An Insight Into the Character of Rush Limbaugh

Some time ago, I had the misfortune of working outside while someone down the street had Rush Limbaugh blaring from the radio. Why do some people feel the need to broadcast their propaganda to the entire world? Rush was in full throat and carrying on as only he can in his characteristically pompous manner. I could not escape torment, as I had work to perform. Fortunately for me, the radio was at such a distance that I could not make out his words in a literal sense but could only understand the tone and intent.

For a brief while I was a bit like a dog; a dog doesn't understand words in a literal sense. They understand the tone of their person's voice and through practice can learn to respond to particular tones, that we call orders, in a particular way. There are people, known as aphasics, who have suffered damage to their brains that result in the loss of their ability to understand the literal meaning of words. Such persons are able to understand the words of people with whom they are close and so they can function to a limited degree. There's a very interesting chapter in “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat,” by Oliver Sacks entitled “The President's Speech,” that is worth reading for its insights into the affliction.

So, I was briefly aphasic. I could not, at that distance, understand the literal meaning of the words Rush was uttering but could only glean their emotional content; what came across was very clear and very disturbing. What I heard was the sound of a small, sniveling, whining child, leveling against its parents some long suffered and painfully felt grievance. The message was simple but very clear and most obnoxious. While I felt afflicted to some degree, I also felt an odd mixture of shock, and amusement, and to a slight degree sympathy for the plight of the suffering child to whom I was compelled to listen. I kept puzzling, “What could have caused that poor child such injury?”

Unfortunately for me, I could not escape the sound. I completed my task as rapidly as was possible.

Waiting for E-Cat

A comedy in two acts

by: Kelley Trezise, a.k.a. Zedshort, a.k.a Steve Robb

Zed: A man

Spam: Zed's optimistic friend a talking dog

Rozzi: Inventor of the E-Cat, neither seen nor heard

Kribet: A blogger

Martin-Stanley: A monster “owned” by Kribet

Gibbsey: An Op/ed writer

Defcalion: A seafaring business man

Moolah Smith: A wealthy skeptic

Sol Milo: A crafty scoudrel

ACT I

Place: an empty space by a road

(Zed and Spam sit on the ground in the semi-darkness of the early morning peering into a computer screen seemingly mesmerized, their faces illuminated by the glow.)

Zed: Nothing new, nothing changed.

Spam: Change to a different site.

Click

Zed: Nothing new, nothing changed. A watched E-Cat never boils.

Spam: There will be something new soon. Trust me.

Zed: How long have we been here? I want salvation. I want good news of Rozzi and the E-Cats and for the patho-skeptics to stop beating me.

Spam: Yes, it seems we've been here forever, waiting for Rozzi and the E-Cats. But the patho-skeptics will beat you no more. Not with me here. Without me to buck you up you would have been reduced to a pile of bones long ago.

Zed: Tell me the story again, please.

Spam: I've told you the story many times. There was heat, there was helium, there were gamma rays, there were neutrons. But all we really need is heat.

Zed: And the other three?

Spam: Who cares about the other three. Heat is sufficient to save us.

Zed: I wish it would come soon.

Spam: I'll check another site.

Click

Spam: Anything?

Zed: Nothing new, nothing changed. When will Rozzi and the E-Cats come? It seems we've been here forever. Lets get some sleep.

Spam: No, no sleep yet. Rozzi and the E-Cats may come and we would miss the defining event.

Zed: We may be early.

Spam: We are at the right time. Stay awake...just a little longer.

Zed: When will Rozzi and the E-Cats come? Will it be soon?

Spam: Yes, soon, I promise. Remember the evidence. There was net heat out and a sufficient COP. Time seems to be stuck. The evidence is there. It is there I tell you.

(Zed starts to doze off.)

Spam rouses him: Wake up Slow-Boat! You can't go to sleep now!

Zed: I had a weird dream, Spamuel. We were on a steam train speeding through the darkness, but for brief flashes of light that illuminated the scene, all about was obscured. I tried hard to catch glimpses of the terrain and make sense of it. I had the feeling the brakes weren't working and we were headed toward a terrible end.

Spam in an aside to audience sotto voce: I've had much the same fear.

Zed: Spamuel, please, tell me again the funny story about the bitch you rogered in Hermosillo.

Spam: Which one?

Zed: You know, the old one with the big floppy ears. And use hand gestures as you tell it.

Spam: So, I crossed the border at Nogales and drove to Hermosillo. I sniffed about for a day...wait, I gotta pee.

Zed: You always have to pee.

Spam: Yes but I pee for more than one reason. I have real business to attend to.

(Spam exit stage left.)

Zed standing and cheering to Spam offstage: Give that bush a shot for me. Good boy!

(Spam enter stage left.)

Zed: How long have we been watching? This waiting is like a living death. Maybe we should just hang it up and forget about this E-Cat thing.

Spam: If we do, we will surely regret missing out on the latest development. It's best to stay close and keep watching for Rozzi and the E-Cats.

Zed: It seems so, so long ago...I...I'm not sure anymore. The suspense is painful, I wish I was dead. Why don't we just shoot ourselves and be done with this painfully interminable waiting.

Spam: There are two bullets left in the gun we could take turns shooting each other.

Zed happily: Yes Spamuel, let's try. I have the revolver. Allow me to shoot you.

Spam: Oh Slow-Boat, no I wouldn't think of going first. Allow me the honor of shooting you first, please.

Zed: You are so most considerate Spamuel. Thank you. Wait Spamuel, what if the second bullet misfires? That would leave the other in the embarrassing position of being a murder.

Spam: Yes, you're right. That would be embarrassing.

(Pause)

Spam: I've a brilliant idea. Let's put our heads together, I'll pull the trigger. The bullet will pass though your head first and strike mine next killing us both.

Zed: Oh Spamuel, you are most wise. And considerate. Alternatively, I could pull the trigger killing you first and then me.

Spam: Or, I could pull the trigger killing myself first then you.

Zed: Or, I could pull the trigger killing myself first then you.

Spam: So many permutations, so little time and only one outcome.Nevertheless, I feel better now. But before we make such a great effort, let's first refresh the screen a few more times.

Click

Zed: Anything? Does Rozzi say anything new? Have the E-Cats arrived?

Spam: No. Not yet. Let's check Rozzi's site and see if he has responded to our question. No. Nothing new, nothing changed.

Zed: What did we ask Rozzi? I don't see the question posted.

Spam: Oh, nothing much. Just how many millions he has made by selling exclusive distribution contracts.

(Click. They peer into the screen.)

Zed: Why is the question not there. Have we been banned?

Spam: Yes, banned. I fear we've been banned to the perimeter.

Zed: Have we no rights?

Spam: None. We are just enthusiastic groundlings, banned to the edge of the E-Cat event.

Zed: I'll change site.

Click.

Spam: There! There's something new! Read, read! No, wait, we've read this before.

Zed: Nothing new, nothing changed. A watched E-Cat never boils.

Spam: Stiff upper lip my Spamuel.

Zed: I'm hungry! Let's eat!

Spam: Fine. Here, I found a Slim-Jim on the ground. Help yourself.

Zed dusts it off on his shirt and proceeds to chew.

Zed: Are we committed?

Spam: Committed?

Zed: Yes, committed to Rozzi and the E-Cats.

Spam: What do you mean?

Zed: If Rozzi fails to show can we go on?

Spam: There was heat I tell you. Yes, we are committed.

Zed: His name was Rozzi, not Piantelli?

Spam: Yes! I, think. Yes.

Zed: Nothing new, nothing changed.

Spam: We are what we are. E-Cat enthusiasts waiting and waiting on the perimeter.

(A howl is heard from off stage left and the two-headed monster Martin-Stanley appears in harness, carrying the burdens of Kribet who has Martin-Stanley on a leash. The slave, heads down, is muttering long strings of equations of physics.)

Kribet: Make sense or shut-up you two fools! Halt! Halt, I say!

Zed to Spam: Was he addressing us?

Kribet: Allow me to introduce myself! I am Kribet!

Zed to Kribet: Are you Rozzi?

Kribet: Kribet, I am Kriiibeeeett. Hear me, hear me, I am Kribet.

Spam: I think he said he was Privet.

Kribet: I disavow any knowledge of the creature you call Rozzi.

Zed: In this dim light you could be mistaken for Rozzi.

Spam: We are waiting for Rozzi and his E-Cats!

Kribet: Here? On my domain?

Spam: We meant no harm.

Kribet: Oh, well. There's room enough here for all to post an infinitude of blather.

Zed: Who is your beast and what is wrong with it?

Kribet: This is Martin and Stanley, the two fools that once dared to question the most cherished truths of the Priests of Physics. At one time they were mainstream science, but for their transgressions against the established truth they were beaten down, and down, and pushed on to the darkness of the perimeter where they pursued the pathological science of cold fusion. Now look at them. He was once two men but in retaliation, the Priests have fused them together and they will stay that way forever as punishment for their transgressions. He has one body, two brains, and no mind. All he is capable of now is muttering equations. Physics, chemistry, math...phah...who needs or understands all that?! Now I speak for him and all scientists.

(The monster Martin-Stanley provides a chair upon which Kribet plants himself. Kribet opens a laptop.)

Kribet: I will now proceed to compose the news. You may watch and appreciate and while you appear to be fellow travelers and somewhat able to appreciate what I have to say, please remain silent and do not interfere with my pronouncements. (He proceeds to type into his portable computer) Martin and Stanley are on the trash-heap of history, Widon-Larson theory rules supreme. Rozzi is a fraud. The E-Cat does not exist. (He stands and as he sweeps his arm in a grand gesture and pronounces.) There you have it. Any questions?

Spam: Your slave appears much abused.

Zed: Do you ever let him off his leash?

Kribet: He is not a slave. He is a mere golem. No! I don't let him off his leash, as he is dangerous! Stay back from him and do not listen to his ramblings about cold fusion! He may infect you with his pathological blather. I speak for these two and the scientists of today. What did these two know, after all they were just lowly chemists? If you like I can make him dance for you.

Spam: What's the news Slow-Boat? Has anything changed.

Zed: I'll check. Here! There's something new here from Rozzi! He says he will make more and bigger E-Cats! And, he talks about Martin and Stanley. There's a photo here of them in their younger years.

Spam: Wondrous news! Let's have a look.

Zed holding the portable screen up to Spam and incidentally to Martin-Stanley.

Kribet: No! Don't show him that photo! Don't let the monster see himself!

(The eyes of Martin-Stanley locked on to the screen image of themselves in their younger years and original state, grew wide with terror at the realization of what had become of them.)

Martin-Stanley: Ooooooh! Ooooooh! Hideous! Hideeeeeeeeeeouuuuuuuus!

(A torrent of vomitous shot from the two mouths of Martin-Stanley and onto Zed, drenching him with an alphabet soup of writhing Greek, Latin and Arabic mathematical symbols that spread themselves uniformly over his body as if they were alive.)

Spam running up and placing his two front paws on Zed's chest: Don't move they're organizing themselves into equations of various forms! There is data here, data! Most interesting!

Zed: Hideeeeeooooouuuuus! Hideeeeeoooouuuuus!

Kribet: Now, look what you've done Stanley! And you Martin should know better! What a way to treat a stranger. To pour out your nonsense on this poor impressionable fool. You've stained him for life. Made him a believer in cold fusion most probably. Of all the most ridiculous nonsense. (To Zed) There, quick now, go jump in that lake.

Zed exits stage right and a loud splashing sound is heard.

Zed offstage: Hideeeeeooooouuuus!

Spam while lapping up the vomitous: Most fascinating data. Simply fascinating.

Kribet: Well, we must be off now. Farewell, farewell! On monster!

Martin-Stanley: Hideeeeeooooouuuuus! Hideeeeeoooouuuuuuus!

Exit stage right, Kribet shouting from offstage: Remember, Rozzi is a fraud and E-Cats don't exist!

Enter stage right a sopping wet Zed: Goodby and good riddance.

Spam: Goodby patho-skeptic. Quick, Slow-Boat, check for news of Rozzi and the E-Cats.

Click.

Zed: Nothing new, nothing changed. No news of Rozzi and E-Cats. I am so tired of living in this purgatory. When will Rozzi arrive with the E-Cats? Nothing changes for us ever. I am beginning to forget why I'm here.

Spam: Have faith. Remember, the data you saw. It made heat. Listen not to the kriviting of the Kribetts.

Zed: A watched E-Cat never boils. What will Rozzi and his E-Cats do when they arrive? Make cups of tea? Make ice-cream?

Spam: Don't worry your pretty little head about the long term geo-politico-economic ramifications of such an Earth-shattering event. Rest assured, my Slow-Boat, it pulls up just short in importance to the Singularity, so don't fret. Simply understand that it will keep you warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Refresh the screen, perhaps something new has happened.

Click

Zed: Look, oh happy days! A new article in the mainstream press. A new article on Forge magazine, Gibbsey has written another opinion piece about Rozzi and the E-Cats!

(Spam reads the article by Gibbsey aloud.)

Gibbsey: What is the truth about the E-Cat? When should one believe? Why should one believe? Under what conditions should one shift ones opinion? How long should one remain straddling the fence regardless of how splintery the rail? There is fact and there is data. There is data and there is proof. There proof and there is theory. There is theory and there is evidence. There is evidence and there is data. Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence. Show me proof, don't show me equations. Make the E-Cat shimmer with heat. Make the E-Cat blast a shriek from a steam whistle. Make the E-Cat turn a generator. Make the E-Cat turn an ice-cream churn and I will wander home happily lapping my tasty treat, fully convinced. As of now there is still doubt. I doubt Rozzi and the E-Cats. Give me evidence Rozzi, or give me silence. E-Cat indeed!

Zed: Help me Spamuel, my knees are weak. Now I too have doubt!

Spam: Buck up Slow-Boat. I have had my doubts.

Zed: I am hungry for new proof, new data, something solid.

Spam: I could regurgitate some data for you but you wouldn't understand it. Listen to me. Listen to me. I have seen the Mechanic Rozzi's data. It was not perfect but good enough, that is what brought us here. There was net energy out! Substantial heat out. Do you not remember? Do you not remember?

Zed knocking his head on the ground: Ooooooh! Give me my E-Cat. E-Cat, now!

Spam: Have heart. Rozzi will bring the E-Cats soon.

Zed yanks his belt off dropping his pants around his ankles.

Zed: Not soon enough. The doubters have beaten me. I am naked before all.

Spam: Pull you pants up! Put on the smile I saw on you the first you heard the good news. Remember? Don't you remember the wide satisfying grin of a smile that split your face when you first heard of Rozzi and the E-Cats, and the satisfying feeling you had of being saved, the whole world being saved? Remember! Remember.

Zed: It has been so long. So, so long ago. Give me data or give me death.

Spam running up to Zed, sitting in front of him and proffering a paw: Here, take my paw, look into my happy eyes. I'll wag my tail for you. Believe, believe, Rozzi and the E-Cats are coming, soon. Believe.

Zed sounding hopeful: We could still shoot each other.

Spam: Tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow.

Waiting for E-Cat

A comedy in two acts

by: Kelley Trezise, a.k.a. Zedshort, a.k.a Steve Robb

Zed: A man

Spam: Zed's talking dog friend

Rozzi: Inventor of the E-Cat, neither seen nor heard

Kribet: A blogger

Martin-Stanley: A monster “owned” by Kribet

Gibbsey: An Op/ed writer.

Defcalion: A seafaring business man

ACT II

same place

(Next morning Spam enters stage right and sings a song to the tune of the children's song “Bingo”)

There is a man who has a cat

And Rozzi is his name-O

Rozz, Rozz, Rozzi-O

Rozz, Rozz, Rozzi-O

Rozz, Rozz, Rozzi-O

And Rozzi is his name-O

He likes to tinker in his shop

And build E-catalizer-O

Cat-a-lizer-O

Cat-a-lizer-O

Cat-a-lizer-O

The E-Cat is his game-O.

I would like to have a few

To warm my frigid friend-O

Warm my dingle-O

Warm my dingle-O

Warm my dingle-O

My dingle is too cold-O.

The patho-skeptics beat me down

And cast aspersions round-O

Cast as-pershions-O

Cast as-pershions-O

Cast as-pershions-O

The skeptics are a pain-O

I must believe and say I trust

That Rozzi is my friend-O

Rozzi, friend-e-O

Rozzi, friend-e-O

Rozzi, friend-e-O

I trust my Rozzi friend-O

But there's no news for me to chew

no E-Cat data proof-O

E-Cat data-O

E-Cat data-O

E-Cat data-O

No E-Cat news is news-O.

(Zed enters stage left head down his pants still down around his ankles.)

Zed: I heard you singing a happy song. How can you be so happy while I am so miserable?

Spam: Slow-Boat! How are you! Good to see you again! I'm happy to see you!

Zed: What's new. You're a dog, you're always happy to see everyone. You wouldn't be so happy if your doubts had kicked you as mine did me while asleep last night.

Spam: Oh noooo. You're unhappy. Shall I regurgitate for you some of the data I ingested yesterday?

Zed: I'll pass.

Spam: Slow-Boat, please, pull up your pants.

Zed: What's the point? Rozzi is a fraud and there are no E-Cats.

Spam: Buck up friend. Let's check the news. And pull up your pants.

Click

Spam: Good news! We're saved! Look here, see? Rozzi is saying he will build a factory to mass produce E-Cats at super low prices at a rate of one million per year. Small ones for home use. Grand news. (grinning sardonically at Zed) E-Kittens!

Zed with a loud groan folds over, his arms drooping so low his hands touch his pants: How long have we been here? Haven't we heard such things before? Show me an E-Cat, just one E-Cat. Pleeease!

Spam runs off to fetch and return Zed's belt, drops it at his feet: Here put your belt on and pull up your pants. You'll feel better in due time, especially with your pants up. Listen, each day brings us closer to the final event of an E-Cat in every home.

Zed fumbling with his belt and pants: Yes, we are asymptotically approaching the end. It seems we've been here forever. How long has it been?

Spam: Only so long as is sufficient to accomplish all this waiting and no more.

Zed: A watched E-Cat never boils.

Spam: Think of the beauty of the thing. E-Kittens warming homes soon. Then E-Cat generators, then E-Cat autos, then E-Cat aeroplanes, then E-Cat rocket ships to the moon, the planets, even maybe in our lifetime to the stars.

Zed: E-Cat unemployment for millions, E-Cat depression, E-Cat arms race, E-Cat atomic weapon.

Spam: No greenhouse gas emissions, fossil fuel power plants shut down. No global warming.

Zed: No warming greenhouse gasses. Global cooling, we'll freeze.

Spam: Abundant everything. Fresh water everywhere.

Zed: Stupid people making babies abundantly, the Earth stripped of its resources.

Spam: We'll use the moon.

Zed: The space aliens won't like that.

Spam: Let's check for news of Rozzi and the E-Cats.

Click

Spam: Nothing new, nothing changed.

Zed: A watched E-Cat never boils.

Spam: I've an idea. Let's switch roles. You say something positive and I'll say something negative about Rozzi and the E-Cats.

Zed: Fine. E-Cats are abundant.

Spam: Try to say it less sarcastically. I've not seen one, at least not just yet, but they're coming.

Zed: Rozzi is a paranoid.

Spam: That's not a good thing, that's a bad thing. Try harder.

Zed: Rozzi is less paranoid than I would be if I was in his position.

Spam: Um, not sure how to work that one. Pass.

Zed: It is a warm day and we don't need an E-Cat.

Spam: It will no doubt grow so warm we will need an E-Cat to cool us. This is not working. Let me say something negative and you respond with something positive. The E-Cat does not exist.

Zed: You cannot prove a negative.

Spam: Fail.

(From off stage the sound of many loud voices.)

Enter stage left Defcalion and Company: Ho, there good fellows, we are the traveling Greek troupe know as Defcalion and Company and we are here to save you. My name is Defcalion. This is my Company and we bear Hyperions, the rival to the E-Cat, which does not exist.

Zed to Spam: Did he say trope?

Spam: Welcome friends, what good news of Rozzi and the E-Cats do you bear us?

Defcalion: Rozzi? Let me tell you of Rozzi. He is a fraud and a thief. He carried from our shores our beautiful E-Cat, which does not exist, and refuses to return it to us. We have declared war upon him and will defeat him in business with our rival product the Hyperion heater. Behold the Hyperion!

(Defcalion looses the string from a roll of a drawing that unravels before Zed and Spam.)

Spam: What the hell is that! It's just a drawing.

Zed folding over so his hands nearly touch the ground groans: Ooooh, soooo disappointed.

Defcalion: Oh, I see you are pseudo-believers. You believe in Rozzi and the E-Cats but not the Hyperion?

Spam: Do you have something physical to show. Please, please something solid! We beg you!

(The Company carries forward on a litter, a box draped with a cloth. Defcalion grandiloquently yanks the cloth away revealing a box with a button on one side.)

Defcalion: Behold! The Hyperion mockup. It is a thing of beauty is it not? More beautiful than the E-Cat, which I might add does not exist even though Rozzi stole it from us.

Zed: A mockup? Are you trying to crush my heart? Show me something that works!

Spam: Oh, well. I could be more disappointed. I think. Is there anything more?

Defcalion: We have data, secret scientific data compiled by secret people with scientific minds. Here they are.

(Out of the company step three persons with gags on their mouths, their hands tied behind their backs.)

Spam: Can they attest that the Hyperion works. Does it make heat?

Defcalion: They are willing but incapable of speaking as they have signed non-disclosure agreements.

Zed: Can't you tell us one little secret thing, just one?

Defcalion: Don't you understand. Business is war. If we reveal our secrets, Rozzi who is a fraud, could incorporate into his E-Cat, which does not exist, our technology which he stole from us. And not the other way around.

Spam: You are Greeks, yes?

Defcalion: Yes.

Zed: That explains much.

Spam: You derive from a long line of pirates, yes?

Defcalion: Pirates?! You call us pirates?! We are business men, seafaring business men! You look at us and you call us pirates?! Us?!

Spam to the audience sotto voce: Me thinks he doth protest too much.

Zed arms still draped to the floor: Shoot me now, pleeeease.

Defcalion: There will be no Hyperions for you my friend. And get off of my domain. This conversation is at an end. (Defcalion suddenly cheering up) Well, we are off to make war upon the thief and fraud Rozzi. Wish us luck.

(Defcalion and Company depart stage right with many happy waves and cheery smiles.)

Spam after they are gone: Goodby and good riddance. What simply awful people. We are back where we started. We have nothing but the shadow of a shade of a hope.

Zed: Nothing new, nothing changed.

Spam: Maybe you are right. Perhaps we should just shoot each other.

(Before they can, they are interrupted as Moola Smith and Sol Milo enter stage left. Smith leads Milo, his hands tied behind his back.)

Moola Smith: G'day mates. How's it goin' ? I couldn'a help but hear your yabber about about tha E-Cat and to step up and give yoos some advice. Ya seem ta be lost a liddle. I'm Moola Smith by name, of Oz land fame. Savior of wayward and helpless Mums 'n Dads, 'an the scorn a tha scammers; dastardly devils all! An I got me a specimen right here. Is name's Sol the conman. Caught im red handed try'n to flog shares of shares of hope ta tha gullible.

Zed raising himself and his pants at the same time: Seems a bit derivative, doesn't it?

Spam runs over and attempts to lift his leg on Sol: Bad man!

Sol Milo: So what's wrong with spreadn' the hope around and ask'n for a bit of compensation for me consultation? I ran out of fuel for my poly-water powered car; that stuff isn't cheap, ya know.

Zed: May we call you Moola?

Moola Smith: Of course ya can mate. Always like to hear people remindn' themselves of me moola status and where virtue lies. Listen, I couldn't help overhear your goings on about Rozzi and the E-Cats. Well if yoos believe in that, then I've a big rock in the Northern Territory I can sell ya. Tell ya wat. Any bloke can show me an E-Cat and I'll quit Oz an take up residence on the Moon. There are nah E-Cats and Rozzi's a fraud! Well, I'm off with this bad boy, and ta save the poor Mums 'n Dads from blokes like this un. Stay out of the chat rooms and do the world a favor and don't be maken' any copies of yourselves; world's got troubles enough. Hooroo! (Exit Moola Smith with Sol Milo stage right.)

Spam to Smith: Hope to see you on the moon soon.

Zed to Smith: I hear the moon needs sheilas, better take some with you. Please leave your moola here.

Spam: So much controversy, so little time.

Zed: This empty space is too busy with skeptics and I am loosing faith. When, oh when, will my E-Cat arrive? Let's check once again for news of Rozzi and the E-Cats, Spamuel.

Click

Spam: Look Slow-Boat. See here, this chat room is full of cheery people who say that Rozzi is not a fraud and the E-Cats are real.

Zed: They go on and on. Propping each other up with tiny bits of hope.

Spam: They peer into the darkness awaiting a new flash of insight to illuminate the scene, hoping and hoping, assembling the small bits of information into a pointillist painting of the truth. Such faithfulness.

Zed: Or is it foolishness?

Spam: Your pants have fallen down again Slow-Boat.

Zed: It suits me well.

Spam: Let's sleep Slow-Boat. Tomorrow will be a new day with new news.

Zed: Goodnight Spamuel.

Spam: But, first pull up your pants Slow-Boat.

Zed pulling up his pants: Oh.

Spam stands, staring out into the audience: We sleep, to bury this bitter disappointment in the darkness. To sleep, perchance to dream of E-Cats leaping forth from the blackness bearing tiny points of hope. And so to sleep.

Zed also standing, staring into the audience: To sleeeep.

The End

The Believer

You, Ogg, squat at the entrance of your cave. It is the early dawn of humankind and you sit upon your haunches, feeling neither contented nor discontented as you stare blankly into a late afternoon sky. There is a man approaching, slowly, carrying a bundle slung over his back. You believe him to be a cousin and so watch unalarmed as he makes his way, toward you along the trail. For a brief while, he disappears at the base of your hill then reappears, suddenly very close. Too late you realize he is a stranger. But he is smiling. Had it not been for his disarming smile you would have not allowed him to close the distance, but would have risen to threaten and drive him off. Now here he is before you, with a bundle of wood in a sling on his back. Being a civilized cave-man you feign you are disarmed by proffering your hand, all the while you are aware of the spear hidden under the skin that brushes your right ankle.

He speaks. “I am Zog, and I bring you happy tidings and the hope of a bright future. I bring you fire!”

“Fire?” you echo quizzically, you've never heard that word. “What is fire?”

Zog smiles knowingly. He nods and understands your station as one of the new, the uninitiated. “Fire is good,” he explains. “It makes light, it makes heat, it makes smoke, it makes meat tasty. And, I will demonstrate it to you.”

Well you think, that it new. Light, heat, smoke, tasty meat. It all sounds to promise an entertaining end to the day. “Please, yes, do show, here,” you prompt Zog, sweeping your hands before you like a good host inviting a stranger into your home.

Zog dumps the bundle of kindling and fagots on the ground, quickly arranges them into a pyramid, draws rocks from a pouch and proceeds to sing, chant and clack the rocks together as he dances about the wood. He dances a long, long, time and works the rocks furiously. At the first wisp of smoke, Zog falls prostrate upon the ground, blows kisses and breathes breathy chants into the base of the heap of wood. Then it happens!

There is a glimmer of light and with a small pop and crack, a living, glowing genie springs from the center, tentatively at first. It grows quickly, so quickly you are startled by this new, never before seen life. It reminds you of a snake as it hisses and writhes. It glows and throws heat. It snaps and cracks and grows louder and louder. The stink of smoke alarms you as it pinches at your nose. But the flames mesmerize and fascinate. Finally the pile is alight, and bright with FIRE!

Zog, quickly lifts the large joint of raw meat you were gnawing and lays it atop the growing flames and the scent of cooking flesh seduces. “This is FIRE! Enjoy.” He packs up his rocks and departs.

The fire makes light, and it is good. The fire makes soothing heat, and it is good. The fire makes smoke and drives away the buzzing, biting insects, and it is good. The fire makes meat tasty and it is very, very good. You, Ogg, watch the fire late into the night as it dies down into a twinkling small echo of the winking sky above. As fire dies, you settle into a tired but excited sleep, looking forward to a new, and more hopeful day.

But when you rise, you find fire is gone. In its place lies a mockery of what was once the flaming pyramid of sticks and fagots that crumbled before your eyes into a heap of black and glowing red worms. Fire lies now, only a gray powder. You poke your fingers into the center of the fluffy mass and spread it about in a vain search for the evidence of light...of heat. But fire is gone. You hold your fingers to your nose and sniff. A light puff of wind sends the friable remains away. Fire is no more. Though the man who brought it is gone and fire is gone, you know that you have seen it.

You too, want to make fire. And so you gather together wood. You collect rocks. You dance about the bundle and clash the stones and chant in pantomime of Zog's performance as best you can recall. Much time passes and you give up but you try again the next day, and the next, and next. You witnessed fire's brief, fantastic event and hold dear the memory. You anxiously await fire's return.

Others inquire as to your behavior and you tell them of the arrival of Zog, the building of the pyramid, the chanting, the clacking, the ritual and the fantastic event of fire. Fire is good, fire is great, fire is a wondrous thing. It took only one spectacular event to convince you of the reality of fire. The people listen but do not understand and your attempts to bring forth fire only amuse them. They leave, tittering and laughing.

You insist upon repeating the story with greater and greater insistence and the others begin to look upon you with less interest and less amusement. Finally, those who first listened patiently to you become soured on your story. Eventually you are cast out of the tribe. You lose your position, your friends and your cave and are compelled to live on the perimeter.

But through the obscuring fog of scoffery, laughter, and invective of the non-believers you hear rumors of others who, like yourself, also had a visitation from Zog and they too have witnessed the fire and they, like you, have after one brief spectacular event, become believers in and strivers after fire.

Nature Tells

She had crept into the shed and wedged herself into its darkest recess. I‘d lifted her before, despite her weak protests, and lain her on my bed. I desired to comfort her. I wished to hear her purr one last night. I longed to be with her at the end. But she had once again made her way here, to this dark place. I called to her softly; she answered weakly…plaintively.

Nature tells what to do. My father told me of the time he had a hernia, his body commanded him in the most imperative of ways, due not to pain, nor the discomfort, to lie down. I stepped from the shed, uncertain how to act. Turning, I looked back through the entrance and in toward her dark resting place.

There is a drawing by the Japanese artist Ando Hiroshige which portrays a view from within a home through a window to a landscape beyond. On the sill, is perched a cat, peering outward. The cat, perched between two worlds, the domestic and the wild, seems to invite the viewer to join it in its contemplation of nature beyond.

She wanted to lie, unmolested, in the darkness. She wished to be in a place that smelled of mice, of dust, of nature. I gently closed the door and wandered, aimlessly, mindlessly, about my yard. I awoke in the flower garden. I knelt down…and after a brief rest, I rose…with a pick in my hand.

Suffering Thing

I found her suffering a short distance from my home, and a quarter mile from the main road. Her injuries were obvious. She’d dragged her useless hind legs behind, as far as she could from her terminal encounter with the speeding metal and glass beasts that prey on her and her brood.

She panted with fear, exhaustion and pain. Propped up by front legs, extended in an unnatural angle, she held her head high, jaws agape. I dared not look into her eyes, for fear of causing her further distress or myself, panic at the sight of her suffering. Standing at a distance I considered…what to do? 

I returned home, where all was well and all in place. I filled a bucket with water...put it in the truck and drove down the road to the new-found dead-end. Placing it as close to her as possible without causing her alarm, I made myself small and returned home.

For coyote, man is a deadly enemy. We have vaguely sentimental ideas of being in sympathy with their plight. But all such sentimentality pales in consideration to their reality. They are shot. They are poisoned. They are struck dead by our vehicles. They are starved and choked by the vagaries of nature; their lives the penultimate expressions of the existential.

The following day, I found her, cold and stiff beside the bucket from which I hope she had drawn one last bit of comfort. She was given respectful covering. Then and I withdrew.

Conversation with Trickster

The southeast corner of Arizona is populated with the natural and the un-natural. And, the most un-natural are the modern-Man-transplants. This was once the domain of Cochise of the Chiracuaua band of Apache who lay close to the earth and the course of nature. Today, the vast majority of us here, have the most tenuous of grips on the very narrowest of ledges upon which we survive. The sun imposes its will in the day, and beats down the most physical. The night brings with it a transcendent blaze of stars that chases away all the rest. But the denizens of the desert remain. One of which is known as Trickster Coyote.

It was early twilight when Man came upon Trickster as She slunk through his yard.

Man demanded in alarm, “Hey, you! Stop!”

Trickster froze in a low crouch. Her look locked on Man in a most cautious way. Man could tell She was checking his hands for anything of weapon-nature.

Man clenched his fists. “What-the-hell! I told you to stay out of my fenced area during the day!”

Trickster raised Her head skyward and indicated with Her eyes. “It is not day, friend. Do you not see the stars? It becomes the night.”

“Yes, but you’re pushing the limit of the agreement.”

“Remind me again, please. I have become feeble.”

“You can’t enter my yard during the day, only at night.”

Said Trickster, with a touch of irony, “Ahhh, yes...the night is mine. You want me to come and clean up the swarm of mice and rabbits that eat your pretty plants...to do you a favor.”

Man retorted, “It’s me doing you a favor. I allow you this! I even give you water.”

Trickster dipped Her head slightly in contrition. “For the water, I thank you much. But you have much and I little. An indulgence please: one of those?”

Man could see Trickster was peering through his legs. He turned in time to see one of his cats hurrying its plumpness into his house.

Man scowled. “That’s what the agreement is about. They’re a part of me. You bite them, you bite me!”

Trickster‘s mouth drew into a wry smile. “Then at least allow me to tree them. They will look very pretty decorating your decadent shade trees.”

"Decadent trees? You are the decadent one", Man growled

Trickster was ready for Man. “No sir, you are wrong. Without the aid of all of the most unnatural things you have brought with you, you would collapse into the dust. Your trees need a prodigious amount of water that you must suck from the Earth. You hide yourselves inside your boxes, from the face of the heat and the cold and the rain. You do not grow food yourselves but drag it here and eat mountainous amounts until your ridiculous, fat bellies leave you listless and unable to walk. And then you excuse your lazy repose by saying the land about you is monotonous…so boring you seldom venture beyond your little fenced perimeter. It is you who are decadent. I, who am part of nature, will never be so.”

Man was taken aback by the imperative tone of Trickster. He shifted his feet nervously. He felt unstable, as if he had been shoved. “Again…stay out of my yard during the day. I’ll indulge you an occasional dead chicken or duck, but leave my pets alone. I…and…uh…your howling is disturbing my peace.”

“I am sure you are refering to my yipping, that calls my friends and family together, you find so disturbing. The Song I sing I know you to admire. It comes from my soul. It makes my heart pound and quakes my very body. You know it to be the truth and you envy me. Your music is stupid and loud and sounds of something about to break into pieces. But I see Men all about stepping from their boxes to hear my Song. They stand at attention and listen and admire it for a very long time. So, you see, I also sing for you.”

Man was now thoroughly flustered. “Go away. But remember the agreement. And…give my best to Cochise.”

“Ahhh...yes…of course…Cochise. You speak of The One. You invoke him and assume him to be one of yours. You think by doing so it will make you great by association. But Cochise was closer to my kind than to yours. He and his pack learned their ways from me, Coyote, but you and those of your ilk are his simple, distant, degenerate cousins. He is more a part of me than he a part of you. I go now.”

Trickster’s voice had worked a mesmerizing effect upon Man. It was then She moved with silence, grace, and swiftness through the barbed fence and vanished into the brush. Man was left standing at attention, staring as the new stars grew slowly in intensity as his transfixed state faded. A cool breeze brushed his hair across his brow. He found himself alone. Man wondered if he had imagined his entire conversation with Trickster.

Harvest Day

Ducks are fine creatures and if a bond can be made they are among the finest pets a person could have. When my package of ducks, advertised as a variety pack arrived, I found it contained only one Swedish Blue and twelve of the Peking breed. I had made the mistake of ordering around the Easter celebration when everyone wants the yellow hatchlings. As the loading of the package was up to the hatchery, and about the only ducks they had available were Pekings, I received a small swarm of peeping and cheeping, mostly yellow ducklings.

The ducks grew into eight drakes and five hens. The hens soon began laying four eggs each day more than I needed. I tried them scrambled, fried, poached, as eggnog, as quiche, as dog treats. I am not a great egg eater and began to choke on the overabundance. Meanwhile, the drakes spent all day, every day, squabbling about who "owned" the hens. The commotion they created prompted me to begin honing a grudge against them in an effort to overturn any moral compunction that might restrain my harvesting a succulent duck. The leverage worked and a "Harvest Day" was declared.

By surreptitious means I snagged a duck. The process is quite simple. You need only place a tasty morsel, such as a worm, in your hand and offer it. A duck will rush up to snag the treat and when it does so, you snag it in turn by the bill. This method can be used only once as the others will observe your deviousness and word or should I say the “Quack!!” will spread quickly throughout the flock and you will never be allowed within ten yards of one of them again...ever.

So, I tucked the duck under my arm and as a consolation prize for making this his last day on Earth, I dubbed him “Freddie”, a name I intended to award to all such future volunteers. I carried Freddie to a cage behind the house and conveniently near a water barrel that I would employ as the chopping block. The others ducks were in a tizzy about the trick they had seen me play on Freddie. They watched me with suspicion and alarm and from a considerable distance as I proceeded into the house to recover a large knife I intended to use to pop off Freddie's head. As I exited the house, the other ducks squawked in terror at the sight of the implement of death. But they do that at the sight of anything unusual. They are highly excitable creatures.

I placed the knife on the water barrel, fished Freddie out of the cage, tucked him under my left arm, brought him near the block, and again lifted the knife. Freddie responded by stretching his beautiful white neck out on the block as if he understood how the game of chopping-the-duck’s-head-off was to be played. His behavior caused me to pause in his execution and as I did so I was distracted by the sound of muttering coming from behind me. I turned to find three or four ducks stretching their necks from around the corner of the house where they observed my horrifying behavior. I imagined thought bubbles above their heads that read:

”What’s he doing with Freddie?!!”…”What’s he doing with that knife in his hand?!!”…”Oh, grief! No!!”

I returned my attention to Freddie, and as before he helpfully stretched his neck out on the block. I raised the terrible knife over my head. As I did so he looked up at me with one little gray eye that seemed to say, “How’m I doing guy? Am I doing this right?” His trusting little eye blinked rapidly and my knife wielding arm fell limp. 

I lowered Freddie from his too Heavenly perch to the Earth where he hurried off to compare notes with his amigos. There would be no sending of ducks to heaven that day nor would there be any future harvest day, as I love my creatures too much and as there is an abundance of homes in need of my overabundance of ducks.

Easy Shot

The slug cut a swath of pulverized flesh through her right flank and she went down by her front legs. The thirty caliber bullet carried, even at the range of three hundred yards, enough energy to collapse her front legs within a half second and lay her on her side in one. The entry wound was dead center to her torso, but inhumanly, not to any vital organs. So she shrieked to the sky and thrashed her legs in the dust and snorted and wheezed for a while too long. She was dead within a minute.

I stood at the barbed wire fence, almost afraid to speak. The rancher was in a fit. I’d heard men curse before, but his were different. My father cursed in an offhand manner; he dropped something…he cursed. But this man’s curses were directed and an order of magnitude worse.

The rancher’s fists were balled tightly at his side. His eyes glared with darkness and his words were choked. He sounded as if he would cry. “God-damned hhhell!! What the God-damned hell makes people do this!!?” White flecks of spittle were on his lips. The horse was already beginning to bloat. She lay on her left side. The bulging wound, puckered to the sky, was surrounded by a vomitus of dried blood. There was a beginning of stink and of flies.

My father bought a Garand thirty-caliber rifle, known as a thirty-ought-six or 30-06. These were war surplus and available by mail for a nominal amount. I don’t know why, but he got the idea into his head to go hunting…for something. I wonder if there might be a blood lust lying within people waiting to be sated; in some way it must take some shape, find some form.  The thirty-ought-six is a man-killer. The weapon was used at a time when the thought was to kill thine enemy, not just wound him, but to lay the fucker in the dust permanently. Military strategists later came to realize, a wounded soldier was more of a burden to the enemy than one stone dead, and so they devised bullets that have a high probability if wounding.

I mustered up the courage to ask, “What happened?”


He shouted, “What happened? …I’ll tell you what happened!! Some cowardly son-of-a-bitch shot this poor innocent horse for the fun of it; that’s what happened!” He continued for a while, alternating between curses and lamentations, and I stood, frightened and respectfully still, trying to find words appropriated enough to sooth, or placate, or to excuse my taking leave.

I watched as my father, disassembled the rifle, cleaned the parts, laid out his plan and executed it in a very methodical manner as he did with all his electro-mechanical projects. The barrel was to be cut short, eliminating the front sight. The stock was also cut short and “floated”, that is to say there was to be a gap between the stock and the barrel so as to eliminate any distorting load the firer’s grip might cause the barrel to bend ever so slightly and cause the bullet to deflect. The receiver was to be drilled and tapped and a scope fitted. And last but not least a shock absorbing pad would be attached to the butt for user comfort. My father was a genius of sorts. If he wanted a radio he built his own, if he wanted a cement mixer he built his own, if he wanted a sail boat he built his own, and if he wanted to kill something…

I excused myself from the scene and only returned after a month to witness the carcass shriveled. At the time the ranchers were poisoning the coyotes and havelina that would have cleaned up the rank mess within a week or two. As a result only the rats and insects were left to slowly disassemble and scatter the bones. It took months. Finally, after a year or two, the bones were gnawed to nothingness by all the creatures in need of their calcium.

It took many, many months, for the last traces of the horse to be worked into the soil or blown to the sky. But it took me many decades to fit the various bits of facts and hints about this incident together into a truth. People speak the truth in an obtuse manner. They tend to say the opposite of what they are trying to conceal but in such a singular way so as to accentuate what they really mean. The spoken words stick, but don’t register until enough little pieces pile up; they coalesce over the years until they finally push through into a truth. My father’s declaration, "he wouldn't harm a fly”, stood in stark contrast to the nature I knew. But I also knew the distance of three hundred yards from our back yard to the horse in the draw…would have been a very tempting and easy shot.