker creature, a man scorched and ravaged by the flames of hell. Right away I felt the same sense of strict uneasiness of possession I'd felt around his father. And I still felt the same urge to rebel. "Hey, you're just like your Dad now!" spewed my wicked mind. So it was more than a little curious coincidence Henry's being obsessed with showing me his possessions.
I got the deflating grand tour of a house that made me wonder just how much a vice cop makes. His landscaped backyard complete with hot tub, a three car garage housing a restored 69 Camaro SS, and an interior of lavish electronics were all dutifully laid about before me by Henry much as a prosecutor would making out his case. "See? Can't you tell I've got made it? I've beaten my father!" He seemed to think if he could convince me of that then it must be true.
She's a beauty!
But that was just part of his putting me on a pedestal, I thought. Something was bothering him, I couldn't tell what. We spent a short while discussing old times in a tip-toed sort of way but the weight of our facades was too much and we both were eager for it to end. I never stopped thinking about him from time to time, like when I'd see a cop show on TV, but we never saw each other again after that 2007 meeting. I wanted to keep my illusions about him and me.
The newspaper article laid both our souls bare. Henry's suicide followed on the heels of a massive indictment of police corruption. Henry had been skimming drug money for years. I very easily could picture him doing it as a way to "get back" at his father. "Just because you're a cop doesn't make you a good man, Father!" Henry's anger never went away. It merely became bribed and driven underground only to erupt like a volcano on that fateful July 4th holiday.
Henry had hurt a lot people. Leaning on people for cash, knowing society would look the other way on the fates of drug dealers and pimps. He too bought into his father's myth of good guys and bad guys to perpetuate his lifestyle. Henry the good guy could never be wrong hurting the bad guy criminals. He tried to tell himself he was doing good as a cop. "Taking on the criminal element, protecting people." He treasured like gold the letters of thanks he received. But good deeds alone don't get you into Heaven.
I've heard him spoken of as a good cop gone bad, that he got greedy. Henry was never greedy, that was just his cover story. His unresolved childhood hurt he never escaped, turning him into its slave, self-sabotaging his life in blind defiance until finally, in the end, simply anger for anger's sake.
Among other things, Henry's marker says he lived from 1969 to 2012. But I don't think that's a true statement. I think he came and went without ever living. Jesus Christ, what is the point of this world we've created? Who was Henry L. Weinstock?
[Banished to the tiny island of Elba just off the Tuscan coast, Napoleon Bonaparte found himself mockingly declared emperor of his miniscule domain. His resignation from the throne of France - ostensibly in the name of the greater good of French interests - marked the end of a lifelong pursuit of power. To him, that meant the end of life itself, attempting suicide via an aged poisoned pill kept on his person. By the pill's poison had eroded over time, Napoleon unable to cheat history of his Waterloo.
Cut off from his family, exhausted by decades of both physical and political swordplay, Napoleon's soul secretly begged surrender. He feared this surrender, for to do so meant to declare his entire life up until that point a complete fraud, a waste of time - and a waste of rivers of French blood. But in his moment of devastation, this surrender proved too sweet to ignore as he thirsted for cool waters in the desert of life. His pride libeled this indulgence a "weakness", but his spirit reveled in these steps towards courage.]
The Emperor of Elba called over Maria, his daily maid. A genius at espionage, he'd espied her for some time, feeling curious to use his previous tactics of life and death for picking out the one who'd save his soul. But he sensed her strength. Like all great leaders in history, Napoleon could read the human heart. But this time his goal stayed true to himself.
"Yes, your Highness, what is you wish?" asked a bowed and kneeling Maria.
"What I wish I wish to be keep secret. This is both to your benefit and mine. Keep the secret and you and your family shall know more money than you'd hope to see in your lifetime. I need to know if you'll accept such a deal or if carrying a secret is too much for you."
Maria was no fool - as Napoleon had suspected - and she knew to weigh her answer carefully and honestly. To answer out of personal greed could be a fatal mistake. She had to know before she answered.
"Yes, sire, I can carry such a burden. Neither my family nor any living soul shall know of this secret I take to my grave. This I am prepared to do, in peace with myself."
Well spoken! A cold, dead heart felt the first few hopeful beats not felt in years, charged by an electric excitement. Even now, after the disasters of a lifetime, can there be hope?
"Thank you, Maria. I've been observing you and find you to be a worthy person." What a change to speak openly and honestly! This is thrilling! No more probing for weaknesses, but letting loose with praise, to build her up, to let her know.
"You speak too well of me, sire, I'm sure." Maria was suspicious, now cursing herself to have agreed to anything with this desperate, lecherous old man down on himself as he faded humiliatingly into history like a bad dream. You fool, woman!
"What I beg of you is this: I wish you to teach me to clean. This will be done between nine and eleven AM in the morning, at which time the house will be cordoned off by all measures for just you and me."
"Cleaning, sire?"
He expected her disbelief. "Yes, and serving too." He lets his words take full effect as he watched her struggle with the surprise, distrusting of a fortune seemingly too good to be true. Her face registered a tentative acceptance but the would-be monarchial maid saw she kept yet a leering watch in the corner of her eye. Ah yes, he had picked well! A woman of strength.
The next morning the Emperor gave his new standing orders in no uncertain terms, upon pain of death was anyone to enter his villa but Maria between 9 and 11. A winking eye between the guards understood: the lusty old man meant to have his fling with this flower still in the beauty of her youth. Napoleon prayed the girl would be up to his expectations, that she too would take courageous steps. When he saw her with an almost concealed smirking smile on her lips as she approached with her usual instruments of cleaning, he knew he'd struck gold.
A look of destiny
[With his small stature and thick Corsican accent (Corsica having recently fallen into French domain just before Napoleon's birth), the other children teased the boy into feelings of inadequacy - the beginning of all human wars. He was so shattered that never did he learn to spell well except in rare moments of confidence he did not feel he could sustain. To prove himself, Napoleon got himself admitted to the elite École Militaire in Paris.
In the throes of revolution, having beheaded her king and queen, France was surrounded by angry royal enemies who aimed to set her straight. Governing at that time hung only by a shoestring and by all rights such weakness should have buried the fledgling revolution in its infancy. But the fates had a lesson to teach the ruling royalty of Europe as this smart young officer rose in his brilliance to the rank of general by the tender age of 24. Who was this boy who danced around the armies of Europe as a ballerina does a lead footed sloth?]
"I suppose you'll be needing these." Maria dare not laugh as her outstretched arms held forth her rags and cleaning bucket. Not until that moment had she realized how tormented she had been made by them. Taking the job had been a necessity of economics but on a pure planet free of falsity her intelligent mind would race to new frontiers. How many minds like hers had been buried in the stupidity of Man's reckless rule?
"Yes, I will. Thank you."
He took them! Mon Dieu, he wasn't joking after all. Careful, don't get too excited. He could turn on you like a domesticated wolf who suddenly snaps. God, what a feeling to be recognized! Liberté! Liberté!
Secretly, the lost Emperor feared the possible drudgery, that his mind would rebel. It did not. He found actual pleasure in his labors. How long since he'd done honest labor! Slowly, he scrubbed the floor as she in her uniform supervised this new training apart from his military rigors. Ah, what freedom to throw off those shackles of war! No man wishes to train for fighting! If training you must have, train to be a maid!
Growing into her role, Maria realized - and tested - her newfound power. Sitting comfortably in her viewing chair, she called across the room to her servant. Since this was to be a secret she knew she would still be held responsible for any dirtiness found in the house. She explained it to him. "You know you will have to do good work."
"Yes, ma'am." She didn't even give a reason, though the scrubbing king reasoned her logic in his excited loins. He had no choice! He must do his chores whether he liked them or not. And do them well! Would she punish him for a poor performance? In an army, discipline is everything!
(But thank God no one here dies.)
["I have fought sixty battles and I have learned nothing which I did not know at the beginning. Look at Caesar; he fought the first like the last." Napoleon was as much a natural tactician as Mozart a musician. He was daring but rarely reckless, understanding the psychology of battle better than anyone in Europe. He knew no battle could be completely choreographed, that the true key was to remain open to opportunities, to be in a position to exploit them. His defeated enemies called him "lucky" but even luck was part of his plan.
His soldiers were his maids, glorying in their servitude. Do a good job or die! Napoleon's training and inspiration of his men made French fighting forces the most feared in the world. Like Maria the maid, they too wore uniforms denoting of their rank and position in life. And just as the present floor scrubber of Elba knew, theirs was not to question why, theirs was but to do or die.]
Maria, much to the delight of her new servant, began to assume control, not asking permission but because she wished it. "Since you are the maid now, shouldn't you be dressed like one?" The sheer humiliation delighted the king into secret ecstasy as he moved off into the next room to oblige her. "No, not there. Here. Put your new uniform on here. I wish to see you do it myself," commanded She Who Must Be Obeyed.
The former general knew anticipation and apprehension before battle, but this trembling he did not know. This was a new kind of risk, for he knew in the changing of his clothes he must reveal his erect Corsican penis. His nervous hands disrobed, never looking his mistress in the eye. Painfully aware of his erection, he blessed her silent acknowledgement in not chastising him. His fledgling strength may not have survived the guilt. And in a final release of long caged inadequacy, he was forced to realize her female outfit fit his short man's physique.
"My, don't you look pretty, servant boy!"
The Fighting French Maids
Oh, this could be addicting! How long have I hidden the insecurity of my size? She lets me reveal all and still be accepted. This is amazing! I'm beginning to think it's true. I have lived my life warring for nothing. I could have found a good woman and simply been myself. Surely my genius could have found better uses than an ill-fated grab for power. You knew it was doomed before the start and yet still you traveled down that path. You weak man, you!
He craved her approval in the quality of his chores and she knew it. His long corrupted soul riddled and drowned in guilt for so many years cheered this long awaited admittance of his sins. His soldiers' lives were not his to do with as he pleased. No family in France did not know the sorrow of a lost child or husband.
This he carried like a bulging boulder.
Napoleon's 24/7 holding of the reins of power strangled him and choked him of his true wants. When that power was taken away, how then to justify his life? But the understanding Maria now held the reins of power, reversing his role of a lifetime. A thousand thrones and a thousand kingdoms he'd give her if he could. What is anything without freedom but a long march into hell - just as his long march into Russia, reducing an army of 400,000 to 40,000. Scrub that floor, you stupid bitch who can't even run his own life right.
[The story of Napoleon grabbing the crown from the Pope's hands at his coronation is a false one - in a physical sense. But the story rang true because it was true in spirit. Napoleon was a man on the run. No power could be enough, no amount of land enough - he must conquer for he was a conquered man. Napoleon ruled France in both clear sighted liberalism and a dark iron fist. But he was no master of himself, just a deeper and deeper prisoner of his pride.
He grew lax and lazy, retreating into long baths. His faltering image suffered great damage after the Russian debacle. How could he reveal to the world he wished to abdicate? But who would love him without his image? Worse yet, who could forgive him? His only salvation - and curse - was to be born into a world of equal fools, of men needing the favors and worship of women. An image could be made perfect - a mere man, not so much. As expected, Napoleon’s empire fell to pieces.]
"3, ma'am." Whack! "4, ma'am." Whack! "5, ma'am." The servant boy had not performed up to the required standards and must be taught a lesson like any good soldier. A walking cane provided the instrument of improvement. After it was over: "Thank you, ma'am, for helping me."
Maria's new found sense of self translated in ways she'd never expected. She came home one day to find her husband helping with the chores - gladly! This meekness she never knew existed shocked her but she knew not to make a big deal of it but give quiet thanks. She also recognized a new peace in her spouse. Naturally her husband did not suffer the torments of a power mad king but she realized fully now the gift she gave to Napoleon, to release him from a lifetime of lies. To a lesser degree, her husband had lived them too.
Maria too was released from her self-pity, from silently complaining of having to play the subservient wife, swallowing her better judgement, wallowing in the degrading feelings and even succumbing to them. Having faced herself, she could never go back to that. Her husband having sensed this and deciding he did not want to lose her, made his choice. She had picked well after all, two people of strength - the neighbors were starting to envy.
"Come now and rub your queen's feet. Be eager in your pleasuring me."
Napoleon was more than eager. He was nearly a functioning man again. The guilt of abandoning Josephine in his false pride ravaged him for years. Yes, tender and eager he was with his present queen's feet, apologizing to all women for hurting the one who meant the most. But the emperor had not passed all his hurdles. What if it were Josephine who made these demands as Maria did? Could he only admit his mistakes in private? Was he only to be free from nine to eleven each morning?
[To Maria the maid he could submit, but to Josephine - never! His well of feelings would never run dry for her. And the formerly most powerful man in the world feared more than God to appear happily in his maid uniform before his royal guards. No, we would not allow such ignominy! He longed for his genius to construct one last glorious idol to be worshipped by the masses - the fate of fearful nerds throughout history.
But in Napoleon's attempt to run from ignominy he created ignominy, equating the word "Waterloo" with final and absolute failure in the minds of every living being to follow. He'd never have met his Waterloo had he revealed his new born self on Elba. Yes, the royalty of Europe and soldiers around the globe would have had a riotous laugh at his expense. But afterwards, then what? Then they too must face "rulers make bad lovers" as they make themselves prisoners to their servants. The illusion of war a battle for love. Live free or die dumb - like Napoleon.]
The morning heartbreak is sheer devastation. As the sun rises also do the woes of the day. Above all, one must adhere to the almighty Routine (prison got nothin' on this boy's life). Shower, shave, eat, dress, dodge rush hour traffic to get to the "slavin' job to get my pay". It's like having a nail driven through your forehead, life like this can have no possible meaning - and you faced that a long time ago.
Still, part of me is irresistibly excited about the eternal purity of the morning light. I can only glimpse it in the corner of my eye. I want to glory in the sunshine, connecting with the universal Dream and realize we are one after all. The vision of a Crystallized Flower sparkling hope reaches me in that moment. But that's a star too far as I face the horror of my dark blue work pants and the mind numbing drudgery they imply.
But of my woes I can tell no one. The monsters and wolves wait for any complaint, seizing the opportunity to ensure the order, to proclaim I am in paradise. "How dare you complain when you have a TV! And running water too! Why you know etc. etc." It's their fear talking, I know. They know the seeds they have sown. But that doesn't lessen their viciousness. Too many fools really do believe it profits a man to gain the world but lose his soul. What is world peace compared to a Maserati? (Damn, that was tougher to write than I thought!)
So the trick is not to feel, to be socialized into the good army of the dead. But some mornings I let it slip, especially after a night of torrential dreams. It's like being warmly touched, and in the waking minutes you don't want to shake it off and part of you believes you'll be stepping into blessed light after all and not the dreaded work pants of doom. I'm trying to be good. I'm trying not to live - but I can only do so much. The dream remains.
Dream killing pants
Giving the Routine the bare minimum attention possible, the rest of me stayed in the Forbidden Dream we all must deny to get by. Then I start to hear vacuuming sounds. Damn, neighbors in apartment next door must be doing some early morning cleaning. Wish I had time for that! Lord knows my carpet was awful, not finding the time or energy to clean it in weeks. It had become a real eyesore to me but one can be spread only so thin.
But as I got dressed in my bedroom I noticed the sound was too loud to be the neighbors cleaning. Peeking around the doorway I see it's my own vacuum giving a much needed cleaning to the hallway. Thank God! Guess the angels had decided they'd had enough of my ungodly carpet and I could see the handle moving up and down just as if a real person were handling it. The pull of the almighty Routine continued as I finished dressing.
Must be my grandmother. She was always a safe refuge during my childhood trauma. She's getting that carpet cleaned. She'd never stand for such uncleanliness! But as I snapped the final button into place on my shirt, the spell broke. Jesus, that vacuum is running on its own! Look around the corner again and see if that was real or a dream. It was real. Real as the morning sun cutting through the blinds. Oh, my God! Oh, my God! How can I explain this? Now trembling with fear and doubt, I peered once more around the corner at the Magic Vacuum and it suddenly stopped. Shit, I think it stopped because I wished it to.
Think about it...
I was greatly disturbed by the morning's event on my drive into the slave labor pool. I was afraid I'd slip up and mention it without thinking, just as I had initially accepted it without thought. Damn, it sucks to feel out of control! The fury and lashings I'd receive for relating such an incident would be unrelenting. And from past experience, I knew since it would have the ring of truth the hatred and anger would be especially strong and vicious. I was in fear for my life the entire day.
By the morning break in the break room, I'd managed a good sense of denial. I was hallucinating, I assured myself. But no, the carpet in that area really was clean. I'd left it plugged in and some auto feature I don't know about kicked in. But the handled moved only as a person - or invisible angel - could do. I'm just too dumb to understand what happened so ignoring it is the best thing to do. People always accept an explanation where you tell them you're dumb.
Later in the morning I tried distracting myself as all the suited people walked by on their hurried ways to the elevators always absorbed in conversation or some mobile device, the fate of the world upon their shoulders. As a game I always try to pick out who is wearing their suit because they love it, because they have to or who absolutely hate it. The ones who hated it I trusted the most. I just don't want to feel alone in my prison. One thing I knew as I ran my floor buffer, I could never do the lying those jobs required.
By the afternoon, I'd fallen into a surreal state of being. Who knows what is real and what is not. The spirit world is the real one, this one an illusion created for our growth - a matrix if you wish. I was reminded of Einstein's theory of relativity, that others had gone down that road before him but stopped short. They had seen the Magic Vacuum and ran away. It was such a breakthrough in scientific thought, they did not have the courage to expose it and be risk being ostracized. Einstein’s breakthrough was as much a moral one as a scientific one. The truth is always like that.
As the work shift ended, I knew the only thing I wanted was to get back home before my secret slipped out. I thought of the Fatima girls and their ordeal and how the vision faded later in life. That could be me too! Denial here I come! But secretly, I wanted the Magic Vacuum to return. I wanted to see the whole house had been cleaned. Most of all, I wanted it to mean I was special after all.
But everything was as I left it. I'd lost faith, let the magic slip through my fingers. I was special for that brief time I accepted it without question, before the fear and insecurity told me "better". Dear God, what a mind fuck life is. I can't say anything, I can't not say anything. Even if I could show them the Magic Vacuum I'd be shot on sight the minute they believed it was no trick. All I know is it haunts me still and that moment of clarity bleeds through into my dreams the minute I let my guard down.
*****
CODA: This was over two years ago. I knew if I typed it up in the heat of the moment the ring of truth would have been too loud. Writing it now in a state disconnected from the event, I can still relate the facts but without the worry of seeming a threat to the all powerful witch burners. So I guess you could say this is my chickenshit way of relating the story without really relating it. The guilt has been fucking killing me for keeping it inside. This meager telling hasn't done me much good either, though.
"Hey! Hi! Heard you were feeling down! Time for me to get to fixing you!"
"Huh? What? Just let me sleep..."
"No problem. I need to do some investigating around here anyway!"
"Please, go away...I need rest."
"I know you don't mean that! I'll decide what you mean when you speak. Pretty damn helpful, huh?"
"I can't take this right now. Let me be."
"I wouldn't consider such a thing! I luuuv you! OK now, where are your private papers? I must see what's going on."
"This is like a nightmare. You don't listen to anyone or anything -"
" - because I already know what you really mean - "
"- and I can't get any peace and quiet even with my door locked - "
" - my picking the lock proves how much I care - "
" - now I can't even feel safe in my own home - "
" - I'm here to fix all that - "
" - because you have no sense of boundaries or no sense of anything."
"You're only saying that because you don't feel well. Oh, wow, look at this. Your diary entries here are fascinating. I'll mark down what I do and don't approve of."
"If only I had the strength to reach over and choke you. God, you're a freaking out-of-control maniac!"
"This is what I do: I fix people! I love you! I'd die for you!"
"Then, please, die already."
"Let, see. I'm just going to pin my ears back and get down to business. You know, your diary is very beautiful. I'm giving it much of my approval!"
"I could care less what you think. Just stay out of my business. You're a fucking menace. Christ, of all the times to pick. Right at my most weakest."
"That's what I'm here for: to invade you at your weakest moment! Some call it rape but I call it caretaking."
"Like when you let your boss buttfuck you in front of his friends so they could laugh?"
"Yes, wasn't that sweet of him?"
"Or the time he peed on your head and made you say it was raining."
"God, how I worship that man! It's a special love we have. His wife must be jealous of us!"
"Just leave me alone. I don't need some whore breaking into my house."
"Don't worry! I'll make sure no whores do!"
"You must be the most self-oblivious person in human history!"
"I wouldn't know."
"God help me."
"I'm going to fix that attitude of yours. But what you need is a better house. This simply won't do! I'm going to fix that too!"
"Hey, stop pouring that gasoline around my home! Lord, I don't have the energy for this. How do I fight this blind demon?"
"Be strong! Remember, I'll be fighting with you!"
"I just dialed 911."
"No need for that. Don't give up. You'll always have me!"
"You burned down your house now you think that's the answer to everything."
"Isn't it wonderful to find an answer! I'm so glad to give you hope."
"Just leave my house alone! I don't care if you love it or it hate it, you infuriating witch."
"You're lucky I know you so well and know what you do and don't mean. You know this place isn't worth saving! Hey, you got a match?"
"That's her over there, officer, pouring gas and trying to burn everything down."
"Get your hands off of me! Fool! Don't you understand I'm only trying to help? I'm a martyr like Jesus on the cross. Giving love but persecuted in return."
"Thank you, officer. She broke in like a lunatic and I'll never feel safe again. I never in my life thought anyone would be so insane as to act like this. Just boggles the mind!"
"Damn all you ingrates! Can't you see I'd die for you? You owe me! I should never be questioned! Pee on me, officer. Go ahead. I'll tell you it's raining just like you want. Tell me that isn't true love!"
"He's not a sicko who wants to lie and be lied to. You need to go fix your own home."
"I have NO interest in fixing that. I'm an unselfish, caring person. My only interest is in fixing others' homes. Just you wait and see how many people I can make believe that."
"Officer, take her away. There's no hope for her."
"I'll be back! You'll see! My love cannot be denied! I'll burn down the whole world if I have to! That's how much I care!"
[Goupil is on the run - from everybody. Having given up his gun, he's defenseless and friendless and hunted (at the very least) by the government. Moving from cheap motel to cheap motel in a zigzag fashion he feels his world closing in on him. Every direction seems equally wrong, equally harmful. He'd hoped giving up his gun would show him the way out. Instead, confusion wreaks havoc on his mind and chaos in his heart.]
"Of course! Vargas does not drink. Does not smoke.
"Does not make love.
"What do you do, Vargas?"
Am I Vargas? Have I succumbed at last? ...am I Vargas?
Vargas had always been Goupil's bogeyman. The James Bond Thunderball killer had horrified him as a child. If nothing else he knew that to be Vargas was to be lost without redemption, the Ultimate Loser, a loathsome unlovable creature. Lying on his motel bed, attempting to drink because that's what one does to escape reality (Goupil's strength had always been not to escape reality), demons in the night and demons in the day plotted his demise. What unadmitted rock under his mattress robbed him of any possible comfort?
*****
Goupil learned early on there is no God, no justice on earth. Nobody, but yourself. The oldest child of an immigrant family living in the Jersey projects, he was routinely assaulted by both his mother and father. His mother beat him with a broom handle, with pots and pans, with anything she could find, determined to beat the sin out of him. His father, having failed to find the streets of America paved with the promised gold made his son pay for his own misery.
Desperately poor, Goupil's clothes as a newly aware teenager were two sizes too large to make them last as he grew. He was mocked and bullied at school. Tall but thin, Goupil stood no chance against one vicious gang in particular who gave him savage beatings for his loserdom. Each night Goupil prayed to God for help, to set right such obvious wrongs. To whom else did he have to turn? Even his parents wanted him dead.
God never came - or even showed the slightest interest. Slowly an icy resolve formed in the boy, anger his new god for redemption. "It's all on me. Everything. I can turn to no one, no god, no hope." Taking the instrument of hurt he knew best, Goupil grabbed a broomstick and waited in the darkness for the gang leader who tormented him so severely. Jumping out from behind a tree, he panicked and hit the thug on the head. After Goupil saw him drop, fear took over and he beat the thug determined never to be hurt again. He was successful: Goupil's prey was dead cold.
Hiding in his bedroom for a week, Goupil waited for God again. Only this time he feared the Lord's vengeance. The dead body had been thrown into the east river but surely somehow the voices of karma would point their fingers in his direction. But no policeman's knock ever came. No avenging angels descended from the sky. It really was true: there is no God. At 13, Goupil already had his first kill.
*****
What is left for me? How can a monster like me ever be a father? How could I answer for my past to a child? What mother would want me raising her child? I am Vargas, the creep!
I'm in so much trouble!...life is only trouble...he Goupil undeserving of hope...was there never meant to be anything more?...who am I...
In a fate worse than death, even in what looked to be his final days on earth, Goupil prayed to the eyeless and earless god who never helped. Life just could not be so hopeless! But the usual painful cycle inevitably and agonizingly ensued: fear, frustration, raging anger. No way out...
Thus spoke the demons in the night.
*****
It was in fact his dedication to hard work and honesty after killing the gang leader that drove Goupil into facing another truth of his world: he could never conform. Jobs suffocated him as much as his home and school lives had. "A ring of death!" surmised Goupil of this lost world. He saw the globe as nothing but one large criminal enterprise, he never falling for the veneer of life it so vainly presented. Sneering at the man thinking he was "doing good", Goupil already knew good deeds don't get you into heaven.
With his excellent hand-to-eye coordination, he hustled pool for money until he came across a scam at a film processing lab where he could illicitly copy porno films to sell on the side. To do it right he needed a large infusion of cash. For Goupil, that meant going to the "hard guys", the mob. This turned out to change his life forever.
Goupil's customers were slow to pay - which made him slow to pay the mob back. Three enforcers paid him a visit, brutally beating him. But Goupil was an old hand at taking a beating and knew better than to take on the entire syndicate. Within a week he collected the money owed him and paid back the loan. This so impressed the mob they offered him a job in collections.
*****
The motel room lay as wasted as its occupant. Goupil fell back into his favorite fantasy: that of killing his father. He'd make his paternal persecutor confess his crimes, begging for mercy he never gave. Maybe that's what Goupil wanted most: just to hear his father speak, to say one fucking honest word - one more than the monster ever spoke in life. Just to hear that one word would break the spell of an uncaring God.
Feeling vulnerable without his gun, Goupil reflected on how he could protect himself. But I don't want to return to the old ways. Cyanide had been a favorite "no mess" method of his, perfecting a spray he could blast on a victim's face to cause a seeming heart attack. Traces of the poison leave the body in hours. He especially loved using remote controlled cars with plastique attached. Sweep the car beforehand all you want, sucker!
But those were guns by any other name. There's no future in that. The Russian woman's intoxicating face reflected in his half filled bottle of vodka. Would there ever be a way he could spend the night with her? Her bite had infected him for life.
You're going to spend the rest of your life in these motel rooms running out of time. I can't get a job and just slip back into society. Maybe I was stupid to quit. What is the right answer if all roads lead to death! I wish I could make God feel lonely, let that fucker see how it feels. Make Him get a job and see how that fucking feels too. God - just another monster.
*****
Goupil was too enthusiastic in his collection methods and dead men don't pay back debts. So the mob made him an outright assassin and just as when he was a thirteen year old boy, killing seemed to be Goupil's salvation in a world gone mad. He loved the thrill of the hunt, of devising the logistics and engineering a solution. The final act merely proof he'd been correct in his calculations. Then on to the next project.
He also loved living the lie. Goupil bought the most respectable suits, claimed the most respectable occupations as his source of income and made the rounds as an intelligent man of means. Ah, what frauds they must be to believe my fraudulence! The killings, the polite public adulation, the beautiful free fall feeling that made him feel alive provided for the most glorious time of his life. One special killing stood out among the rest.
In a hotel room, Goupil had cornered his mark, standing over him with a pointed gun. The man dropped to his knees, begging for mercy, literally praying to God for help. At last, to see someone else pray for God's help! Maybe it could work for him as opposed to a rejected killer. Goupil told the groveling man he'd allow him thirty minutes of prayer. If God came to spare him in any way he'd let the man go.
On the thirty first minute Goupil put two bullets in the praying man's head.
*****
In a Federal building safely embedded in the mind of a willfully ignorant populace, men who'd rather die than be suitless rejoiced at the good news of having discovered a lost prey.
"We've got him! The bastard finally came up for air. A thousand dollars is being wired to him in a small city outside of Cincinnati. He must be running out of cash and thinks he can slip this under the radar."
"Excellent news. Call the local FBI office and have them sit on that Western Union store right away. I want no slip ups! Tell them it's a matter of national security and that's all they need to know."
"What should I tell them to do if they come across Goupil?"
"Shoot to kill."
"I can't tell them that!"
"OK, OK. Tell them the truth. He's an assassin, heavily armed, and not to take any chances. Maybe we'll get lucky. I obviously will have an operative on the way on the off chance we can finish this ourselves."
Thus spoke the demons in the day.
*****
Goupil had given up his gun, given up his "life" and just plain given up. He knew there was no way he could outrun the government forever and while he had a good amount of money it too was on a countdown. What drove him the most insane was the not knowing. Who exactly was after him and why?
I hope that young Mexican maid comes again. I'll pretend to be naked and asleep when she comes in the door. I'll stick my head under the pillow. I wonder what she'll do? Will she take advantage of me? Oh please, take advantage of me!
Setting it up like a job, Goupil arranged his nude body face down, his face hidden so she need not have fear of getting caught looking. When the knock and "Housekeeping" signal arrived at his door, his heart pounded as much as during any hit. He heard the door open. She came into the room. She started walking around. She couldn't miss seeing him! Goupil peeked to see if it was the maid he hoped for. Yes! Under the pretense of needing to do her duty, she emptied the trash and wordlessly touched up a few other items before leaving.
Success! Goupil grabbed hold of the most meager crumbs of acceptance. Hopefully she was giggling to her co-workers of the sleeping naked guy in room 189. He became aroused at the thought of them all coming to take a peek. It would be so fun - and so harmless, for once. Why did it feel so forbidden just doing what they wanted? Goupil worshipped that maid and thanked the heavens above she was without pretense or preaching.
*****
Bad news at the Cincinnati FBI office. "He never showed...No sir, we got there as quick as we could. There's no record of him picking up the money. Something must have happened...No, I can assure you we were not spotted. I made this a long range surveillance job only, using nothing but personal cars...Thank you. I'll send a full report." The agent flipped down the phone in disgust.
"Agent Johnson - no the other one - bring me the full report." It didn't take long to see the fatal flaw. "Goddamit, is this correct? The originating wire was from a Western Union in Cincinnati?"
"Yeah, so? He must have been laundering it or something."
"You idiots! He set us up! He had no intention of showing up."
A sweep was ordered of the cars used to stake out the Western Union. Two of them had GPS trackers attached under the bumper. Unfortunately for one agent, he'd stopped at his house on the way back in to the office.
"Sweet Jesus! That son-of-a-bitch knows where I live! What the fuck you going to do about that? I've got a family to protect!"
The cars passing below the seventeenth floor of the building housing the FBI never knew of the heated arguments raging above. Nothing riled the agency more than having its own tactics used on them or to have made a careless, irreversible mistake - the kind of mistake they counted on criminals to make. But to Goupil sitting on a bench a half a block away, the FBI were nothing more just another criminal organization, stopping thugs so they could be the thugs. Men who take orders are never better than their masters.
Nor did the self-recriminating agents on the seventeenth floor ever suspect their quarry sat half a block away drowning in suicidal thoughts. Although students of human behavior, these busy-busy men never stopped to think of the humans they pursued. They welcomed confessions without offering any in return. How could they? They too knew the world to be a criminal enterprise. For who trusts a world without love? To live in one is to sleep with a boulder under your mattress.
