CALLED A GUY   1/8/16
   What happened next shouldn't even happen in a circus.  Something went wrong.  Very wrong.  Ollie swears it wasn't his guys, but it couldn't have happened without his guys, could it?  You can't have the Franco-Prussian War without the Francos and the Prussians, right?  Wars need two sides.  Generals count on having somebody to fight.  They don't much care who, but when you comes right down to it, war is no damned fun unless you have someone to aim at.
      The first I got wind of it was when Tara interrupted my morning bath.
      She knocked on the door.  "Nikki?  Ma'am?"
      I had just surrendered to my bubbles, and it felt glorious. Further surrender felt utterly improbable.  "Go away," I shouted.
      "Would that I could, Ma'am," said Tara, "but there have been . . . developments."
      I've heard that drowning is a painless way to go, but I'd also heard something like that regarding the popping of my cherry.  I'll not be fooled twice.  I acquiesced, to a point.
      "Is this latest crisis one that can be discussed through the door, or must you enter my bath?"
      "I'm begging your pardon, ma'am, but I think I need to speak with you face to face."
      For some reason, I felt like Claudette Colbert, or Myrna Loy.  "Very well, Tara, you may enter."  I fluffed up the bubbles, for modesty's sake.
      "But, Ma'am, Ramon is with me.  He's the one you need to speak with."
      Suddenly, I felt warmer than the bath water.  "Ramon?  Why didn't you say so earlier?  Get your asses in here!"
      How often does a woman get to lounge in a bubble bath in front of a handsome young man?  And how many of you women are dying from envy right now?
      The door opened slowly.  Tara, peeked in.  "Ma'am are you decent?"
      "That's a leading question, isn't it?"
      "Yes, Ma'am.  I'm sorry.  I was just wondering if I should let Ramon in.  Perhaps you'd like your robe?"
      Who did she think she was kidding?
      "He may enter," I said, feeling like Greta Garbo, Cleopatra, and Catherine the Great all rolled into one."
      I thought I was prepared.  I thought I was in control.  I didn't think I was really naked.  I had scads of bubbles covering every inch of me.
      Ramon entered my bathroom--nervously, his eyes down cast--and suddenly I felt more naked than a peeled papaya.  I tingled in places I'd never tingled before.  My gums tingled!  My toes tingled.  I think my pancreas tingled.
      I tried to maintain my poise.
      "So, Ramon," I said, "what's up?"
      I recognized my gaffe right away, and might have glossed it over, had it not been for Tara's juvenile tittering.  But between that, and Ramon's wine deep blush, I lost it.  My hysterics only fed Tara's, and Tara's only refueled my own.  Poor Ramon stood by utterly, completely, totally, wishing he were in Hell.
      When we'd finally calmed down, this is what Ramon had to report:  "There are men downstairs beating themselves bloody."
      Giddiness vanished.  I clamored out of the tub without a modest thought, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me.  "Ollie?" I asked.
      Ramon, bless him, saw nothing.  "No, ma'am.  But I think it's his men against the lurkers."
      I wrapped another towel around my head.  "Who's winning?"
      Ramon bowed.  "I'm betting on Mr. Bright's brigade, ma'am.  If I'd have thought it could go the other way, I'd have stayed and fought, too.  But then I'd not have had the pleasure of enjoying your bath."
      Suddenly, all the pleasure was gone for me.  "You may go, Ramon," I said.
 
*************************************************
There are two kinds of feeling good.  
But only one kind doesn't haunt you later.
-L. Oliver Bright
*************************************************​

THE GAME IS AFOOT   1/22/16
     By the time I had dressed and reached the street, all the excitement was over, and all the evidence gone.  I spoke to Ramon, who still couldn't look me in the eye.  He'd seen me naked, but he couldn't look me in the eye.  Men are the oddest of creatures.
      "Tell me what happened," I demanded.  A woman rousted from her bubble bath has every right to demand.
      Ramon peered straight ahead.  "Mr. Bright's fellows kicked the lurkers' asses, then, just before the police arrived, they all disappeared."
      "The police were here?  What did they say?"
      Ramon shuffled.  "They asked me what happened."
      I figured that much.  "What did you tell them?"
      "I said I didn't see anything.  I told them I was inside."
      Now it was my turn to shuffle.  "You didn't say anything about my . . . bath, did you?"
      He stared back into space.  "What bath, Miss?  I told them . . . I was urinating."
      I wanted to laugh, but I liked Ramon too much to embarrass him any further.  "Was Ollie involved?  Did the police officers ask you about Ollie?"
      Ramon shook his head.  "Mr. Bright is a gentleman.  This was obviously a dispute between street ruffians."
      Street ruffians on this street?  If the cops swallowed that malarky, I decided it was time to stop paying my taxes.  "Nobody died?"
      The doorman thought for a moment.  "A concussion, or two.  Maybe some new dental work.  The victorious faction was efficient, rather than brutal."
      The 'victorious faction'?"
      "Yes, ma'am.  The good guys.  Mr. Bright's guys."
      I needed to clarify.  "Is that what you told the police?"
      He grinned.  "How would I know?  I was urinating."
  
     Later that evening, I addressed Ollie.
      "Your army was victorious," I said.
      He raised his eyebrows in question.  "I have several armies in various fields.  Perhaps you can be more specific?"
      "Cut the crap, thug, Ramon told me everything."  I was bluffing, of course, but hunches are the bedrock of gambling--and marriage.
      He grinned.  "I know you're bluffing, Nikki, but I'll show my hand anyway.  You are my family.  Tara is my family.  And as long as that British roach you call a friend resides under this roof, he's family, too--distant, but family."  Ollie crossed his arms.  "I sent a message . . . and a warning.  You don't mess with L. Oliver Bright's family."
      There may have been moments when I loved my man more, but I couldn't think of one.  "Who were they?" I asked, unable to articulate my deeper feelings.
      "Lint," he said dismissively, brushing imaginary threads off his shoulder.
      "Lint?" I asked.
      "The sub-human equivalent," he answered, with a shrug.
      "Will they be back?"
      "No."
      "But their friends?"
      "Lint don't make friends."
      I punched Ollie's arm.  "You know what I mean."
     "Your friend owes somebody millions of dollars.  A serious somebody."
     "You're saying things could escalate from here?"
     Ollie grinned.  "Unless you relent and let me throw the leeching bugger off the balcony."
     Against my better judgment, I proclaimed, "There will be no leech throwing."
     He grinned again.  "Then let the games begin."
 
********************************************
All games feature winners and losers.
Invariably, the losers are the idiots who
 believe rules are relevant. - L. Oliver Bright
********************************************​

OH, NO! PERCY'S LEAVING (1/29/16)
     Ollie and I were enjoying martinis in the living room, when Percy Worth strolled.  "I've decided to leave," he announced. 
     Ever the diplomat, Ollie raised his glass.  "I'll drink to that," he said.  "Hell, I'll hoot and holler to that."
     "I know when I'm not wanted," Percy sniffed.  "And I won't stay here a moment longer than necessary."
     Again, Ollie raised his glass.  "Please refer to my earlier comment.  Do you need help with your luggage?  Oh, that's right, you haven't any."  He pointed.  "There's the door, Perc.  And feel free to keep the sweat pants.  I'd just give 'em to a hobo anyway."
     I kicked Ollie's ankle.  Hard.
     Percy went to the bar, perused the bottles, and selected Grey Goose.  "Perhaps I wasn't clear.  I'll be leaving in the morning.  A houseguest generally gives his . . . hostess notice of his impending departure.  It's only polite."  He glared at Ollie.  "Notice I did not include 'host'.  Courtesy is as courtesy does."
     Ollie looked at me.  "I think my feelings are hurt, Nikki.  And just when I thought I was warming up to the overblown bastard."
     I ignored my husband.  "Where will you go?" I asked Percy, trying to not let my relief show.
     He poured several ounces of vodka over ice.  "I have friends . . . gracious friends."
     "Well, goodness gracious," exclaimed Ollie, "we mustn't deprive them of your sparkling company a moment longer.  Come, I'll help you over the balcony railing."  He made a move to stand, but I held him down with a sharp glare and emphatic fingernails on his forearm.
     "Are these 'gracious' friends local, Percy?" I asked gently.  "I hesitate to mention it, Percy, but you're currently ... lacking funds."
     Percy sipped my expensive vodka, then poured himself more.  "You make a good point.  Therefore, I shall require a modest loan," he said with a smile of entitlement.
     Again, I had to hold Ollie down. 
     "And I shall require a very capable defense attorney," he growled.
     "A loan?" I said.  "Seems to me your finances are already severely in . . . arrears."
     "To the tune of millions of dollars," added Ollie, still struggling to escape my grasp.
     Percy rolled his eyes.  "Surely you're not referring to those criminals and usurers?   They have no legal recourse."  He spoke to me like one would speak to a child--a dull child.  "Those who engage in criminal activity have no legal standing.  My debt to them is wholly imaginary.  Their claims wouldn't stand up in any court of law."
     Ollie barked out a laugh.  "Has it occurred to you, Your Highness, that criminals--people who live outside the law--rely on other measures to exact reparations?  Measures that include--but are not restricted to--leg-breaking?"
     "Of course it has occurred to me," said Percy.  "And I have taken preventative measures of my own.  I've engaged the services of a bodyguard."
     Again, Ollie barked.
     "A bodyguard?" I asked.
     "A quite capable chap whom I believe you know.  His name is Ramon."
     It was my turn to bark.
     Ollie eyed me, saying, 'Please, please.  Let me.'  I nodded.  Heck, I was dumbfounded anyway.
     "Is Ramon aware you're wearing another man's sweat pants, and there's nary a nickel in any of the pockets?"
     Percy poured himself more Grey Goose.  "Which brings us back to the loan I require."
     Ollie looked at me.  "If he says 'require' one more time, I will throw his sorry ass off the balcony."
     I patted my husband's hand.  "If he says 'require' one more time, I'll beat you to it."
 
************************************************************************************ 
People are funny.  Especially when they're broke and owe money. -L. Oliver Bright
*************************************************************************************
​

 Adjudicating Justice (March 4, 2016)
     I studied Percy's face for the slightest hint he may have been joking.  But he returned my stare as seriously as an IRS auditor.
     "Tara's severance  package?"  I repeated.
     "It's only fair," he said, "and customary.  I should think the equivalent of two year's salary will do.  Drafted from your personal bank, dated today."
     "Two year's salary?"  I was flabbergasted, and well on my way to being severely annoyed.  "She hasn't even worked for me for two years.  And now I'm supposed to pay her for not working for me?"
     "Oh, come now, Nikki, we all know you can afford it.  And it's not like you were paying her anything near what the little dear is worth."
      "It's not a matter of affording, Percy."  I turned to Tara.  "So tell me, little dear, how did this all come about?  Last I knew, you hated this man with the passion of seven suns.  Now you're going to marry him?  At the same time, you're trying to export two-year's worth of wages from me?"
     Tara folded her hands in her lap.  "Hate is an awfully strong word.  Besides, people's feelings can change over time."
     "Not from rabid hate to matrimonial love," said.  "All in the time it takes to brush your teeth."
     "Actually," said Ollie, innocently sipping a martini, "there may be a precedent for such a turnaround.  I hear through the grapevine that Godzilla and Tokyo have patched things up, and are about to tie the knot."
     I glared at my husband.  "You're being absurd, Ollie.  And you're certainly not helping."
     "Really?" he said.  "And I thought absurdity was the uniform of the day."  He gestured toward Percy and Tara.  "Twenty grand, and two year's salary?  I'd call that an absurd amount of money.  Perhaps I'll throw that amount of cash off the balcony, then encourage these two vultures fly after it.  How's that?"
      Percy spoke up.  "What's absurd, Oliver, are your constant threats involving the throwing of objects and individuals off your tawdry balcony.  Have you never heard of the boy who cried wolf?"
     Ollie gritted his teeth but, much to my surprise, and to his credit, he didn't make a headlong charge.  "Have you never heard of splat?" he asked.
     I stood, held my hands up like a traffic cop.  "Okay, okay.  Enough is enough.  These will be my final words on this subject.  There will be no court of appeal."  I turned to my ex-boyfriend.  "Percy, I'm paying you twenty thousand dollars to vacate these premises within the hour.  Should you find these terms unacceptable, I'll have the New York Police Department drag you out of here without a penny to your name.  Those are my terms."
     Percy began to object.  "But you cannot--"
     "Shut-up, Percy.  I assure you, I can, and I will."  I turned to Tara.  "You made a bad pact, little dear, and I'm sure you'll regret it--as you should.  These are the facts:  Until you quit, you were my Personal Assistant, true.  But the fact is, you were employed not by me personally, but by the Page & Spine Corporation.  I will refer the matter of your severance package to the Human Resources Department.  I'm not up-to-date with the current termination guidelines, but based upon your length of service to the company, and the recommendation of your immediate supervisor--me--I'd suggest you find yourself another job will all due dispatch.  McDonald's is always hiring."
     Percy tried to butt in again, but I stopped him with a glance.
     "Furthermore, Tara," I said, "if I were you, I'd reconsider my nuptials.  Based on what Percy has just heard about your looming financial prospects, I'm guessing your pert breasts won't be enough to carry you down the aisle.  And, I'd count myself lucky, too.  Percy is a poor choice--especially since, according to Ollie, Godzilla's already spoken for.  You both have one hour to haul your asses out the door.  Court is adjourned."
 
******************************************************
When you study it, justice is rarely blind, nor totally just. 
But after the age of four, or so, we learn to work within its foibles.
- L. Oliver Bright
******************************************************

Percy Takes a Hike (March 11, 2016)  
     After I delivered my final judgments, the room remained tomb-ly quiet for what seemed to be all of eternity.  I exchanged several meaningful and meaningless glances with Ollie.  Percy and Tara exchanged a series of dumbfounded stares.  But no one said anything for the longest time. 
     Finally Ollie spoke up.  "Exactly fifty-eight minutes of your welcome remains," he said (so much for my ability to judge 'the longest time'), "but let me remind you that nothing's holding you here if you'd prefer to blow sooner."  He turned to me.  "Nikki why don't you write Mr. Worth-less a check so we might expedite his imminent expulsion."
     I started to rise . . .
     "Actually, I'd prefer cash," Percy stated.
    Before I could ask if he really thought I kept twenty-thousand flippin' dollars in cash lying around the house, Ollie stepped in again.
     "And I'd prefer the Yankees to wear plaid instead of pinstripes," he said, "but neither one of us is going to get our wish."
     I went to the desk to write a most unpleasant check.  I'd let the boys argue in the meantime.
    "Unacceptable," announced Percy.  "I have no banking institution in this city.  Who will cash a twenty-thousand dollar check for a stranger wearing these infernal sweat pants?"
    Ollie smiled.  "Good point, old bean!"  He nodded toward me.  "Write it for a round one hundred grand, Nikki.  That way we'll be sure no one will cash it."
      Percy shot up.  "Hey, I thought we had a deal!"
     Ollie shrugged in glee.  "We promised you a check, mate."  He looked at me, proud of himself.  "See what I did there--check-mate?"
      I smiled, indulgingly.  "Yes, you're the King of Comedy, dear." 
     I handed the check to Percy.  "Take this to the bank at the address shown at the top of the check.  Ask for Mr. Wardell.  I'll call ahead and arrange for him to cash it for you."  I hated myself for it, but I asked, "Do you have cab fare to get to the bank?"
      He lowered his head.  "I was expecting cash," he whispered.
    I reached for my purse.  "Expectations are the appetizers of disappointment," I said, then handed him a fifty dollar bill.
    He shoved the check and the bill into his sweat pants pocket.  "I'll get my few things, then I'll be out of your hair."  He lumbered off toward the guest room. 
     I looked at Tara, who hadn't spoken a word since I gave her the bad news about her so-called severance package.
    "I screwed up, didn't I?"  she asked.
     I sat next to her.  "You've still got Percy," I said.
     "Do I?"
     I nodded toward the guestroom.  "Maybe you need to ask him."
     Her eyes began to well.  "But he just left me sitting here on the couch.  Like he'd forgotten all about me."
     "Tara," I said, "there are worse places to be left.  And better people to be forgotten by.  Percy's jet is in a tailspin, and he's bailing out.  But he has a knack for landing on his feet--up 'til now, at least."
      "Are you saying he's bailing out on me?"
      I shrugged.  "Not necessarily now.  But I am asking, if not now, when?  I'm guessing it's just a matter of time . . . and money.  A soft couch beats being kicked to the side of the curb."
      She wiped her eyes.  "Maybe Percy and I should have a little talk."
      "I'd recommend it."
 
     I joined Ollie behind the bar.  Oddly I didn't want a drink.  "Do you think she'll leave with him?"  I asked.
     "Well, we kicked her out."  Ollie had a point.
     "But if she goes with him, that's her choice.  She still has an apartment." 
     "Maybe she'll take Percy with her," Ollie suggested.
     "No, that's not Percy's style," I said. "Besides I doubt Tara has enough saved to pay next month's rent."
     "Yeah, but Percy's got twenty grand.  That could hold them for a few months."
      I laughed.  "A few months?  In this city?  Besides, Percy doesn't share, he mooches."
     At that moment, Percy brisk-walked across the living room toward the front door.  Without slowing down, he said, "Nikki, dear, you won't forget to call Mr. Wardell at the bank, will you?"  And just like that, he was gone.
      Ollie looked at me with curiousity.  "You won't forget, will you?"
      I sighed.  "No, I won't."
      He kissed my cheek.  "That's my Nikki."  I kissed him back.  "What are you going to do about Tara?" he asked.
      I moved off toward the guest room.  "First I'll help her pick up the pieces.  Then I'll call Human Resources and get her set up with a decent severance package."
      Ollie raised his glass in a toast.  "That's my Nikki."
 
***************************************************************************************************** 
Things always work out in the end.  Otherwise, how would we know to move on? - L. Oliver Bright
*****************************************************************************************************

LETTERS FROM OLLIE, part 1  (March 18, 2016) 
​'     Long before Ollie and I were married, we were friends.  Long before we were friends, we'd been lovers.  Over the years, we'd drifted in and out of bed, but never veered out of friendship.  Could be that's why our marriage is so strong today--we'd worked out all the kinks (if you'll pardon the expression) long ago.
     Anyway, back in the 90s, while I was building Page & Spine into the corporate juggernaut it has become, Ollie wandered, occupying himself with a series of Quixotic--and exotic--quests and adventures that will have memoir publishers drooling and tripping over each other . . .  someday.
     But for now, one particular adventure springs eagerly to my mind.  It's a universal story of political intrigue, romance, duplicity, and far-reaching eco-centric consequences--not to mention supreme irony and sly humor.  Best of all, this amazing tale is told in the unedited words of L. Oliver Bright himself.  Words spilled across scores of letters he wrote to me even as the action unfolded around him.  Words spilled without censor nor self-consciousness.  Words spilled to a friend.
     With Ollie's generous, and gracious permission ("Why the hell not?" he said), I share these precious letters with you.
 
Letter 1
 
Nikki, Dearest, 
     Everything you've heard about Sumatra is true.  It's hot, buggy, and the jungles are full of brazen orange fellows known as Orangs who'll pick your pocket with one hand, while snatching lice out of your hair with the other.  I am no fan of lice, and rather enjoy the grooming, mind you, but the few greenbacks I have left are not destined for dispensation at some ape arcade.
     So, I've decided to uproot again.  I've heard about a bit of a dust-up in some obscure Emirate, named DeBali, located somewhere on the Strait of Hormuz.  Seems some reckless American college girl has caught the attention of an amorous oil sheikh there, who thinks everything, and everybody, has a price.  One of my shadier friends, currently in the service of Uncle Sam, has suggested I may be of help to the young coed.  Funny how the same government considers me 'server' or 'thorn' depending on variant political siroccos, and the price of a barrel of crude.  Normally, I'd pass on this particular invitation, but I'm tiring of the Sumatran bugs and the slippery-fingered orange fellows.
     I'm booked on a tramp (how appropriate) steamer leaving in the morning.  My papers are mostly in order, and whatever's sketchy, well, baksheesh is not a new concept to me.  In the Mideast, bribery is not just a custom, but a load-bearing pillar of the region's entire economic superstructure.  Middle Eastern civil servants are merely licensed thieves.  But conscionable.  All in all, not a terrible system when you compare it to the IRS.
     The captain of this steamer, called the Helga Uhtred, is an oily fellow with a perpetual grin and the persistent odor of cloves.  He claims to be of Norwegian citizenship, but I've never seen such a hirsute Norseman before.  Turk would be more my guess, or Uzbek.  But what do I know, after spending stifling months in the jungle with cagey orange pickpockets?  The ship itself claims Malaysian registry.  We're set to sail from Padang at first light.  Truth is, I believe I'm trading orange pickpockets for Uzbek, but I've sailed with pirates before--and count a few among my scurviest friends.
     So how goes it with you and your empire-building, Nikki?  As you know, mail is slow to catch up with me.  All the more reason for you to write faster.
     I'll drop you a line as soon as I know where I am.  Ah, to live the life of a vagabond!
                    With passionate regard,
                                     Ollie 
 
******************************************************************************
In this mobile age, the only true foreigners are the folk who won't venture out their front door. 
-- L. Oliver Bright
******************************************************************************

LETTERS FROM OLLIE, part 2 (March 25, 2016) 
​     Re-reading personal letters from a quarter-century ago is a true tangible form of time-travel.  Total transportation.  Not to where Ollie was at the time, but to where I was.  My struggles to establish Page & Spine. My stuffy loft apartment on the 'iffy' outskirts of Soho.  Even the music I preferred at the time--Indie rock like The Iguanas, The Dashboard Saviors, The Bottle Rockets, Steve Earle and the Dukes.  Don't let anyone tell you letters don't come with a soundtrack.  Letters are inked with the music the reader hears. -- Nikki
 
Letter 2
 
Dear Nikki,
     I'm guessing you've never shipped aboard a tramp steamer.  So, hold onto to your bloomers, girl, I'm here to tell you it's not as romantic as it sounds.  The food is dubious, and the smells are even worse.  Diesel fumes, tropical heat, sauerkraut, and the body odor of unwashed gentlemen(?) subsisting on said brined cabbage conspire to create a fragrance so pungent, so acrid, one occasionally questions the very necessity of breathing.  If it were not for involuntary reflex, Nik, I'd surely have gasped my last gulp a week ago. A garbage scow could not smell worse than this.  And I've shipped aboard a garbage scow, so I know.
    It has been postulated that we, the sons and daughters of the Great Deodorant Generation, suffer from over-sensitized olfactory responses.  That we cringe and crinkle-nose at odors our ancestors barely noticed is probably true, and I will not, cannot, argue with such an historical appraisal.  Hell, our ancestors probably smelled like not-so-new gnus, themselves.  Regular bathing didn't take hold in Western culture until . . . well, in some rural pockets, it still hasn't taken hold.  As a result, our up-turned noses are quick to crinkle.  No Camay? Dismay.
     I share a bunk with a certain Lars Gnarlson. I doubt you'd like him, Nikki.  He approaches all situations like a battering ram approaches a door.  Head first.  And I use the term 'head' loosely.  It's my opinion that Lars' cranium has met with at least one too many reluctant, iron-braced doors.  His forehead resembles nothing so much as a potato masher that met with several on-coming trains.   In each case, the trains won.
    And when I say Lars and I share a bunk, that's exactly what I mean.  The bunk, just a suspended slab really, is his for the first twelve hours of every day, and mine for the remaining twelve.  Sounds logical and convenient, doesn't it?  Well, not exactly. Lars Gnarlson chooses not exercise his sleeping privileges in any prearranged order.  He prefers to use his twelve hours according to his own ornery whim--which I find inconvenient in the extreme. Particularly when he uses his out-sized Nordic mitts to sweep my sleeping ass onto the iron deck.  That hurts. Adjustments will be required.
    Well, Nikki, an earnest confab with our oily captain proved unproductive--just as I expected.  You don't sign onto a tramp steamer and expect anyone to answer when you dial 911.  Fair enough.  I went through channels. Channels failed.  Now it's just between me and Lars Gnarlson.  Hmmm, what shall I do?
     A rogue wave.  Man overboard.  Frantic search.  Nothing.
     Oh, Nikki, this trip has been cursed.  Poor Lars.  I lie in my comfortable bunk thinking . . . it could have been me.
 
***********************************************************
Life is ten-percent destiny.  Ninety-percent determination.  -- L. Oliver Bright
***********************************************************

​LETTERS FROM OLLIE, part 3 (April 1, 2016)
Letter 3
 
Dear Nikki,
     This will be my last day aboard the Helga Uhtred.  We steam into Ugala Bay around first light tomorrow.  I will not miss this scow any more than I miss Lars Gnarlson--may he rest in pieces at the bottom of sea. 
     The Emirate of DeBali will be new territory for me to traverse, but I'm not altogether unfamiliar with the Middle East and its arcane customs.  You remember my experiences Yemen, I expect.  Luckily, I'm travelling under a new passport these days.  If certain Yemeni criminals discovered I was back in the neighborhood, things might become more complicated. As things currently stand, I give myself a seventy-percent chance of getting out of here alive.  Not bad odds for an American who barely knows one end of a camel from the other.  But if the Yemenis catch my scent, well, all bets are off.
     According to sources I cannot name, the situation regarding the American co-ed and the amorous DeBali sheik have not changed.  He still wants to own her.  She still does not want to be owned.  Not exactly a new story, is it?  Sometimes I wonder, Nikki, if I swam in an ocean of oil money, and I wanted to own you, would you capitulate?  I think not.  Oil money is not your cup of tea.  Neither is capitulation. But this girl is playing a dangerous game.  How do I get myself involved is this kind of crap?  Don't bother answering, Nik, I can already smell the snide.
     The ship's captain seems to have taken a particular interest in me.  Perhaps it's my cologne.  Or my engaging wit.  Or maybe he thinks I have ulterior motives for traveling to a country with neither Disneyworld nor Starbucks.  If that were the case, I'd be offended in the extreme.  Arabs profiling Americans?  Now that's just wrong!
     I'm on my way to the captain's table for dinner.  I'm sure we'll be served lamb again.  It's always lamb.  Why is it never fish?  Who finds lamb on the Arabian Sea?  I cannot put my finger on it, but there's something fishy about lamb on a boat.
     "Ah, Mr. Bright," said the captain.  "Sit.  This will be our last dinner together.  We'll dock in DeBali in the morning.  You are familiar with my other guests?"
      I was.  In the same way I was familiar with ring worm, jock itch, and cold sores.
      I nodded to my tablemates . . . and lost my appetite.
     Seated across from me I recognized a man calling himself Abu Nan.  He claims to be a silk merchant, but judging by the smooth condition of his hands, and the dagger hidden in his boot,  I am not convinced.   Next to Abu Nan sits Lady Diem, supposedly a Royal-in-Exile from Vietnam.  Ask me, Nik, there's no more royal blood in her veins than you'd find in a Bloody Mary.  Rounding out our dining quintet is an enigmatic American who calls himself Colonel Twixt.  He claims to be from Arkansas, but his accent is decidedly West Texas.  You know my ear, Nikki.  I'm never wrong.
     I feel like I'm in an Agatha Christie novel.  But some things are none of my business. 
     Tomorrow I land in DeBali.  Tomorrow I have work to do.       
 
*********************************************************************** 
Being on the ocean is one thing.  Being lost at sea is another kettle of catfish. - L. Oliver Bright
***********************************************************************

After Dinner.  In the Drink. (4/8/2016)
Letter 4
Dear Nikki,
 
     Suddenly, I'm quite nostalgic for the Sumatran heat and those orange pickpockets.  Hey, at least they'd de-louse me before lifting my wallet.  Those apes aboard the Helga Uhtred showed no such sense of fair play.
     Forgive me for getting ahead of myself, but I want you to know I've debarked from the 'Ship of Fools' and am, for now, safely(?) ensconced in the most repugnant lodgings available on all of Ugala Bay--I'm certain the Michelin people would agree.  But the good news is, the bullet passed clean through, and the bleeding has stopped . . . mostly.
      My new landlord, a nefarious knife-maker/assassin named Saad Saad, assures me, "You will live, American . . . as long as you don't die first."
     Really, he's a wonderful and up-beat kind of fellow.  Translation:  He'd beat me up for fun if he didn't smell a chance at a more tangible profit.  While I believe he may be a tad over-optimistic, I will do nothing to call his olfactory acuity into question.  Middle-Eastern knife-maker/assassins are my least favorite assassins of all.  And that includes Great White Sharks and wounded Polar Bears. Imagine that?
     But I'm getting ahead of myself again, aren't I?  Perhaps, Nikki, you're curious to know how I got shot in . . . the first place? And how I was subsequently rescued/kidnapped by a DeBali knife-maker/assassin?  Or should I just skip that part and get on with the more interesting stuff?
     No, I didn't think so.
     But I'm going to have to give you the fast-forward version, okay?  I'll fill in the nuances when I get back to America--assuming Saad Saad doesn't make good on his comical threats to make me his camel's mistress.
     Isn't it funny how not all comedy crosses cultural boundaries?
     Anyway, here's the short version of what occurred on my last night about the Helga Uhtred:
 
     As I already wrote, I'd been invited to dine at the Captain's table--not all that big a deal.  Passengers on a tramp steamer neither dress for dinner, nor expect Crepes Suzette and Baked Alaska.  We gagged on the same mutton the crew choked down.
     Aside from the overly swarthy 'Swedish' captain, I dined with a hard-and-scarred 'silk merchant' calling himself Abu Nan, a comely Vietnamese 'royal exile' named Lady Diem, and a Mark Twain look-alike American named Twixt, who insisted on being called 'Colonel'.  I tell you, Nikki, Dashiell Hammett couldn't have come up with a more nefarious cast of characters.  Adding to the atmosphere was a twitchy little serving steward who looked and sounded exactly like Peter Lorre.
     Halfway through dinner, I noticed the rancid reddish wine was suddenly tasting pretty good.  I tried to remark on that improbability to the Captain, but my tongue suddenly felt like a dry bean-bag clogging my mouth. Try as I may, I couldn't utter a single coherent sound. Next, I vaguely remember my face falling into my plate of unmitigated mutton.
     I waxed awake on the floor, my head spinning to internal (and infernal) calliope music.  My dining companions, including Peter Lorre, stood in a conversational huddle a few yards away.  I couldn't make out all the dialogue, but the words and phrases I managed hear--CIA operative, ransom, reward for services rendered, grateful--suggested I was considered the guest of honor at this mutton roast.  Even so, I decided it might be in my best interest not stick around for the mutton-meringue dessert.  Luckily, at that particular moment, nobody on the Dashiell Hammett crew seemed to be paying any attention to me.
     I'd already regained my feet before anyone noticed.  Well, almost.
     Lady Diem caught my motion from the corner of her eye.  She screamed--quite unladylike, if you ask me.
     Peter Lorre was the first to draw a pistol.  Unarmed, I improvised and managed to knock the slimy character actor off his feet with a short-range mutton-leg missile.  I am the Annie Oakley of meat.
     But by now, the others had all drawn their guns, too.  Frankly, Nik, I felt like the ugly duckling at a Texas carnival sharp-shooter's booth.
     Being fresh out of border-line fresh mutton-leg ammo, I excused myself--hastily--and opted for a refreshing dip in the Arabian Sea.
     I may never know which of the Dashiell Dingers winged me during my swan dive, but my money's on Sidney Greenstreet.
     I swam.  I floated.  I swam.  I sank.  Twice.
 
     As soon as Saad Saad's men saw what the local fisherman's nets had dragged in,  I became property of the knife-maker/assassin.
     But don't worry, Nikki.  I've been in much tighter spots.  In fact, back in the 70s, I wore tighter underwear.  Yeah, I'm all about fashion.
     I'll get back to you soon as I'm sure I'm not dead yet.
 
     LOB
 P.S.  Saad Saad says, "Hi."
 
********************************
No crisis is really a crisis until
you aren't willing to jump off any cliff
to settle it your way. --  L. Oliver Bright
********************************

Letters from Ollie (4/15/16)
​Letter 5
 
     Well, Nikki, it appears I'm not dead yet.  Whether this is good news or bad, will be determined at a later date.  In the meantime, I recommend you try not to get shot.  Not even a fleshy thing clean through the biceps.  'Clean through' still hurts like a son of a bitch.  Saad Saad says I'm being a baby, but at least my name doesn't sound like an echo.
     For the moment, I seem to be at loose ends.  I don't know why my shipmates drugged and tried to kill me.  I don't know what my knife-maker/assassin benefactor has in store for me.  And I don't dare reach out to my embassy contact until some of these details get cleared up.  That means the American co-ed will have to deal with the amorous sheik for a little while longer.
     Saad Saad is a curious kind of fellow.
     "Who shot you?" he asked.
     "Peter Lorre."
     "Hardly likely."
     "So you know who Peter Lorre is?"
     "Was.  An American character in the 30s and 40s.  Played mostly scurrilous, insect-like characters.  Later he played Mr. Moto in a series of unfortunate B-grade mysteries."
      I raised my eyebrows.  "For a DeBali knife-maker/assassin, you sure know your second-tier actors."
     "I studied film at UCLA.  Boo-lah, Boo-lah."
     "I think boo-lah, boo-lah belongs to the Elis of Yale."
     "Did you attend Yale?"
     "No.  They wouldn't have me."
     "Then boo-lah, boo-lah is none of your business.  Are you Jewish?"
     "What?  No."
     "Have you been circumcised?"
     "It's a common practice in America . . . related to hygiene, I guess."
     "Who shot you?"
     "A guy who looked a lot like Peter Lorre."
     "Why?"
     "I don't know.  Bad genes?"
     "Why did he shoot you?"
     "Oh, that.  He never said."
     "Why are you in DeBali?"
     "Well, swimming all the way to Manhattan seemed out of the question.  Especially with this wounded wing."
     "Are you mocking me?"
     "I'm just answering your questions.  If you want better answers, you should ask better questions."
     "What is your mission?"
     "Mission?  Do I look like a Mormon?"
     "You look like a spy."
     "Get real, pal.  This is DeBali.  You got sand and oil.  What's to spy about?"
     "Sheik Maoud Abu Sihk holds an American woman against her will."
     "You don't say?  No skin off my nose."
     "Sheik Maoud Abu Sihk is my mortal enemy."
     "Do tell.  What's that got to do with me?"
     "Exactly.  What?"
     "I asked you first."
     "My patience is finite, Mr. Bright."
     "And so is mine.  Actually, my arm is killing me.  You got any more of those pills?"
     "It would benefit me greatly if Abu Sihk was forced to relinquish the woman."
     "I'm guessing it would benefit the woman, too.  But what's in it for you?  You want the woman?"
     "What need have I for a woman?"
     "Whoa, Sheik, too much information."
     "If Abu Sihk is forced to give her up, he will lose face."
     "And his loss is your gain?"
     "You Americans have such linear views.  But yes, his loss is my gain."
     "So what do you think I can do?"
     "Whatever your State Department thinks you can do."
     "You presume, Sheik."
     "And it would not be in your best interests for my presumptions to prove inaccurate."
     "Okay.  Assuming I may be able to help you, what's in it for me?"
     "Well, for one thing, Mr. Moto will not shoot you again."
     "You can assure me of that?"
     "I can do my best.  You Americans are such linear thinkers."

********************************************
The world is a funny place. 
But don't close your eyes when you laugh. - L. Oliver Bright
********************************************

Getting Around DeBali (4/22/2016)
Dearest Nikki,
 
     Want to hear a bad joke?

     What's stuck between two Arabian sheiks?
     One stupid American anus.
     Namely, me.
 
     Nikki, how do I always manage get myself in these jackpots?  And don't say 'talent', because I'm liable to believe you and try to make a career out of it.  Maybe I already have.
     L. Oliver Bright:  Professional Anus.
     I wonder if there's a union I can join?  Or a fraternal organization?  Hopefully one without a secret handshake . . . or a rite of initiation.
 
     Okay, enough frivolity.
 
     Saad Saad has set me free to fulfill my mission--the tactful extraction of an American coed from Maoud Abu Sihk's lecherous grasp.  But Saad has set me free based on his own arcane agenda.  And 'free' in DeBali comes with substantial strings attached . . . in the form of two sinister-looking gentlemen tailing me.  Men who appear to be products of the Caterpillar Company.  Steamrollers barely disguised in Arab drag.   They're not strings, really.  More like ropes.  No, not like ropes.  Cables.  Yes, I need cable cutters. I'm off to Home Depot.
     Can you believe there's not a single Home Depot in all of DeBali?  Humus Depot, sure.  There's one on every corner.  You'd think they'd carry basic cable cutters, right?  Nope.  Just weird rolled-up sandwiches filled with a paste made from tree bark and pencil shavings. 
     When I get tired of being a professional anus, I might look into buying the Middle Eastern franchising license for  Home Depot.  I wonder how snow-blowers might work after sandstorms?  Hey, in-the-box thinking only leads to the other side of the box, right?  And I might look into Burger King, too.  Just my luck, 'Whopper' will probably translate into 'cannibal' in Arabic.  Home of the Cannibal.  Yeah, that'll get mouths to watering.  I'll be stoned within an hour--and not in the good way.
     Okay, the strings have been severed.  Don't ask.  Just be assured that no laws were broken, and innocent bystanders were not hurt.  For the record,  the DeBali Zoo does not post 'Don't Feed the Animals' signs . . . and I don't consider hungry crocodiles 'innocent'--even if one or two might get a belly ache.
     Now, I just have to find Sheik Maoud Abu Sihk's den of iniquity and rescue one Sue Anne Gasparini of Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin, and whisk her away to freedom.  What could be easier?
     Hmmm.
 
     Nikki, when I get back, remind me to look into developing some kind of positioning device--maybe satellite-based--something that might help a weary traveler to locate a specific Arabic address.  I don't know how Arab UPS drivers do it.  Come to think of it, I don't know how they navigate those big brown trucks down these narrow, winding streets, either.  This town certainly wasn't laid out to aid foreign operatives on sensitive covert missions, I can tell you that much.  And you can bet your bippy the local Chamber of Commerce will be hearing from me soon.
     They say all roads lead to Rome.  Not in this part of the world.  After walking for hours, I keep ending up at the same corner of the same bazaar.  Bizarre!   All roads lead to the bizzare.  Ain't that the truth?
     But I'm not the only one in a bazaar mood.  Remember Colonel Twixt, the Mark Twain look-alike from the Helga Uhtred?  Well, here he is.   I can only hope he's been following me all this time.  He'll be dizzier than a frog in blender.  I suspect this might be a good time for the Colonel and me to have a chat.
     I hope your cat had her kittens.  Wait, do you have a cat?  I'm dizzier than a frog in a blender.
 
*******************************************************
Following a person is harder than it seems. 
It's easier to anticipate where they're headed, and let them find you.
- L. Oliver Bright  (from Cutting the Tec)
*******************************************************

The Unfathomable Colonel Twixt (4/29/16)
​Dear Nikki, 
     DeBali is a lovely place--in the same way a water moccasin is a lovely snake.  Be careful where you step, and don't turn your back on it.
     DeBali smells of roasted goat, lax sanitation, corruption, and, most of all, petroleum.  Then again, wherever one smells petroleum an undertone of corruption is a certain bet.  So, in that sense, the aroma of roasted goat is rather pleasing--until you combine it with lax sanitation.
     In my last letter, I believe I'd mentioned something about my two Arab watchdogs, and a couple of crocodiles at the DeBali Zoo.  Well, in retrospect I think I might have implied something ridiculous that could never have taken place.  It was only a sick joke.  I repeat, only a sick joke.  Nonetheless it would greatly ease my mind if you were to destroy that letter--burn it, then shoot the ashes down your garbage disposal--posthaste.  DeBaliites, I've learned are not fond of dark humor (More on that in a subsequent letter).  What's more, it turns out the zoo does, in fact, post Do Not Feed the Animals signs--in Arabic.  So how was I to know?  Anyway, I'd hate to get a fine from the zookeeper for disregarding posted signs.
     While you're at it, Sweetie, you may as well go ahead and destroy this letter, too.  I don't know what the 'tampering with evidence' laws are like over here, but better safe than beheaded, you know?  I'll try to be more circumspect in my letter-writing in the future.
      I think I mentioned I ran into Colonel Twixt at the bazaar the other morning.  You remember him, the gun-wielding Mark Twain lookalike from the Helga Uhtred?  The one who appeared complicit in the attempt on my life?  Well, I may have misjudged the old gentleman--yeah, like I'd misjudge the water moccasin I mentioned earlier.
     Oh, he was all jolly-fellow-well-met when he spotted me.  Very conciliatory, and deeply concerned about my well-being.
     "A dreadful affair, my boy.  And quite unfathomable to me."
     "To me as well," I said.  "Perhaps you could tell what transpired while I was unconscious?"
     He dabbed a linen handkerchief across his brow, then wiped the band inside his Panama.  "I'll try, but I'm afraid this is the part I find most unfathomable.  You see, when you collapsed, I naturally assumed you'd had some sort of medical spasm.   Perhaps a seizure of one sort or another.  Naturally, I immediately lobbied for summoning the ship's doctor.  When no one made the slightest move to summon help, I lobbied again, even more strenuously.  That was when the captain assured me he'd already dispatched a runner to the infirmary."
     "When I woke up," I said, "I didn't see any doctor hovering over me.  I only saw you and the others huddled in a heated argument."
     He nodded.  "And neither did I young man--see a doctor, I mean.  That's what the argument you refer to was all about.  I was demanding medical care on your behalf."
     "And what about the others?  What were they arguing about?"
     "I can't really say. They argued among themselves on some other topic."
     "While I lay on the deck unconscious, perhaps dying?"
     "Ah, then you can understand my befuddlement over the entire affair.  As to what the others were so preoccupied about, I have no idea, young man.  I was much too busy trying to get my point across."
     "Getting me medical care."
     "Just as I've said."
     "What about the guns?"
     "Guns?  I beg your pardon?"
     "My collapse was not caused by a seizure, Colonel.  I'd been drugged."
     Twixt stepped back.  "Drugged?  But by whom?  And to what possible purpose?"
     "My questions exactly.  Are you certain you didn't hear what the others were arguing about?"
     "I'm afraid not."  He changed tacks.  "Perhaps you weren't really drugged.  Perhaps you had some sort of episode that has left you . . . paranoid?"
     "Are you saying you didn't see everyone draw pistols when I made my escape?  You didn't see Peter Lorre shoot me?"
     "Of course, I witnessed it all.  By Peter Lorre I assume you're referring to the wretched little serving steward?"
     "I am.  Still think I'm paranoid?"
     "You make a compelling argument against.  But why a plot against you?  Do you have some unsavory business in DeBali which might render you a target?"
     "Yeah, I'm a poor, dangerous sightseer."
     He mopped his brow again.  "That can't be it."  He brightened.  "Have you a place to stay?"
     "Not yet,"   I answered, suspiciously.
     "Good," he said.  "You'll stay in my suite with me.  I have more rooms than I can use.  And you'll be safe there."
     "Really?  Which hotel?"
     He laughed.  "Not a hotel, young man.  I'm the guest of a very important DeBali sheik.  And now you'll be my guest.  It's settled."
     "Really?"  I repeated.  "Who would this sheik be?"
     "An old friend and colleague named Maoud Abu Sihk."
     Coincidence, Nikki?  Sure, why the hell not.
 
********************************************************************* 
When you come down to it, everything happens owing to some degree coincidence. 
Especially the unfathomable. - L. Oliver Bright 
*********************************************************************
copyright 2016

MY LUCKY DAY (MAY 6, 2016)
Dear Nikki,
 
     Did I get lucky, or what?
     You see, when a valiant knight (that would be me) sets out to rescue a damsel in distress (one noodle-brained American coed named Sue Anne Gasparini) from a mustache-curling villain (Shiek Maoud Abu Sihk), the thorniest obstacle for said knight is usually gaining access to the villain's lair.  After that, the operation boils down to lavishing a little charm, indulging some in some routine heroic damsel feet-sweeping, and a hell of a lot of panicked running back to Camelot.  Easy-peasy, right?  Textbook.
     Problem was, I had no idea how to insinuate myself into the evil sheik's Harem House of Unearthly Delights, until . . .
     Until a goofy old bloke named Twixt (who had once pulled a gun on me) virtually handed me the keys to Ali Baba's Barbie Playhouse.
     Did I get lucky, or what?
     I'm thinking 'or what'.  You too, huh?
     I know I should have hopped aboard my trusty steed (Nikes), and not slowed (even for pit stops) until I crossed the George Washington Bridge.  (Interesting factoid:  More than 50% of foreigners who claim to know who our first President was thinks his last name was Bridge.  Go ahead, look it up.)  As I was saying, I should have made a run for it.  Then again, I should have bought Microsoft shares at seven bucks a pop when I had the chance.
     I figured I'd play out the string a little. Gather a little intelligence from this twit of a Twixt. Hell, I could always run later.  Then again, I'd been certain that if I waited, MS shares would come down to six, too.
     Colonel Twixt and I ambled a maze of DeBali streets, taking in all the sights (ick) and smells (yuck) while I subtly pumped him for pertinent information.
     "So, Colonel, how long have you known this Sheik What's-His-Name?"
     "Sheik Maoud Abu Sihk.  A very important man in this region of the world.  Very important, indeed.  We first met decades ago at Eton."
     I dodged an uppity goat who aggressively claimed the right of way.  From what I've seen of DeBali thoroughfares, the powers-that-be are content to let the 'right-side' drivers and the 'left-side' drivers settle their own hash.  Evidently, the local goats had adopted the same policy.  I gave way.  "Eton, huh?  I'm impressed."
     "Hardly," he said.  "It was Eton Preparatory School for Wealthy Foreign Boys, in Ashley, New Hampshire."
     "Really?  I've never heard of the school, nor the town."
     "By design, young man, by design."  He brandished his cane to threaten a beggar he deemed too well-fed.  "Scions of some of the richest men in the world matriculate at Eton--to learn Western culture and customs.  I'd be worried if you had heard of it.  You see, in the scion business, security is vital.  And secrecy is the best security there is."
     "I see your point," I said.  "Eton sounds like a kidnapper's honeypot.  What do scions go for by the pound these days?"
     He raised his eyebrows as a rebuke to my humor.  "Quite.  But politics and ransom are only half the problem."
     I thought for moment.  "Ah," I said, "the scions themselves--horny little bastards!"
     He nodded approvingly.  "Very astute, young man.  Boys of incredible wealth and unbridled privilege—"
     "Fueled by hormone tsunamis," I added helpfully.
     He eyed me and sighed.  "Quite."
     "Let me guess.  Ashley, New Hampshire isn't really a town at all.  It's a compound."
     He grinned.  "We bill it to the boys as a secure, discreet campus.  In truth, there's not a two-legged female within fifty miles."
     Another goat approached.  I managed to stare this one down.  I felt like beating my chest.  "All the while, the boys think they're on their way to New Orleans, only to wind up in boot camp.  I don't expect the scions much approve."
     "Your suspicions are top notch.  But scions don't pay the freight.  Their fathers do.  Oh, the boys rebel when they realize they've been duped--largely by their own families.  But they soon settle down to learning."
     "Yeah, they learn America is a land of deceit.  No wonde…
     Nikki, I must cut this letter short.  I hear a rap, rap, rapping at my chamber door.  Let's hope it's not a raven, eh?
 
***************************************************************************
I don't get the big deal.  International Relations are no different from personal relations--
except for the hundreds of millions of people involved.--L. Oliver Bright
***************************************************************************
 
 
THE MALL OF THE ARABIAS (MAY 13, 2016)
     Sorry for the interruption, Nikki.  That rapping on the door?  Not a raven after all.  But close enough.  It was just the Dalai Domo of this Arabesque Pleasure Palace knocking at my door, asking "is the gentleman content?  Is there anything at all he requires?"
     I politely declined--even though I could have used a new toothbrush.  But when the Domo said 'anything', I suspect that's exactly what he meant.  Next time I'll hit him with, "Yeah, an Alfa Romeo--and a garage."
     Nikki, you wouldn't believe this joint.  After I rescue Sally Anne Gasparini, I may well return here and see if I can take her place.  I haven't met the Grand Poobah yet, but given time and a total body-wax, I'm sure I could win him over.
     First off, this place is huge.  Decorated with more marble than can be found in all of Italy (according to Twixt), and more gold than sits in Fort Knox (my own estimation).  Did I mention it's huge?  There must be hundreds of rooms--literally--and a half a dozen tiers.
     "And as many rays as a star--but not the Star of David" according to the Colonel.  He thinks he's clever.  I, of course, think he's just downright devious.  I don't trust him as far as I could throw him . . . from a cannon.  
     Anyway, an hour into the Twixt Tour, I was flat-out awed, and weak-kneed beat.  What's more, I was so lost I was reminded of that regrettable trip we took to the Mall of the Americas. Remember?  They had to page you to come get me.  The nice lady gave me an ice cream cone.  Come to think of it, this place does feel more like a mall than anything else.  I'll bet there's a GAP hiding in here someplace.  Hell, you could hide a Macy's in this Magnificent Mausoleum.
     Colonel Twist assures me the 'grounds and gardens' are even more impressive, and promises to show me around tomorrow.  I'm assuming we'll be taking the helicopter.  At the very least, Land Rovers and a tribe of porters.
     Unfortunately, today's tour didn't reveal to me the location of the 'oda', or harem rooms.  When I asked about them, Twixt shot me a severe look.
     "Now you mustn't get cheeky, Oliver.  The Sheik's wives and their living quarters are strictly off limits--unless Maoud Abu Sihk himself likes you . . . and feels like showing off.  And even then you must be circumspect and respectful to the ladies at all times.  No, no, my boy, there shall be no panty raids in the Gilded Palace."
 
(Side Note:  Do you have any idea how disconcerting it is to converse with a man who looks like Mark Twain, but sounds like John Gielgud?  For the life of me, Nikki, I can't decide who's impersonating whom.  But I'm convinced that if I were to peel away Twixt's posturing, he'd probably look just like Phyllis Diller, and sound like Harpo Marx--honk, honk.)
 
     In case you're wondering, the bullet wound inflicted by that odious Peter Lorre-guy is healing nicely.  Saud Saud's doctor did a fine job.  Even if, at the time, I was damned certain he used a scimitar to dig out the slug.  Who knows, the word 'scalpel' may very well be derived from 'scimitar'.  Have your lexicographer look into it, won't you?
     Speaking of Saud Saud, Twixt dropped a interesting tidbit during our quest to find the Victoria's Secret outlet this afternoon. Remember that preparatory school for foreigners in New Hampshire?  Eton?  The one where Twixt taught and Sihk attended? Of course you do.  Well, can you guess who was also enrolled at the same time?  I'll give you a hint:  It wasn't Benjamin Franklin.
     Give up?  It was my new old buddy Saud Saud.  Imagine that?  I'm beginning to feel like a coincidence magnet.  Now, if only Michelle Pfeiffer was a coincidence.
     Well, tonight I'm to meet the chic Sheik himself. Maoud Abu Sihk.  I've been invited to join his dinner table.  It's imperative to my mission that I make a good first impression, but I'm torn about wardrobe choices.  I have only two clean T-shirts:  The Goo Goo Dolls . . . or, The Sex Pistols.  Do you have a fave?
     Kidding.  The Dalai Domo delivered to me a tuxedo--with all the trimmings--and in just my size.  It's so going with me when I leave.
     Well, I don't want to be late.  I hear camel testicles will be among the canapés.
​
*******************************
The problem with material wealth is
it's prone to unravel. -- L. Oliver Bright
*******************************
 
THE BIG PILE (MAY 20, 2016)
​     Well, Nikki, I think I stepped in a big pile this time.  Just shows you can put the boy in the tuxedo, but that doesn't make the boy James Bond.
     Colonel Twixt and I went down to dinner together.  Despite my shoulder wound, I was feeling pretty good.  I think the Dalai Domo must have taken my measurements while I slept, because the tux fit me better than my own skin.  The matching cummerbund and tie featured a muted, but dashingly iridescent pattern that complimented my eyes.  All I needed was a gold cigarette case and a license to kill . . . well, I get ahead of myself.
      When the Colonel and I reached the ground floor, we stopped near the front entrance for a while to watch the beautiful guests file in.  Live Big Band swing-era music filtered through from somewhere inside the palace.  Had they mummified Benny Goodman, and brought him back to life?  It sure sounded that way.  Nobody played the licorice like Be-Bop Benny.
     Lavish gowns and quarries of jewels draped on emaciated and pouty supermodels paraded past leaning on the arms of well-known statesmen, actors, business mogels, and oil sheiks--the latter resplendent in meticulously adorned traditional robes.   Clearly, this was not to be a quiet Sunday supper.  Alas, I steeled myself for the probability that Sloppy Joes would not be on the menu. More's the pity.  You see, it's my fervent feeling that nothing shows off American culture so succinctly as the Sloppy Joe.  Besides, I had a craving.
    During a lull in the Beautiful People Parade, the Colonel and I insinuated ourselves through the legions of paparazzi, and walked down the Grand Hall toward the jiving music.  A few strobes went off, but no one asked us for an interview.  I hid it well, but secretly, I was crushed.  Leeza Gibbons, Mario Lopez, why hast thou forsaken me? 
      After walking the filigreed hall for what seemed like hours, we finally arrived at a room bigger than Rhode Island.  I could hear the Big Band, but I couldn't have found it without a gallon of water, a golf cart, and GPS.
     Another Dalia Domo offered to lead us to our designated table.  Naturally we accepted.  The trek was long and grueling.  Several times I was forced to swipe drinks off waiters' trays in order to stave off dehydration.  In retrospect, I see that I may have been a bit foolhardy--mixing all those drinks.  But at the time, I believed I was in a survival situation, and every drink might be my last.  So I drank.  And drank.  And burped.
     After what I had gauged to be fifteen or sixteen miles into our ballroom trek, we finally arrived at our destination.  I was quite surprised to note that Colonel Twixt and I were to be seated at the dais.  The head table, Nikki!  Where the mucky-mucks sit.  Well, I let out a loud, Wha-hoo!--not so much due to my excitement, but to cover my urgent need to pass gas.  When you're not accustomed to eating roast goat kebabs, gastrointestinal anomalies are bound to ensue.
     Actually, Colonel Twixt proved to be a stout companion.  He introduced me to any number of astronomically wealthy and influential guests.  I say 'any number' because the truth is, I don't remember any of them.  Worse, I have no idea what I said to them.  But I do have the distinct impression that my banter may have been construed as offensive.  On the other hand, my swollen eye and bruised kidneys might have nothing at all to do with my drunken banter.  What do you think, Nikki?
     I dimly remember Twixt helping me to my seat at the dais.
     "Hold it together, young man," he admonished before seating himself to my left.
     I looked to my right.  There sat Sue Anne Gasparini herself--the very damsel I had come to DeBali to save.  I used my thumb and forefinger to open my swollen eye--just to make sure.  Yep.  From her slight overbite, to the Celtic Cross-tattoo adorning her chubby neck.  Sue Anne Gasparini in the flesh.
I leaned over to whisper in her ear.  I meant to say, 'I'm here to take you to safety.'  But after 'take', I forgot my line, and let the sentence die there.  What I actually said was,  "I'm here to take you."
     I don't care how big the Big Band was, Sue Anne Gasparini's scream put them to shame.  And put me in Sheik Maoud Abu Sikh's filthy dungeon.  Literally.  I am the Prisoner of Zenda . . . or a reasonable facsimile.
     Yep, I'd stepped in a big pile this time.
 
*********************************************
When you think you've reached rock bottom, remember:
something actually lives under the rock.--L. Oliver Bright
*********************************************

 
THE TEETER-TOTTER DUNGEON (May 27, 2016)
      I'm not sure how long I remained incarcerated in that filthy dungeon, Nikki.  But it was long enough for me to relive my entire life and experience a total rebirth.  Such are the sheer powers of terror.
     Colonel Twixt estimates my detention lasted twenty minutes.  I, on the other hand, am certain it was much longer.  Twenty-four minutes, easy.  Enough time to recognize and come to grips with the dreadful errors of my ways.  Time enough to pull myself up by my bootstraps--even though I wasn't wearing boots.  Powerful stuff, man.  Time enough to vow I'd never touch another drop of alcohol for as long as I lived.
     The door to the dungeon, which, after a more careful assessment, actually resembled a children's playroom, burst open.  Colonel Twixt and Sheik Maoud Abu Sihk strode in.  Foreboding echoing with every jackbooted step.
     "Ah, Mister Bright," said the Sheik, "please forgive my men for bringing you to this place.  My many children love to play here, but it's hardly suitable for a grown man, yes?"
     "No sweat, Sheik," I assured him, "I've always loved seesaws."  I motioned to Twixt, who scowled, but nevertheless, handed me his flask.  I took a long pull.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to stop drinking.  Or maybe the day after.  Or perhaps the fifteenth of the month.  As my drunken Uncle Duncan used to say, "You can't rush a cold turkey without getting feathers up your nose."
     "As I was saying," continued the Sheik, "one of my guests must have . . .  misinterpreted . . . what I'm sure was a most innocent comment on your part.  But the woman, genetically prone to hysterics, screamed, and, I'm afraid my men, none of them born with the brains of a she-goat, over-reacted."  He bowed slightly.  "I hope you will accept my most humble apologies, and consent to remain within my hospitable embrace for a duration only calculable in geological terms."
     I took another pull from Twixt's flask.  "Water under the bridge, Sheik.  Milk already spilt," I responded with a magnanimity which surprised even me   "And may I inquire as the welfare of the other guest?  The young lady who screamed?"
     Sihk raised an eyebrow.  "How polite of you to be concerned.  My groomsmen would consider her a rather excitable filly.  But she's resting quite comfortably, as I've been told, though she did require a mild sedative."
     I nodded.  "Will you please pass on to her my apologies, and my most sincere concern.  It was never my intention to upset her.  Perhaps, when she's feeling better, you'll permit me to express my concern to the young lady in person?"
     Again, the Sheik bowed.  "You are most kind.  I shall pass your request on.  But beyond that, I'm afraid I have no influence."  Sihk paused, then resumed speaking.  "It is this way with Americans.  Your intentions are often misconstrued due to your actions."
     I shrugged, realizing we were no longer talking about the girl.  "We tend to be an idiosyncratic nationality. We say what we mean, but something always gets lost in the translation."
     Maoud Abu Sihk laughed, allowing Twixt to titter mirthlessly.  "Well said, Mister Bright.  Of all Infidels, Americans are my favorites.  You all sound like Dan'l Boone, and look like Ronald Reagan.  Please, rejoin us upstairs.  The party is just beginning to rock, bro.  And stay in my abode for as long as you wish.  Saud Saud tells me I have much to learn from you."
     Saud Saud?  I'll tell you, Nikki, if I was to read between these lines, I'd slam this book shut, and sleep with a nightlight for the rest of my life.
 
**********************************
We learn to speak at an early age. 
But language is a lifelong obstacle course.
-L. Oliver Bright
**********************************

copyright 2016 by Lee Allen Hill
 
Lee Allen Hill    CHC-'15   CHC-'14     CHC-'13     CHC-'12 ​

A BIBLICAL HANGOVER (June 4, 2016)
Dearest Nikki,
      Certain nomadic Arab tribes were once known to have played a variation on the game of Polo--for which they employed the severed heads of vanquished foes as the ball, and heavy clubs as mallets.  Perhaps that image will afford you some small notion of what my cranium felt like the 'morning after' the Sheik's gala.  While it is apparent my head had not been severed from my body,  I almost wish it had.  The twenty-aspirin dose I'd choked down a few hours earlier might as well have been sugar pills, for all the pain relief they provided.
     I decided to 'pull' for the Dalai Domo.  Yes, Nikki, all I had to do was tug on a certain tasseled sash dangling from the ceiling, and a servant would magically appear.  Aladdin had his magic lamp, I had my magic tasseled sash.  Quite decadent, maybe.  But a little Addams Family, too.  So, I pulled.
     That particular morning, the Dalai Domo of the Day proved to be a squat man with warts on his face, and an OPEC smile . . . smuggly oily.
     "What do you recommend for a hangover?" I asked.  The painful vibrations from my forced whisper nearly induced me into a coma.
     "Abstinence from alcohol, sir," he responded with apparent glee.  Holier-than-me religious teetotalers just can't keep from being smug as a bug in a rug when they encounter victims of hangovers.   I could barely keep from giving him a bloody lip.
     "Your comedic timing needs some serious work," I told him through clenched teeth.  "I enjoy getting drunk, Mustafa.  It's only the aftermath I find so extremely distasteful."  Actually, my tongue tasted like the inside of a garbage can.  And I suspect my breath reeked commensurate.
     "My name is not Mustafa.  I'm called Gobbledygook," he corrected me with a patronizing bow.
     Okay, he might not have said 'Gobbledygook' exactly, but that's sure what it sounded like.
    I said, "Listen, Gob, or Lurch, or Domo Dodo, before you stands a very sick man, see?  Yours is an ancient civilization.  You do come from a long line of dead people, right?"
     His prideful smile spouted an oily leak.  "Indeed, sir.  My ancestors stretch back to a time synchronous with the domestication of camels."  He got a far off, moony look in his eye.  Creeped me out.
     "Not something I'd put on my resume, Gob," I said.  "People could take it the wrong way, you know?   But you're missing my point.  Somewhere along your long line of camel-domesticating ancestors, there must have been at least one wine-tippling black sheep, right?"
     Gob bowed his head in shame.  "Uncle Rigmarole."
     Well, it sure sounded like 'Rigmarole'.
     I held my head and patted his shoulder at the same time.  "Good ol' Uncle Rigmarole.  Now, didn't he leave behind a . . . recipe?  You know, something he swore by?  A tonic?  A potion?  A cure for the ear-ringing, hair-hurting, stomach-churning malady know as the uncommon hangover?"
     "Yes, sir, indeed.  He did leave instructions for such a remedy."
     In my exuberance, I damn nearly hugged the warted troll.  "Then go.  Hie.  Fix it for me.  And make it a double.  A man needs to take his punishment commensurate to his pleasure."
   "But the Ratzafrantz is extinct.  Where will I ever find eye of Ratzafratz?--the most crucial of all the crucial ingrediants."
     You get it by now,  right?  'Ratzafratz' is a lingual approximation.
    "Forget Eye of Ratzafratz.  The eye of Ratzafratz's closest avian cousin might do just as well," I suggested, pushing Gob out into the hall.  "And for sanity's sake, please hurry.  Make Ol' Uncle Rigmarole proud."
 
     The damp towel I'd placed on my forehead a scant three minutes ago had already dried like a Saharan wadi when the gentle knocking roused me off the damask-covered sofa.  Gob?  Already?  Could it be?"
     I opened the door to my room with the highest of hopes.  Only to find Colonel Twixt grinning there with the lowest of intentions.  The same snub-nosed .38 he'd brandished on the Helga Uhtred, French-kissed my bellybutton.
     "We need to talk," he said.
     I raised my hand.  "Talk?" I said, "Or shoot?"
     He shrugged.  "That all depends, dear boy."
 
****************************************
I taught all my sisters to shoot. 
Then I moved out of state and changed my name.  
Thanksgiving dinners always turn volatile. 
-L. Oliver Bright
*****************************************

BE TWIXT (June 10, 2016)
      I backed into my room, Colonel's Twixt's snub-nosed .38 keeping my belly-button close company every step of the way.
     "What are you doing?"  I asked, trying to convince myself this must have been DeBali's version of April Fool's Day, and Twixt was just joining in on the fun.  Alas, even I wasn't buying it.  "Really, man, what the hell are you doing?"
      He closed the door behind us.  "Who are you working for?" he asked.
     "Nobody," I shouted with more conviction than I felt.  "The real question is, why are you trying to shove a gun barrel up my navel?"
     He pushed me deeper into the room.  "Which agency?" he demanded.
     "Hoffman, Church & Goff," I answered.
   The barrel of his snub-nosed made sudden acquaintance with an organ I'll call my spleen.  "I'm not amused," he growled.  "Can the funny business, funny man.  Which agency?"
   I let my 'inner stupid' take over.  Rock beats scissors every time, but nothing ever beats stupid.  Fast talking stupidity is the ultimate defense ever created. "Really," I cried, "I'm not trying to be funny.  The last agency I ever worked for was Horton, Church & Goff.  Providence, Rhode Island.  I wrote ads.  But that was ten years ago.  Sure, I wrote some lousy ads--some stinkers, in fact.  But I don't see how that warrants a gun barrel shoved up my belly.  If I wrote some ad that offended you, Colonel, I'd gladly apologize."  I zipped through my mental rolodex.  "It was the Mississippi Zippi campaign, right?  I knew that'd come back to haunt me.  Whatever possessed me to cast a Mark Twain lookalike? You must have found that pretty darn offensive, right?"
    I could tell he was overwhelmed by my onslaught of nonsense.  He motioned with his head.  "Sit down over there."
   I sat 'over there', while the Colonel busied himself opening doors, pulling drapes, making sure we were alone.  Finally satisfied, he said, "That's the worst cover story I've ever heard in my life.    You must be CIA, or ZDD."
    "What cover story?"  I asked.  "I used to write ads for an agency.  You poked a gun in my belly and asked me what agency I worked for.  I told you.  No cover story.  I know about the Central Intelligence Agency, but what the hell does ZDD stand for?"
    He settled onto a sofa, his .38 still aimed at my body mass--my most favorite body part.  "Why don't you tell me?"
    I shrugged with exaggerated frustration.  "Tell you what?  ZDD?  I never heard of it.  You said, 'ZDD'.  Up till then, I never heard of it.  How am I supposed to know what it means?"
    He squinted.  "Take an educated guess."
    I exhaled through my flabby lips, like a horse.  "Educated?  Colonel, you got the wrong man here. I barely know what CAT means.  No, sir.  I have no idea what ZDD stands for."
    "Then you must be CIA."
    "What?  No!  I'm OMO!"
    "OMO?"  He said it like a Stooge, "Oh, Moe!"
    "On-My-Own, Einstein.  I'm no one's agent.  I'm On-My-Own, see?"
    Twixt scratched his temple with the nose of his snub-nosed.  Never had I prayed harder for a firearm mishap.  A gray-matter geyser.  Nikki, can you blame me?
     "So you admit it?" he said.
     "Yes, I'm on my own. Totally.  Irrevocably.  Undeniably."
     He tilted his head like a curious Schnauzer. "Then what's your interest in Ms. Gasparini?"
     "Who?"  Stupid comes easy to me.  I can sell it, too.  I have the knack.
     "The American blonde at the party, Bright.  What's your interest in her?"
     I switched my eyes to dim--stoner-blank.  "Huh?  American.  Blonde.  Party.  What did you think my interest was?"
      He considered for a moment.  "Are you really that dim, Bright?"
      I pretended to understand the question.  "Huh?"
 
*************************************************************
When pretending to be stupid, it can be hard not to overact. -L. Oliver Bright
*************************************************************

OBFUSCATION ON THE FLY (June 17, 2016)
    "The disposition of Ms Gasparini's case will have global repercussions . . . "
     What the hell did that mean?  Twixt was mixed up.  What case?  What repercussions?  I decided it might be prudent to ask.
     "What case?  What repercussions?" I asked.   
     Twixt glared at me like offal fallen out of the sky.  "As if you don't know," he said.  "When she's found, she'll probably be stoned to death, if she isn't already parted from her skin.  The sheikh is most upset.  You must return her at once."
       I sank onto the edge of my bed.  "The girl is gone?"
     Twixt waggled his gun.  "Don't play coy with me, Bright.  Sheik Sihk is not a man to be toyed with.  You've already admitted to being an agent for TOM.  Give back the girl, man, and you both might live--though I give the girl moderately better odds.  Just moderately better, mind you.  And I'm not certain she'll be better off . . . if you know what I mean."
      I held up my hands as if trying to hold back a tide.  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said.  "If Ms Gasparini is missing, I had nothing to do with it.  And as for Tom, he's just a love-sick plumber's apprentice in Fort Lee, New Jersey.  Whatever I'm caught up in here, I'm way out of my league. What's this business about 'disposition' and 'global repercussions'?"
     He plopped down onto a stout captain's chair, waved his gun around as if trying to dispel bad air.  "Oh, cut the cheese, Bright.  You've been working for Saud and this TOM from the beginning.  But I still can't figure what your interest is.  She's just an ordinary girl.  Ordinary by all accounts, except she's blonde.  For some reason, blonde bedroom furniture attracts undue attention in this part of the world.  What is it, Bright?  What's so special about this supremely ordinary girl--except her limp hair?"
     Truth was, Nikki, I hadn't a clue about as to what made Sue Anne Gasparini special.  I decided to bluff.  "Have you seen her tattoo?"
     "You mean the stylized pentagon on her butt?  That hardly makes her special.  I've seen better butts on cigars.  As for the ink, mundane."
     "Ah, Twixt," I chided, "you've been peeking."
     "Grow up, Bright.  What girl slaps a tat on her giggly arse and doesn't invite oglers?"
    You have to admit, Nikki, Colonel Twixt had a point.  Which leads me to wonder how regularly your seahorse receives admirers?  Remind me to reacquaint myself at the earliest opportunity.  But first things first.  Twixt seemed to think I'd abducted the girl.
     "The girl is really missing?" I asked.
     He scratched his Brillo-Pad eyebrow.  "My boy, have you just awakened from a coma of stupidness?  Yes!  The girl is missing, and Sheik Maoud Abu Sikh wants her back.  And what the sheik wants, he gets at any cost."
     I shrugged.  "I don't have her."
    He closed his eyes and shook his head.  "If true," he said, "that's most unfortunate.  If you don't have the girl, you have nothing to bargain with."
    I sensed I'd boarded a merry-go-round.  "But I didn't take her.  How can I be held accountable for something I didn't do?"
     Twixt sighed.  "Accountability is no defense against stones."
     Tingles crept up my spine.  "Really, Twixt.  I don't have her, and I don't have a clue where she's gone to."
     "More's the pity."
 
****************************
When facing imminent death,
breath is hard to come by.  Ironic.
-L. Oliver Bright
****************************
 
 
A LESSON IN ARABIC (June 24, 2016)
    "The disposition of Ms Gasparini's case will have global repercussions . . . "
     What the hell did that mean?  Twixt was mixed up.  What case?  What repercussions?  I decided it might be prudent to ask.
     "What case?  What repercussions?" I asked.   
     Twixt glared at me like offal fallen out of the sky.  "As if you don't know," he said.  "When she's found, she'll probably be stoned to death, if she isn't already parted from her skin.  The sheikh is most upset.  You must return her at once."
       I sank onto the edge of my bed.  "The girl is gone?"
     Twixt waggled his gun.  "Don't play coy with me, Bright.  Sheik Sihk is not a man to be toyed with.  You've already admitted to being an agent for TOM.  Give back the girl, man, and you both might live--though I give the girl moderately better odds.  Just moderately better, mind you.  And I'm not certain she'll be better off . . . if you know what I mean."
      I held up my hands as if trying to hold back a tide.  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said.  "If Ms Gasparini is missing, I had nothing to do with it.  And as for Tom, he's just a love-sick plumber's apprentice in Fort Lee, New Jersey.  Whatever I'm caught up in here, I'm way out of my league. What's this business about 'disposition' and 'global repercussions'?"
     He plopped down onto a stout captain's chair, waved his gun around as if trying to dispel bad air.  "Oh, cut the cheese, Bright.  You've been working for Saud and this TOM from the beginning.  But I still can't figure what your interest is.  She's just an ordinary girl.  Ordinary by all accounts, except she's blonde.  For some reason, blonde bedroom furniture attracts undue attention in this part of the world.  What is it, Bright?  What's so special about this supremely ordinary girl--except her limp hair?"
     Truth was, Nikki, I hadn't a clue about as to what made Sue Anne Gasparini special.  I decided to bluff.  "Have you seen her tattoo?"
     "You mean the stylized pentagon on her butt?  That hardly makes her special.  I've seen better butts on cigars.  As for the ink, mundane."
     "Ah, Twixt," I chided, "you've been peeking."
     "Grow up, Bright.  What girl slaps a tat on her giggly arse and doesn't invite oglers?"
    You have to admit, Nikki, Colonel Twixt had a point.  Which leads me to wonder how regularly your seahorse receives admirers?  Remind me to reacquaint myself at the earliest opportunity.  But first things first.  Twixt seemed to think I'd abducted the girl.
     "The girl is really missing?" I asked.
     He scratched his Brillo-Pad eyebrow.  "My boy, have you just awakened from a coma of stupidness?  Yes!  The girl is missing, and Sheik Maoud Abu Sikh wants her back.  And what the sheik wants, he gets at any cost."
     I shrugged.  "I don't have her."
    He closed his eyes and shook his head.  "If true," he said, "that's most unfortunate.  If you don't have the girl, you have nothing to bargain with."
    I sensed I'd boarded a merry-go-round.  "But I didn't take her.  How can I be held accountable for something I didn't do?"
     Twixt sighed.  "Accountability is no defense against stones."
     Tingles crept up my spine.  "Really, Twixt.  I don't have her, and I don't have a clue where she's gone to."
     "More's the pity."
 
****************************
When facing imminent death,
breath is hard to come by.  Ironic.
-L. Oliver Bright
****************************

TWIXT, TWAIN, AND TOM (July 1, 2016)
     Nikki, darling, I don't know how he does it.  By 'him' I'm referring to James Bond, of course.  How can he face imminent death on the average of once every thirteen-and-a-half film minutes, and still keep his tuxedo pressed?  By comparison, I'm a slug--with all due apologies to the slug community.
     In case you haven't been receiving all my letters, I'll try to boil down my situation so you'll understand: 
      HELP!
     How was that? Succinct enough?  On message? Should I add a MAYDAY!?  Or maybe smoke signals?
    Really, Nikki, I'm wading waist deep in hot oatmeal and my feet are losing touch with the bottom.  Twixt is exactly the conniver I thought him to be, and a whole lot worse.  I realize I'm contradicting myself, but I'll work that out in the editing process . . . if I live that long.
    The girl I was sent here to rescue has disappeared.  Hooray, right?  Well, it might be a hooray--if I'd actually disappeared her.  But I didn't. Now she's gone.  How can I rescue a girl I can't find?  More importantly, how can I rescue the girl if I'm dead?  And they do enjoy their stoneings in this neck of the woods.  The only positive in this whole set up is, I'm wearing a borrowed tuxedo.  Take that, 007!
    "Look, Twixt," I said, "I didn't take the girl.  And my interest in her was purely carnal.  She's American, I'm American.   And this is Debali.  Folks who can name all the Cartwright boys are rare in Debali.  I figured she and I might hit it off . . . once or twice.  How was I supposed to know she belonged to the sheik?"
     Twixt shrugged.  "This is Debali, you fool!  All women belong to the Sheik."
    I couldn't help myself.  "Has the ACLU heard about this outrage?  Women aren't chattel. Where is Helen Gurly Brown when you need her?  In fact, where's Margaret DuMond when I need her?"  I waggled my eyebrows suggestively.
   The Colonel offered a thin grin.  "Your Groucho impression notwithstanding, amusing as it was, we've yet to ascertain the whereabouts of Ms Gasparini.  Nor have we clarified your association with TOM."
    "How many times do I have to tell you?  There's no TOM.  Only Tom.  Short for Thomas. He's a plumber from Fort Lee, New Jersey.  As for the whereabouts of Ms Gasparini, I can't help you.  But how hard can it be to find a blonde American coed in Debali?  If she ran from here, she must have had somewhere to run to."
    Twixt shook his head.  "We have sources in the American Embassy.  She's not there."
    "Then she must be somewhere else."
    The Colonel frowned.  "Stating the obvious will not protect you from stones."
    "Saud Saud," I said, sounding redundant to my ears.
    "What do you know of Saud?"
     I felt I'd struck a nerve.  "Cut it out, Twixt.  There's some kind of competition going on here."
     "Competition?"
    "Yeah," I said, my confidence growing.  "Some kind of a Sheik-A-Thon between Saud and Sihk.  And the pretty corn-fed American coed is the prize.  But I want to know what you're interest is.  You act like you're working for Sihk, but I smell something different, Twixt?  MI6?"
     He wrinkled his Mark Twain brows.  "No. TOM."
     "You know there's no TOM.  And you know damn well Sikh has the girl.   Why are you messing with me?"
      He slugged the gun back in its holster, let his shoulders droop. "You're a freakin' fly in the ointment, Bright."
      I have to admit, Nikki, I've received higher accolades.
 
*****************************************************
Flies on the wall know all our secrets. Swat away. - L. Oliver Bright
***************************************************** 


SEARCHING FOR MS CORNFED (July 8, 2016)
    I'm being played like a ping-pong ball, Nikki.  And I'm getting paddled pretty good, too.  Oil sheik to oil sheik to oil sheik.  All over a girl who wouldn't turn heads at last call in any back-alley Austin barroom.  There has to be more to this picture than blonde hair, blue eyes, and a slight overbite.
     Colonel Twixt is no help.  In fact, I'm not sure whose camp he really represents--Saud Saud, Abu Sikh, or the Boy Scouts of America.  It appears to me I need to find the girl on my own.  Maybe she has answers to questions I haven't yet asked.  How hard can it be to find a blonde haired, blue-eyed coed in place like DeBali?
     Evidently, harder than I first thought.
     I started my search at the bazaar.  What girl doesn't like to shop, right?  Unfortunately, the DeBali bazaar hasn't caught on yet with the folks from Bath Body and Beyond, or The Gap.  Although Scimitars R Us was previewing its Fall Fashion line.  Alas, no Prada, so I had no luck there.  The goat butcher claimed to remember a browsing blonde, but I'm pretty sure he was just yanking my shank.
     My next thought was to try the local coffee shop.  Blondes are known to have a thing for lattes. Especially after a hard morning of goat-part window shopping.  Really.  You can look it up.
     The coffee shop was a good idea.  But not as convenient as I had hoped.  There are no Starbucks in DeBali, Nikki.  No Dunkin Donuts, either.  No Mel's Diner, for that matter.  I did pass several establishments serving 10W30 in tiny cups, though.  But all the patrons were male, armed--and by the glowers they showered upon me, highly xenophobic.  I decided to shift the paradigm for my search, and seek out the nearest Taco Bell.  If my trek took me all the way to El Paso, it would have suited me just fine.  Coeds like Taco Bell don't they?
     Okay, it wasn't the most rational thought I ever had.  But searching out Ms Cornfed in DeBali would certainly be easier if I didn't have to worry about being stared daggers everywhere I went.  One never knows when eye daggers will turn into the other kind.  I wondered if perhaps I should have made a purchase while I was at Scimitars R Us.  They had a precious little DKNY number to die for.  Uh, poor choice of words.
     Then a much more rational thought hit me.  Burka!  Why hadn't I thought of it before?  I wondered if DeBali had a Big & Tall Women's Burka Outlet.
     I wondered around the shops adjacent to the bazaar until I came to a likely-looking shop.  To my relief, the shop was deserted except for an old, wizened fez-wearing man snoozing behind the counter.  I stood at the counter hoping he'd sense my presence and wake up.  When he didn't I coughed gently.  The man started, nearly falling off his stool.
     He blinked his eyes and rattled off a stream steamy of Arabic.  His eyes finally settled on me while he apparently awaited my reply.
     "English?" I asked hopefully.
     "Arabic," he answered.
     "But I don't speak Arabic."
     "I do."
     "And English, too, evidently."
     "That's none of your business.  Who are you?"
     "Just a visitor.  I'm interested in buying a burka."
     He nodded.  "So, Mr. Just A. Visitor, you are a cross-dresser?"
     I shook my head emphatically.  I could only imagine what the penalty might be for cross-dressing in DeBali--and I had long ago given up any aspiration to join the Vienna Boys Choir.  "No, no.  The burka is for my wife.  We wish to stroll your beautiful city without causing any offense."
     The old man cringed.  "That ugly, huh?  How many goats did you pay for her?"
     "None," I answered, indignantly.
     "Phew, she must be a real stinko."  He rose, said, "Come with me to the backroom."
     As an operative, Nikki, one is trained to be very cautious about accepting invitations to any backroom.  I must have forgotten my training.
 
*************************************************
Despite what we say, it isn't the excitement that kills us. 
It's the mundane which knocks us down. -  L. Oliver Bright
*************************************************


THE BURKA PLOY (July 15, 2016)
     Well, Nikki, the man who emerged from the shadows was definitely not Peter Lorre.  But he was the Peter Lorre lookalike who shot me while making my escape from the Helga Uhtred.
      "You slimy little bastard," I shouted as I lunged for his scrawny neck.  Henri cowered, but Sidney's PPK pressing against my temple caused me to cut my lunge just short of its weasel-like target.
      "Temper, temper, Ollie," tutted Sidney.
     "But the bastard shot me," I cried.
     "True," but that was necessary--in order to maintain his cover.  "He had to shoot you.  But seeing as how you're not dead, it's clear Henri meant you no harm.  Despite his droopy, buggy eyes, he's an excellent marksman."
     I wasn't buying any of it.  "Yeah, well, if he's such a great marksman, why didn't he miss me altogether?"
     Sidney looked at me like I'd just questioned his maternal lineage.  "Because no one would believe it, son."
     "Really?  No one would believe he could miss a running man, in the dark, while shooting from a pitching boat?"
     "Precisely.  Henri is so good with a pistol, he could trim your nose hairs without disturbing your mustache."
     "I don't have a mustache."
     "Ollie, I was speaking figuratively--but honestly.  You owe Henri profound thanks for shooting through only the fleshy part of your shoulder.  Shoulders are not renowned for their fleshiness.  Few men could have made that shot under those conditions.  His medical training, particularly his familiarity with anatomy all came into play with that one shot."
     Medical training?  Anatomy?  These were valid questions, which I would get to eventually, but something else Sidney said took precedence. "Thank him?" I asked incredulously. Sidney raised an eyebrow.  "I'll think about it--as soon as I've had a chance to fully heal.  But what do I need him for, anyway?"
      "Henri is a known entity around DeBali.  On his arm, you'll be able to go places, meet people a burka alone will not allow you access.  Henri knows our mission, and the appropriate questions to ask.  He is also fluent in all the local dialects.  Of course he'll try to steer all conversations to English, for your benefit, but when that is impossible, he'll translate the gist for you later.  Not an ideal situation, but at least you'll be there to pick up on tics and body language."
     "I don't know, Sidney.  Can this man really be trusted?"
     Sidney turned to the Peter Lorre lookalike.  "Can you be trusted, Henri?"
     The small, bug-eyed man blushed.  "I am as loyal as an old dog . . . to whoever pays me the most."
     I detested this man, and everything he didn't stand for.  "Old dogs don't require payment for their loyalty," I hissed.
     Henri smiled, a sight which nearly caused me to gag.  "Perhaps," he said, "you'd rather partner with a Pomeranian?"
     Again, I lunged.  Again, Sidney restrained me.
     "Why are you protecting this little weasel," I shouted.
     "Because you need him.  Now stop this nonsense, and pick out a burka.  They're stacked on those shelves.  You need an extra tall, I believe."
     "You mean they actually carry extra tall burkas here?"
     "I piggyback on the burka orders of The International Muslim Women's Basketball League and have the overrun sent here."
     "International Muslim Women's Basketball League?  You're kidding me."
     "On the contrary.  They'll be inking a deal with ESPN any day now.  Very up-and-coming.  Office betting pools are just around the corner."
     I shuffled through the burkas.  "Actually, Sidney I think you've already gone 'round the corner.  By the way, what made you so sure I'd choose this shop from which to purchase a burka?"
     "Americology."
     "Ameriwhat?"
     "Something the Brits taught us about ourselves.  Their Americology studies reveal that, when needing to purchase something in an alien land, Americans invariably choose the shop most resembling Walmart."
     He had gone 'round the corner for sure.  "This shop looks nothing like a Walmart."
     "Yet this is the shop you chose."
 
*********************************************************** 
The world as we know it, is just a patchwork quilt of territories and tribes. 
And McDonald's is the common thread. --  L. Oliver Bright
***********************************************************


POMERANIANS AND WALMART (July 22, 2016)
     Well, Nikki, the man who emerged from the shadows was definitely not Peter Lorre.  But he was the Peter Lorre lookalike who shot me while making my escape from the Helga Uhtred.
      "You slimy little bastard," I shouted as I lunged for his scrawny neck.  Henri cowered, but Sidney's PPK pressing against my temple caused me to cut my lunge just short of its weasel-like target.
      "Temper, temper, Ollie," tutted Sidney.
     "But the bastard shot me," I cried.
     "True," but that was necessary--in order to maintain his cover.  "He had to shoot you.  But seeing as how you're not dead, it's clear Henri meant you no harm.  Despite his droopy, buggy eyes, he's an excellent marksman."
     I wasn't buying any of it.  "Yeah, well, if he's such a great marksman, why didn't he miss me altogether?"
     Sidney looked at me like I'd just questioned his maternal lineage.  "Because no one would believe it, son."
     "Really?  No one would believe he could miss a running man, in the dark, while shooting from a pitching boat?"
     "Precisely.  Henri is so good with a pistol, he could trim your nose hairs without disturbing your mustache."
     "I don't have a mustache."
     "Ollie, I was speaking figuratively--but honestly.  You owe Henri profound thanks for shooting through only the fleshy part of your shoulder.  Shoulders are not renowned for their fleshiness.  Few men could have made that shot under those conditions.  His medical training, particularly his familiarity with anatomy all came into play with that one shot."
     Medical training?  Anatomy?  These were valid questions, which I would get to eventually, but something else Sidney said took precedence. "Thank him?" I asked incredulously. Sidney raised an eyebrow.  "I'll think about it--as soon as I've had a chance to fully heal.  But what do I need him for, anyway?"
      "Henri is a known entity around DeBali.  On his arm, you'll be able to go places, meet people a burka alone will not allow you access.  Henri knows our mission, and the appropriate questions to ask.  He is also fluent in all the local dialects.  Of course he'll try to steer all conversations to English, for your benefit, but when that is impossible, he'll translate the gist for you later.  Not an ideal situation, but at least you'll be there to pick up on tics and body language."
     "I don't know, Sidney.  Can this man really be trusted?"
     Sidney turned to the Peter Lorre lookalike.  "Can you be trusted, Henri?"
     The small, bug-eyed man blushed.  "I am as loyal as an old dog . . . to whoever pays me the most."
     I detested this man, and everything he didn't stand for.  "Old dogs don't require payment for their loyalty," I hissed.
     Henri smiled, a sight which nearly caused me to gag.  "Perhaps," he said, "you'd rather partner with a Pomeranian?"
     Again, I lunged.  Again, Sidney restrained me.
     "Why are you protecting this little weasel," I shouted.
     "Because you need him.  Now stop this nonsense, and pick out a burka.  They're stacked on those shelves.  You need an extra tall, I believe."
     "You mean they actually carry extra tall burkas here?"
     "I piggyback on the burka orders of The International Muslim Women's Basketball League and have the overrun sent here."
     "International Muslim Women's Basketball League?  You're kidding me."
     "On the contrary.  They'll be inking a deal with ESPN any day now.  Very up-and-coming.  Office betting pools are just around the corner."
     I shuffled through the burkas.  "Actually, Sidney I think you've already gone 'round the corner.  By the way, what made you so sure I'd choose this shop from which to purchase a burka?"
     "Americology."
     "Ameriwhat?"
     "Something the Brits taught us about ourselves.  Their Americology studies reveal that, when needing to purchase something in an alien land, Americans invariably choose the shop most resembling Walmart."
     He had gone 'round the corner for sure.  "This shop looks nothing like a Walmart."
     "Yet this is the shop you chose."
 
*********************************************************** 
The world as we know it, is just a patchwork quilt of territories and tribes. 
And McDonald's is the common thread. --  L. Oliver Bright
***********************************************************


THE BURKA MYSTIQUE (July 29, 2016)
    I know, Nikki, that Western culture has a distinct bias concerning the burka.  To us, it represents centuries of male dominance, and female oppression. A tool for keeping Arab women docile and subservient, and, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  In many ways, this tool serves its insidious purpose.
     However, there's also something infinitely freeing about the garment.  In essence, it's a full-body mask.  A cozy, portable cocoon.  A mantle of sheer anonymity.   And, believe me, there's something very liberating about anonymity.  I remember reading a paper on the psychology of masks and their relevance spanning the eons from ancient shamans to modern crooks.  The mask not only conceals one's true identity, but also empowers the individual behind it to act in ways he might not be capable of without the mask.  Wearing a mask magically enables an individual to overcome certain deep-seated inhibitions.
     Having donned the garment in question, I believe the burka, though oppressive in some ways, is actually liberating in others.  Besides, it does wonders for my figure.  I'll bet no Arab woman ever asked her husband, "Does this burka make my butt look fat?"  If burkas ever caught on in Western civilizations, I predict the stock prices of Sara Lee and Ben & Jerry's would skyrocket.
     Combing through the stacks, I found a lovely teal number that brought out the latent hazel in my eyes, but both Sidney and the weasel-ish Henri insisted I stick with basic black.  After twenty minutes of rummaging through the stacks of blacks, I concluded there is no such thing as a 'little black burka'.  Evidently, spaghetti straps constitute a stoning offense.  Sequins, too.  Talk about oppressive . . . and style-smothering.  In the end, I was forced to settle for a plain-Fatima sack that hid my contours like . . . well, a sack.  It's a good thing Some Like It Hot was filmed in Hollywood rather than DeBali.  Not even Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis could have been funny in burkas.
     After trading my high-top Keds for a pair of low-brow black brogans, I was ready to make my debut as a woman.  Sidney and Henri sized me up from all angles, as if I were nothing but a piece of meat.  Though shrouded head to toe in a burka, I never felt so naked in my life.  I don't know how you women stand to be ogled.
     Finally, I couldn't take their scrutiny anymore.  "Cut it out, guys.  I'll have you know I have a mind.  And a good one, too."
     "Of course, dearie," cooed Sidney.  "And good wide hips--heaven-made for bearing many children."  He turned to Henri.  "How much do you think she'd fetch at the bazaar?"
     The Peter Lorre look-alike rubbed his chin, shook his head.  "Three goats only.  She's too tall.  Though I myself would not object, not all men like the sound his woman's head banging against the headboard during mandatory boom-boom banging.  Perhaps she'd fetch four goats . . . from a deaf man.  Or perhaps one who likes to play the drums."
     Never in my life had I felt so humiliated.  "Guys, I'm standing right here.  I can hear you!"
   Sidney coughed into his hand.  "We're making a point, Ollie.  Women in burkas are not only supposed to be invisible, they are supposed to be deaf.  No Arab man would speak about you like we just did.  But that doesn't mean you won't hear things you'll want to respond to.  But you must not react.  Above all, you must not speak while Henri is making his inquiries.  The men Henri needs to talk to will not tell the truth while you're present--unless they believe you are a typical, subservient wife.  If your burka cover is blown--"
     "I know, I know," I insisted.  "A stoning offense."
     Henri grinned like a cat with a mouthful of goldfish.  "A de-stoning offense, Effendi.  You will be castrated on the spot."
     Involuntarily, I crossed my legs.  "And what will happen to you?" I addressed Henri.
     "If I'm lucky I will merely be stoned."
     "And if you're unlucky?"
     "I will be forced to marry DeBali's newest eunuch."
     That was a prospect of which I could not conceive.
     "So," said Sidney.  "What say you gentlemen go out and find our young Miss Gasparini?"
     I nodded demurely.  But hidden inside my burka, I nearly threw up.
 
******************************************
There are two ways of looking at danger.
 Head on. 
Or over one's shoulder, galloping for the horizon. 
The former is admirable.
 The latter is infinitely more practical. - L. Oliver Bright
*******************************************

copyright 2016

THE HOOKAH HOORAH (8/5/16)
     ​I think any red-blooded American guy would have qualms about donning a burka and parading around downtown DeBali on the arm of a Peter Lorre-look-alike.  But somehow I believe I'm the only one lucky enough to have gotten the opportunity.  And yes, the words 'lucky' and 'opportunity' are intended to drip with sarcasm.
     The first thing you realize when you find yourself wearing a burka in a crowded Arab bazaar  is that it is the flimsiest of disguises, and will never work.  Logically, you know you're shrouded, but no matter how hard you try, you can't believe you can really be mistaken for an Arab woman.  The idea is absurd.
     Henri, my Peter Lorre-look-alike 'husband' must have felt my body stiffen.  "Relax," he whispered.  "It takes time to get used to hiding in plain sight."
     "You're telling me,"  I whispered back.
     "You mustn't speak," he admonished.  "The burka does not hide your voice.  Just hang onto my arm.  We'll browse around the bazaar until you get used to being invisible."
     "I can't get used to it soon enough," I answered.
     He squeezed my arm.  "Do not speak in public, woman," he said aloud, "or I will beat you for your insolence."
     I didn't respond, but made a mental note to teach Henri something about insolence and beating at my earliest opportunity.
     We toured the bazaar while I accustomed myself to being seen and unseen at the same time.  Henri stopped at several stalls where he pretended to assess various wares.  He spoke gutturally and disdainfully to the merchants, who responded in mock indignity.  I managed to keep my flapper shut--even when I spotted, through the mesh of my eye slot, the loveliest carpet I yearned to buy for my van.  After a while, I became more trusting of my disguise, and, slowly, my body relaxed.  Henri patted my arm to signal his approval.
     We left the bazaar, walking down a succession of narrow, cobbled side streets.  We made several random turns, and often stopped to gaze at uninteresting shop windows. It soon became apparent to me that Henri was trying to determine whether or not we were being shadowed.
     Eventually, he seemed satisfied, and our path became straighter.
     "You are doing well, American," he whispered.  "Soon we will enter the hookah shop of Jamini, my most trusted informant.  Women are not allowed into the shop proper, so I must leave you just inside the door.  Jamini will invite me into his backroom, where I have to spend several minutes.  You must wait for me exactly where I leave you.  You must not wander from that spot.  And certainly, you must not speak.  Under no circumstances are you to speak.  Is that clear?"
     The burka must have been doing its magic, because all I did was nod.  Demurely.
     When we entered the doorway to the hookah shop, my body turned dry and stiff as week-old bread.  
    The shop was filled with Arab men smoking, well, hookahs.  And they were all staring at Henri and me.  As a neophyte woman, even a burka'd neophyte woman, I was not used to be stared at.  Especially by glassy-eyed men with lungs full of what I immediately recognized as hashish smoke.  Henri, of course, sensed my panic.  He set me in a corner just inside the door and barked guttural orders at me.  I didn't recognize the words, but the message in his eyes screamed:  For God's sake, man.  Do not move from this spot.  Keep your eyes down, and your mouth shut . . . if you do not wish to be an exotic eunuch in an Arab prison."
     Okay, I may have adlibbed the eunuch/prison part, but then again, I may not have.
     Henri left me and disappeared behind a beaded curtain--just like Peter Lorre always did.
    I planted my feet to the floor, bowed my head just enough so I could still watch the hookah men through the mesh of my burka grill.  They all stared at me with lascivious intend.  Either all these men favored tall women . . . or I had been lured to a gay hookah bar.
     The seconds turned to minutes, the minutes into hours, the hours into millennia.  
     Finally, Henri emerged from behind the beaded curtain.  He grabbed me by the elbow, pulled me out the door and onto the street.  "We're in business, dumpling," he whispered.
     I dragged into a corner, and decked him with a right cross.  Fortunately, no one was watching.  So, I kicked him in the ribs, too.
 
******************************   
You can disguise your person. 
You can't disguise the person you are.
- L. Oliver Bright
******************************

A SIZE 14 HEEL (8/12/16)
     Funny, Nikki, I always had the feeling Peter Lorre got beat up a lot. Like all his life. Oh, I'm sure it has a lot to do with those oily, sniveling characters he used to play.  Guys like that expect to get kicked around.  It comes with the territory.  They expect to get slapped around.  So, they don't take it personally.  They get up, brush themselves off, and resume being the same oily, sniveling, detestable characters they always were.  You can change your jeans, but you can not change your genes.  Snivelers snivel.  Don't ask why.
     Well, I guess it's the same way with Peter Lorre look-alikes.  After nearly getting his ribs cracked, Henri looked up at me with his beady little eyes, as if to say, "Are you done yet, Master?  May I get up now?"
     Of course, I felt like a size-fourteen heel.  Like I'd kicked a puppy.  I held out my hand and pulled him up.  He showed no signs of reproach, offered no recrimination.  Instead, he smiled.  Make that a size-fifteen heel.
     Soon we were once again walking arm in arm down the cluttered, claustrophobia-inducing backstreets of DeBali.  To the casual observer, I'm sure we made quite the pair.  The small bug-eyed, greasy foreigner, squiring his tall, burka-concealed woman.  Had I come across us on a casual stroll, I'm pretty sure I'd have stared.  Actually, I might have even pointed.  I tried to slouch.
     "My meeting with Jamimi was quite fruitful," Henri whispered.
     My mind returned to the hookah shop, and the lascivious leers of the men ogling me.  I felt dirty.  The heel in me tried to rise to the surface, but somehow, I managed to stomp it down.
     "Did he give you a lead on the girl?"  I kept my voice down, even though we seemed to have the street to ourselves.  But I'd already learned 'seems' is a dangerous assumption in the Middle East.  Eyes and ears are everywhere.
     "Perhaps better than a lead, my pet," Henri patted my hand and winked at me.
     At hearing 'my pet', my first instinct was to pummel Henri into cobblestone grout.  But I restrained myself . . . mostly.  A short right jab to his left kidney attracted his undivided attention, but no one else's.  "Call me 'pet' again, Weasel," I whispered, "and I'll bite you where you don't ever want to be bit.  Now, tell me what your informant had to say."
     It took him a few steps to regain his breath, but he staggered on.  "For a woman," he gasped, "you throw a sharp jab."
     I was about to throw him another, when I realized he was baiting me.  Sure, I wanted to hit him again, but that's exactly what the little freak wanted.  I gritted my teeth.  "Tell me about the girl."
     His smile seemed to feign victory, but he still walked with a limp.  And everyone knows, a limp trumps a forced smile every time.  "I'm informed your Ms. Gasparini has secured a room at a hostel for foreign women.  The hostel is located in the Embassy Zone."
     "Is this friend of yours, Jamini, reliable?"
     "I never suggested Jamini was my friend, Mr. Bright.  he is only my informant.  But in the past, his information has never disappointed me.  By the way, you owe me seven hundred DeBali dinars."
     I spoke through clenched teeth.  "I owe you another jab to the kidney."
     He nodded.  "Of course, of course.  It is Mr. Sidney who owes me the seven hundred DeBali dinars.  Please forgive my error."
     "Where is this hostel," I asked.
     "We are almost there.  But we have a problem."
     I stopped walking, so did he.  "What kind of problem?"
     "The hostel is for women only.  I am forbidden to enter.  You must go in alone."
      Now ain't that just Jim Dandy?
 
*****************************************************
If life throws you spitballs, bribe the umpire. -- L. Oliver Bright​
*****************************************************

OH, SOMETHING I FORGOT TO MENTION (8/19/16)
     I seemed to be having some sort of gender crisis.  Probably burka-related.  That was my hope, at least.
     "So," I said, "Ms. Gasparini is at a hostel for foreign women.  What's the problem?"
     "I told you.  Men are not allowed in."
     I curtsied in my burka.  "No problem.  I'll go in and get her."
    He shook his head.  "Impossible.  There will be guards there, Mr. Bright.  And even in your . . . dress, you will not pass for a proper DeBali woman."
     "I'll have you know, this a burka, not a dress.  Are you saying I'm not feminine enough?"  I loomed over him,  "That better not be what you're saying, buster."  See what I mean about my gender crisis, Nikki?
     Henri backed up a step.  "No, not at all.  You are lovely.  Enchanting.  Delightful, in fact."
     "But I can't get past a few guards?"
     "You do not speak the language."
     He had me there.  "So what do you propse?"
     "If we can't go in, we'll just have to wait for Ms. Gasparini to come out."
     I thought his plan over.  It stunk.  "I don't think much of your plan, Henri."
     He shuffled his feet.  "Perhaps you are right."
     "I am?"
     "Yes.  You see, I failed to mention something else I learned from Jamini."
     I raised an eyebrow--a useless gesture when one is draped in a burka.  "Failed to mention?  Or were afraid to mention?"
     He cringed.  "I only failed to mention it because I was afraid to mention it.  Your punches, kicks, and jabs are most effective . . . especially coming from such a comely and refined Muslim woman."
     I was about to show him 'refined', when a flock of burka-clad, jabbering women passed by.  At least, I believed they were women.  Again, see what I mean about my gender crisis, Nikki?
     I maintained my composure until the 'women' passed, and beyond.  "All right, Henri," I said, finally, "spill it."
     He smiled warily.  "Will you punch me?"  I couldn't tell if it was a dread, or a desire.
     "Only if you don't tell me everything you learned at the hookah shop."
     He wrung his hands.  "Someone else is looking for the young American girl."  He held up his arms, as if to fend off an attack.
     "Who?  How do you know?  Did Jamini tell you?"
     "Not exactly."
     I stomped on his right instep.  He howled and hopped in circles while his beady bug-eyes bugged more.
     "Not exactly, what?" I growled.  "Tell me everything you know."
   "A telephone call came to Jamini in his backroom.  I think the caller was inquiring about Ms. Gasparini's whereabouts."
     "Do you know who the caller was?"
     "I do not."
     "So, how do you know it was about the American girl?"
     "I could hear only Jamini's side of the conversation, but he mentioned Ms. Gasparini by name."
     "Tell me exactly what Jamini said."
     "He said, 'Ms. Gasparini?  No, I do not know where she can be found.'  Those were his word's exactly.
     "And that's how you deduced someone else is looking for her, Sherlock?"
     "I cannot say for certain, but I must consider it a strong possibility."
     Yeah, like gravity is a strong possibility.  "Can you trust Jamini?"
     "Of course.  I paid him 700 DeBali dinars for exclusive rights to the information."
     "Yeah, but can you trust him?"
     "I trust that as soon as I left the shop, he called the interested party back and spilled his guts about the Gasparini woman, the hostel, and the fact that I'm looking for her, too."
     I paced in a small circle on the street.  "Terrific friend you got there, Peter."
     He shrugged.  "Men like me, my pet, have no friends."
 
************************************************ 
I've always found it ironic that four-fifths of 'trust' is 'rust'. 
Maybe that's why I don't trust it. -- L. Oliver Bright
************************************************

THE "FIVE UNKNOWNS" PROBLEM (8/26/16)
     Nikki, if I have one fault, I probably have a thousand.  Problem is, I can only deal with one fault at a time.  Damn, that's another problem.  I have a thousand and one faults.
     But the only fault concerning me at this particular moment was my inability to plan.  I've always been a seat-of-the-pants kind of flyer.  An off-the-cuff kind of devil-may-care rogue.  Problem was, both the seat of my pants and my cuffs were shrouded beneath a burka.  Somehow, none of my usual rash impulses were able to reach my brain.  Burka-static, I guess.  I was stumped.
     My goal remained clear enough.  I had to find some way to get into this hostel for foreign women, contact Ms. Gasparini and, through charm or guile, convince her to come away with me . . . before she got snatched by a group of unknown assailants, working for unknown forces with an unknown agenda, and whisked away to an unknown location to serve an unknown purpose.  A  textbook 'five unknown' problem.
     Now, I don't like to brag, Nikki, but I can usually solve a simple 'five unknown' problem before my corn flakes get soggy.  Not with James Bond's elegance, perhaps.  Or Inspector Clousseau's aplomb.  But I've always gotten the job done . . . more or less.  See, I'm a bull-in-the-china-shop kind of guy.  Sure, dishes get broken, but the bull always comes out the back door, right?  Well, you know what I mean.
     But this time, I was stumped . . . righteously stumped.  And Henri proved little help.
     "Perhaps they beat us here, oui?"  he said.  "Perhaps they have already taken the girl, and poof!"
    "Poof, Henri?  Did you really say 'poof'?  Nowhere in the International Spy Handbook does the word 'poof' appear."
     He squinted his bulging eyes, nodded.  "Mais oui, but poof.  Yes?  It means 'gone', or, as you Americans say, 'Up in smoke', no?"
     Poof?  No.  If I lost track of the girl now, I might be wearing a burka for the rest of my life.  While I relished the shade, how is a man supposed to urinate in a tent?  I pulled the burka over my head, rolled it up, and threw it to Henri.
     "No, my pet," he cried, his neck swiveling.  "You mustn't.  You'll be seen.  I must have you for my own."
     I shoved him out of the way.  I swear, shedding the burka made me a new man.  And took at least twenty pounds off my hips.  "It's a hostel for foreign women, isn't it?"
     "Yes, but . . . "
     "So, they must be used to foreign men coming to call.  I'll just pretend I'm a foreign man."
     "But, Mr. Bright, you are a foreign man."
     "Exactly, Henri.  That will make the ruse all the more believable."
     "Of course," he grinned.  "Brilliant.  But, what ruse, exactly?"
     I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook.  "Never mind that!  You stay here.  If you see any unsavory characters approaching, whistle."
     "Whistle?"
     "Yeah, whistle.  You know how to whistle, don't you?"
     He shrugged, looking more like Peter Lorre than ever.  "I'm not sure.  According to Lauren Bacall, I should put my lips together and blow."
     "Very good.  Has Lauren Bacall ever lied to you?"
     I swear, he blushed, looked down at his shoes.
     "I've never had the pleasure," he said.
     I began to have a bad feeling about this.  "Listen, if the bad guys show up, just create a distraction."  I left him there, and walked toward the DeBali Hostel for Foreign Women.
     Henri stage whispered, "How will I know the bad guys?"
     I kept walking.  "They'll be the ones wearing black hats."
     "Homburgs, or Fedoras?"
     I kept walking.  Who wouldn't?
 
******************************************
 To most, 'life' is a noun.  But, to real men of action,
it's a bloody crap shoot. --L. Oliver 'Bloody' Bright
******************************************
copyright 2016 by Lee Allen Hill

Ollie Shows Off (9-2-16)
     I’ve raised an eyebrow or two, too.  Not to mention the odd scimitar.
     Conveniently, the sign identifying The DeBali Hostel for Foreign Women was spelled out in English, French, and Spanish, as well as Arabic.  I read the English version.  Call me parochial--and unilingual.  In fact, I pretended not to understand the English words for:  No men allowed.  Hey, I had a public school education.  I'd call that plausible deniability . . . in any language.
     I tried the door handle.  Locked up tighter than Chastity's chastity belt.  I wondered what sort of penalty lock-pickers risked in DeBali.  I decided to play it safe and rang the doorbell, instead.  Incredibly, the doorbell was a real bell.  I whacked it with the clapper.
     Almost immediately, a small panel in the door slid open, and a nose poked out.
     I turned on the charm.  "Avon calling," I said.
     The nosed sniffed, then a muffled voice that could have belonged to a man, a woman, or a toad, said, "No men."  The panel slid closed.
     I clapped the bell again.  The panel slid open, the nose reappeared, repeated, "No men."
     I said, "Grandma, what a big nose you have."
     The panel slid closed again.  I was encouraged.  Granted, I was no closer to gaining entry to The DeBali Hostel for Foreign Women.  On the other hand, I hadn't lost any ground, either.  I could do this all day.  I clapped the bell again.
     This time the entire door opened.  There stood a tiny, European-dressed, large-nosed Marlene Dietrich, flanked by two muscle-bound gentlemen wearing little but decidedly ungentle scowls.  "No men," reiterated Marlene.
     I waggled a finger from side to side.  "What about them two?"
     She sneered.  "Not men.  Mere eunuchs."
     I leaned in close.  "Are you absolutely certain?  I mean, have you actually checked?   Independent studies indicate there are loads of counterfeit eunuchs in circulations."
     "You are try to be funny?"
     "Great accent, Marlene.  Did you attend the Boris and Natasha School of Elocution?"
     "Who is this Boris and Natasha?"
     I held my hand to one side of my face to indicate I was speaking in confidence.  "Boris and Natasha are master Ruskie spies.  They report directly to Meester Big.  Keep it on the hush-hush."
     "You try to be funny again?"
     "Absolutely not."  I crossed my heart . . . on the wrong side.  "What if I told you I'm a eunuch, too?  Would that get me inside?"
     She looked down at my crotch.  "You show.  You not a eunuch, Abdullah make you one.  Then you come inside."
     I wasn't sure which of her muscle-bound bookends was Abdullah, but the differentiation was moot, as my testicles had already leapt into my throat.  I decided cowardice was the better part of valor.  "Perhaps I'll just wait here while you fetch Ms Gasparini for me?"
     She raised an eyebrow.  "You order me to fetch like capitalist dog?"
     "Not at all!  Capitalist dogs don't fetch, anyway--they're too busy manipulating the stock market for their cronies.  Perhaps you could send one of your eunuchs to tell Ms Gasparini I need to speak with her immediately."
     She squinted, as if rummaging through a dusty memory.  "Ms Gasparini?  Blonde Americanski?  Looks like she eat much corn?"
     Now we were getting someplace.  "Yes, yes.  Blonde.  Much corn."
     "Corn Queen not here."
     I remained skeptical.  "Not here?  Where is she?"
     "Not here."
     Had the bad guys beat me to her?  "When did she leave?"
     "Never here."
     "But you described her."
     "All Americanski women eat too much corn."
     "But you knew she was blonde!"  Explain that one, Natasha.
     "All Americanski women stick head in peroxide bottle."
     Some points can't be argued.  "Did you, or The Eunuch Twins, see who she went with?  Or what direction?"
     "Corn Queen never here.  Corn Queen never leave."  She slammed the door.
     I thought about ringing the bell again, but I got outvoted by my testicles.
 
***************************************
As soon as you concede that all humans lie,
your IQ will automatically rise by twenty points.
--L. Oliver Bright
***************************************
 
 
The Gloriously Fertile Mind (9-9-16)
 
     ​I guess it's pretty easy to surmise why I didn't make it as a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman.  I had more doors slammed in my face then a KKK recruiter in Harlem.  Or the protagonist in all of Moliere's bedroom farces combined.  Believe me, that's a lot of slammed doors . . . probably accounting for my minor loss of hearing.
     So, I stood outside the DeBali Hostel for Foreign Women and tapped my gloriously fertile mind for a more effective scheme. Come on, oh fabulous mind, do your glorious thing!
      It seems my gloriously fertile mind must have been out to lunch.  Fish and Chips, no doubt.  They don't call it brain food for nothing.  I was just about to ring the bell again in the hope that my gloriously fertile mind might return from din-din before Gladys and her Pip-less Pips ate me for supper, when . . .
     Miracles of miracles, Henri rounded a nearby corner.  Squired on his spindly arm, in all her blonde radiance, waltzed none other than Ms Cornfed Gasparini herself.  Now, I don't know what breed of corn they grow in Iowa, or Idaho, or I-Dunno, Kansas, but Ms. Gasparini's short-shorts and halter-challenged halter top did little to hide the substantial benefits of a corn-rich diet.  In colloquial terms, the gal was stacked like a brick silo.
     "Aha," I said, oozing confidence and pheromones.  "I see my diversionary tactic worked, Henri.  I did the hard work, diverting the guards, while you snuck in the back window and rescued the fair damsel. Well done. Didn't I tell you my plan would work?  Let that be a lesson to you, little man."  I tapped my temple.  "Never underestimate a gloriously fertile mind."
     Henri appeared nonplussed.  "But we had no such plan, Mr. Bright.  The young lady walked down the street of her own accord.  It was a simple matter to ask the darling creature to accompany me."  He flashed her a moony smile, which she returned in kind.
     "Of course, of course," I insisted.  "The real plan exactly.  That window business was just ruse, in case you were captured by the enemy."  I shifted my attention to the young lady.  I bowed.  "So, we meet again, dear lady."
     "Hey," she said, squinting her eyes, "don't I know you?  Yeah, you're the creep from the Sheik's ball."  She hugged Henri's arm tighter, asked him, "Who is this crumb?  He attacked me last night.  In front of the Sheik and all his . . . nifty Sheikdom people.  I thought they threw him in the dungeon."
     "No, no, no," I said as I  held up my hands to calm her.  It didn't work out as planned.  Actually, my hands may have accidentally grazed her cornfed breasts.  She shrank back in aggrieved shock.
     "Henri," she said, "who is this pervert weirdo?"
     Henri appeared perplexed.  "He's just another American pervert weirdo.  They grow them like corn in America, Miss."
      "Ms Gasparini," I said, apologetically, "I was sent here by a certain agency of the American government."
      "To do what?" she responded haughtily. "To feel me up?"
      "No!" I tried to laugh it off.  "That was merely a . . . pleasant accident.  I'm here to help you get home."
     She stepped forward and slapped me across the face with a cornfed mitt broader and harder than a cast-iron skillet.  Fireworks erupted behind my eyes.  "How's that for a 'pleasant accident', Buster?" she hissed.
       "Touche," I muttered, blinking my eyes free of tears and trying hard not to stagger.
       She stepped in close.  "Touche me like that again, Buster, and I'll give you the Kansas Ass-Kickin' you deserve."
      I wanted to hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender, but her breasts stood proudly in the way.  "My sincere apologies, Ms. Gasparini.  We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot."
      "Hand or foot makes no never-mind to me, Buster.  You touche me again, you're gonna be missin' somethin' you don't want to lose."
      Her threat rang credible to me.  "Henri," I said, "do you think you can reason with her?"
      He bugged his bug eyes.  "I was doing fine, until you grabbed a handful."
    Before I could explain, yet again, an ominous black Mercedes turned onto the narrow street and pointed in our direction.
      "Take the girl, and me back at the burka store," I told Henri.
      "What will you do?" he asked.
      "Whatever it takes,"  I answered.
      "American fool," he spat.  But he grabbed the girl and ducked down an alley.
     I fell prone in the middle of the street, affecting a full-blown, mouth-foaming, limb-flapping, tongue-biting seizure.
      The approaching Mercedes showed no signs of stopping.  I bit my tongue for real.
 
***********************************
 Heroism isn't so much a selfless act,
as an inexplicable lapse in good judgment.​
- L. Oliver Bright
***********************************
 
 
Good Guys in a Black Mercedes? (9-16-16)
 
      Well, the black Mercedes finally did stop, and not a millimeter too soon.  I could have kissed the front bumper.  And probably would have except I've never heard of a man interrupting a seizure to make out with an automobile.  I figured it could be construed as suspicious behavior.  I continued flopping like a beached codfish, drooling like a rabid Saint Bernard.
     I heard one of the car's rear doors open.  A pair of highly polished brown wingtips emerged.  The shoes looked vaguely familiar.  Or, maybe, that was a seizure induced deja vu.
      "Oh, get up, Ollie.  Your phony 'seizure' lacks all manner of proper technique.  Didn't you learn anything in Spy School?"  The voice, like the shoes, seemed familiar.
      "Sidney?" I asked.  You'll recall, Sidney is my prim and pompous contact with the Agency.
      "Who were you expecting, Boris and Natasha?"
      I wondered if he realized how close he came--both with the car, and his facetious question.  I jumped up, brushed myself off.    "Boy, am I glad to see you, Sidney.  But who's driving your car these days, Mr. Magoo?"
      "His name is Mr. Pop, and he has a very wry sense of humor when it comes to the art of driving."
      "A wry sense of humor, huh?  Well, he kills me . . . nearly.  And where'd he get a name like Mr. Pop?  Were Mr. Snap and Mr. Crackle already taken?"
       "Quite amusing, I'm sure.  Where's the girl?"
       I was feeling cocky.  "Yes, I did track her down, didn't I?  And you're very welcome."
       "Kudos.  I'll see you get a gold star for your mommy's refrigerator door.  Where is she?"
       I wondered if he was serious.  "Back home . . .  in Four-Bits."
       He closed his eyes and spoke very distinctly.  "Not your mommy, Ollie.  The girl.  Where's the girl?"
      "Right, right," I said.  "Don't you worry.  She's safe.  See, I thought you were the bad guys, so I sent her off with Henri."
       He closed his eyes again.  "You thought we were the bad guys?"
       "Sure.  Don't you watch James Bond films?  The bad guys always drive black Mercedes."
       "Is that what you learned in Spy School, Mr. Bright?"
       "Nah, I always knew that."
       "Congratulations.  Now quick, get in.  We have to find Ms Gasparini immediately."
       I scrambled around to the other side of the car.  "Don't worry," I said, "she's with Henri."
      He glared at me from over the roof.  "Henri is the bad guy, you ninny."  He ducked into the Mercedes, Mr. Pop popped the clutch and sped off down the narrow street.  I'd made it into the car by the narrowest of margins.  A third man, a traditionally-dressed Arab, was wedged in the back seat between my handler and me.
     I shot Sidney a questioning glance.
     "Meet Jamali," he said icily.  "Lest there be some confusion, Jamali is one of the good guys."
     "Jamali from the hookah shop?"
     The Arab smiled and nodded.  "Well, Bubba," he said, "you sure boiled your own chicken this time."
     I swear his accent was East Texas.  While I tried to suss out that conundrum, Sidney said, "Where is Henri supposed to be taking the girl?"
     "To the burka store," I said.
     The Texan-Arab laughed up his robe sleeve.  "Where'd you get this one, Sid?  The Irregulars bin?"  In the front seat, Mr. Pop laughed hysterically.  'Wry sense of humor', my hairy butt cakes.
      'Sid' saw no need to rush to my defense . . . so either did I.
      Sidney turned to the Arab.  "Clem, where will he take her?"
      "Best guess?  The Fisheye."
      Sidney tapped the seat in front of him.
      Mr. Pop said, "I'm already on it, Boss."  He caught my eye in the rearview mirror.  "Irregulars bin," he whispered.
 
********************************************
Each year we survive, the odds against us ratchet up.
Those glowing candles on your Birthday Cake?  Fuses.
- L. Oliver Bright
********************************************


A Pirate and a Plan (9-23-16)
 
    I'll be the first to admit, arithmetic never made my heart sing, my knees to knock, or my grade point average rise.  But there were a number of aspects of this case even a super computer would have trouble adding up.
     I leaned forward so I could talk to Sidney without spitting in Jamali's ear.  "How long have you known Henri to be a bad guy?"
     "From the first moment I laid eyes on him.  He was running guns through Morocco at the time.  That was back in '05."
     "So he's a gun runner?"
   Sidney pondered for a moment.  "Henri DuPont is a despicable little toad who would feed his grandmother to a ravenous wood chipper if he could devise a way to make the transaction profitable."
     Jamali interjected, "I'll lay odds DuPont's granny is long dead, and the little snot found a way to come out ahead on the deal."
     I ignored the East Texas Arab.  "So why didn't you tell me, Sidney?  Why did you put me in a burka, and partner me up with the little weasel?"
     "Pure theater, my boy.  Because I had to keep DuPont busy squiring you around while my real operatives found the girl.  But if I told you all this, you'd never be convincing enough to fool a fool as savvy as DuPont.  You had to believe you were actually looking for the girl.  Otherwise, he'd never have bought into the ruse."
     He was adding more numbers to the columns, and I was getting no closer to getting anything to add up.  "Then how come it was Henri and I who ended up finding the girl?  How do you account for that?"
     Sidney shot the man in the middle a particularly nasty look, then said to me, "I chalk that up to gross negligence.  Our friend Jamali here, has an uncontrollable mouth!"
     "Hey, now, Sid," said the Texas-Arab, "don't be goin' 'round tryin' to blame this snafu on moi.  You never told me not to tell Henri where the girl was.  Nope.  Not specifically."
     "I shouldn't have had to, you Lone Star cracker.  You have standing orders never to tell Henri DuPont the truth about anything."
     "Aw, c'mon, Sid.  You know it don't work that way.  I gotta dish him a little real dope now and then--you know, so he won't get suspicious.  How was I supposed to know some little chippie from East Outhouse, Idaho was a person of special interest to you?"
      "'Some chippie from East Outhouse, Idaho'?  My good man, do you have any idea who this chippie is?"
      Jamali shrugged.  "I never had the pleasure.  But word on the street says she's got ta-tas the size of corn silos."  He looked to me, and grinned lasciviously.  "Am I right?  Huh?"
      I couldn't suppress a grin of my own, but quickly covered it with my hand.  "I've seen bigger,"  I lied.
    Sidney slapped his knees with both hands.  "Is this what it's come down to, gentlemen?  Are you Intelligence officers, or street corner juvenile delinquents?"
      Jamali and I each muttered insincere apologies.  Sidney wasn't buying it, but he sat back, took a few deep breaths.
     "Have either of you scholars ever heard of Vice Admiral 'Battlin'' Ben Gasparini?"  I exchanged a blank stare with Jamali.  "I thought as much.  Remind me to send a letter of reproof the Senior Instructors at our illustrious Spy College.  They should all be shot. Then hung.  Then shot again."
     "'Battlin' Ben Gasparini?"  I asked.
    "Right now he's second-in-command with the Delta Fleet.  But he's the toughest sommabitch, and the best U.S. Naval tactician we had since Jean Lafitte."
     "Sidney," I said, showing off, "I believe Jean LaFitte was a pirate."
     "And pirates are just what we need now.  Gasparini is headed for the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  And you two morons let Henri Dupont get away with the man's only daughter."
     "Don't worry, Sidney,"  I said, "I have a plan."
      He buried his head in his hands.  "Lord, help us."
      "One thing, though.  Jamali says they're taking the girl to the Fish-Eye.  What and where is the Fish-Eye?"
      Sidney just moaned.
      Jamali said, "The Fish-Eye is Saud Saud's yacht."
      "Okay," I said.  "I might have to adjust my plan."
 
********************************************************************
I'm not allowed to say much about my time working in the Intelligence community.
That's okay.  It all went over my head, anyway. -- L. Oliver Bright​
********************************************************************
 
 
The Twenty-Percent-of-a-Plan Plan (9-30-16)
 
     As Mr. Pop expertly guided the Mercedes toward the marina, I couldn't help but muse about how this little caper appeared to be coming full circle.  It began with me jumping off a boat in the DeBali harbor, and here I was, about to jump aboard one on the same body of water.  Who says life isn't symmetrical?
     Sidney leaned forward.  "So, Bright, what's this brilliant plan you've cooked up?"  The sarcasm in his voice was thicker than tapioca.
      I ignored it.  "We board the boat, find the girl, take the girl, and deliver her back to her daddy the General."  I shrugged to emphasize my brilliance.
     "Admiral, you simpleton.  And that's not a plan, it's a pipe dream.  You expect Saud to just hand her over?"
     "I can be very persuasive, when I put my mind to it."  You know that, Nikki, don't you?
    Sidney massaged his temples.  "What mind?  Saud must have a small army protecting that yacht.  Am I right, Clem?"
     "Absolutely, Boss," said the Texan Arab, "a small army--if not medium."
     "Navy," I said.
     Sid rolled his eyes.  "We can't call in the Navy, for heaven's sake.  We're not at war with Debali.  I can't just make a warship appear anytime, anywhere I want it!  The paperwork alone would be a nightmare.  No, no, can you imagine the diplomatic ramifications?  No warships.  Absolutely not."
     "No, no, you misunderstand.  You said Saud 'must have a small army protecting his yacht.  Wouldn't navy be the more applicable term--being that they're on a boat?"
     Sid's eyes bugged and his lips flapped.  "Army, Navy, what's the difference?  We're out-manned and out -gunned.  And I'm not calling in a warship."
     "You do what you think best, Sid," I said, "but that doesn't mean we shouldn't be precise when assessing our opponent's strength. An army in one thing, a navy is another.  See?  I guess I did learn something in Spy College."
     Sidney was about to congratulate me (I'm sure), when Mr. Pop popped off, "Estimated time of arrival, two minutes.  You guys have a plan yet?  We goin' straight in, or not?"
     Sidney and Jamali looked to me.  I told Pop to pull over.  I outlined the plan.  It took required all of thirty seconds.
     Sidney shook his head.  "That's not a plan, it's a suicide note!"
     "Well," I said, "What have you got?"
     "I'll bring in reinforcements," said Sidney.  "Sounds reasonable, right?"  Both Jamali and Mr. Pop nodded their approval.
     "No good," I said.  "Essentially, this is a hostage situation.  Any escalation on our part amounts to a provocation and endangers Admiral Gasparini's corn-ed little girl.  Besides, Saud must have spies out along all the approaches.  He spots an accumulation of forces, what's to stop him from weighing anchor and slipping out to sea?  You already ruled out a warship."
     Sidney looked to Jamali.
   "Don't look at me, Sid," said the Arab from Amarillo, "I blow my cover now, we'll never get another agent embedded in DeBali again."
     Sidney looked into the rearview mirror and met Mr. Pop's eyes.
     "Let the idiot go," the driver said. "What do we have to lose?  Who'd miss him?"
     I suddenly felt like the canary in the coal mine.
     Sidney stared out the side window.  "Do really think you can talk yourself onto the yacht, Bright?"
     "Easy as pie," I lied.
     "And you think you can make contact with the girl?"
     "I don't see why not."
     "Then what?"
     How the hell was I supposed to know?  I opened the car door.  "Wait for the movie, Sidney," I said.  Damn, if that wasn't a great exit line!
 
************************************************************
Statistics reveal that strategic plans work as planned only 20% of the time.
Therefore, 20% of a plan is optimal. -- L. Oliver Bright
************************************************************
 
 

The Chaos Theory (Worthy of Sir Isaac Newton) (10-7-16)
 
  I'll be honest with you, Nikki, there were holes in my rescue plan.  Actually my plan was more hole than plan.  But I've always trusted more in the Chaos Theory than logic.  For me, chaos come naturally.  Logic rarely comes at all.
     I was about to exit the Mercedes when Sidney offered me his Glock.  I politely refused.  Firearms and the Chaos Theory are a muy malo combination.  Besides, in those days, I couldn't have hit a Dolly Parton bosom with a handgun from three feet away.  If you're lousy at poker, you don't show up with a deck of cards.
     When I was halfway out the door, Mr. Pop wished me a 'nice afterlife'.  I made a rude reference regarding his mother's sexual proclivities.  We both laughed.  We hated each other's guts.
     I think I already mentioned DeBali's strong petroleum odor.  But down near the harbor, the air was just short of flammable.  The closer I got to the water, the more woozy I became--which gave me a chaotic idea.  I'd act drunk.  To what end I wasn't sure, but I guessed posing as a drunkard might make me appear less threatening--disguise my panther-like agility and ferocity.  Besides, it was no act.  I really was woozy.
     When I reached the marina, I immediately smacked head-first into one of the holes in my plan.  There were literally hundreds of luxury yachts tied up to as many slips.  How was I supposed to even find the Fish-Eye?
     A smartly-dressed man de-boarded a yacht about three slips up ahead and began walking in my direction.  I sprang into action--panther-like.
     "I say, old bean," I slurred.  "I seem to have misplaced my boat.  Perhaps you've seen it?"  I don't know why, but every time I put on a drunk act, I affect an English accent.  I always sound like a convincing cross between Peter O'Toole in My Favorite Year and Dudley Moore in Arthur.   
     The smart-dressed man sniffed as he looked me up and down.  I got the impression he wasn't impressed with what he sniffed, never mind what he saw.  "The smaller vessels berth farther out."   He waved in a vague direction.  His English accent was far snootier than my own--Sir Alfred Hitchcock meets Sir John Gielgud.
     "No, no," I insisted, "I'm sure I parked it somewhere around here.  Perhaps you seen it?  The Fish-Eye?"
     He scowled a scowl fully worthy of Nigel Bruce's Doctor Watson.  "The Fish-Eye, my good man, is not an 'it', but a 'she.'   And she is a splendid craft which most certainly does not belong to you, but to Sheik Saud Saud, who, incidentally, is a very close friend of mine.  Not to mention a very powerful man in these waters."
     "Absolutely right."  I hiccupped worthy of Sir Richard Burton.  "You see, I'm just renting it, her, for the week."
     He snorted worthy of John Cleese.  "Renting The Fish-Eye?  Why, that's absurd!"  He scoffed worthy of Albert Hall.
     I belched delicately, worthy of Sir Dame Judith Dench.  "More of a time-share arrangement, if you must know."  I winked worthy of Benny Hill.  "But keep that information under your opera hat, old chap.  We don't want the hoi polloi horning in on our good thing, eh, what?  So, have you seen my boat?  I feel like taking her out for a little spin."
     He huffed worthy of Charles Laughton.  "I do not know what asylum you've escaped from, sir, but you'll find The Fish-Eye five slips down--assuming you don't stagger off the pier before you get there."  He sashayed away worthy of Margaret Thatcher.
     See there?  I found The Fish-Eye on my very first try.  This Chaos Theory thing is legit.  Create a little chaos, and good things happen--chaotically.  And my non-plan was humming right along.
     As it turns out, locating The Fish-Eye might not have been the accomplishment I first reckoned it to be.  In the world of Lilliputian luxury yachts, The Fish-Eye was Gulliver.
 
******************************************************** 
Chaos gets a bad rap. 
How else could peanut butter, bacon, and banana sandwiches exist?​
-L. Oliver Bright
******************************************************** 
 
Avon Calling (10-14-16)
 
    The Fish-Eye, Nikki, wasn't just a yacht, it was a full-fledged ocean liner--on a diet, maybe.  Even without the snooty old gentleman's help, I'd have had no trouble finding it.  I'm guessing the guys on the International Space Station wouldn't have any problem, either.
     Having found the whale, I suddenly felt like a minnow.  I found a set of stairs leading to the main deck.  I had a sneaking suspicion there was an elevator lurking behind one of the myriad hatches, but having no idea which one, I decided to climb.  Halfway up I wished I had a Sherpa to carry me.  And I prayed I wouldn't get a nosebleed . . . or run out of oxygen.
     About three-quarters of a mile up, the stairs took a sharp right angle.  Twenty steps higher, the stairs leveled off into something like a gangplank leading to the deck.  On deck stood a very stern-looking gentleman in sailor's whites--blindingly white sailor's whites.  In fact, they reeked of bleach.
     I waved a greeting, and huffed and staggered forward.  When I was close enough, I executed a moderately smart salute and said, "Good evening, Ensign Pulver. Permission to come aboard and have a drink?"
     He blocked the gateway.  "You are already very drunk, infidel."
     "Aye.  And you are very astute . . . for a mere Ensign.  I promote you to Admiral.  Now, let's go find the bar and drink to your astuteness."  In case you're unaware, Nikki, 'astuteness' is a very difficult word to say when drunk--or even feigning drunkenness.  You ought to get plastered sometime and try it.  Astuteness.  Yessir, it's a real tongue-messer-upper.
     Pulver crossed his massive arms over his massive chest.  "Do you have business aboard this vessel?"
     I shook my head.  "Of course I have business aboard this vessel.  I propose to buy it."
     "The Fish-Eye is not for sale."
     "Not for sale?  Are you sure?"
     "Quite sure."
      I rummaged in my back pocket and produced my wallet.  "But you haven't even heard my offer."
     "This vessel is not for sale at any price."  Two more massive sailor boys joined Pulver.  One spoke in Arabic.  Pulver spoke back, and the three of them snickered.  Alas, I missed the joke.
     "Not at any price, eh?"  I took a step forward.  "Hey, this must be a quite a canoe if I can't buy it.  How 'bout lettin' me aboard so I can have a look-see?"  I showed him my wallet again.  "I'll make it worth your while.  All I want is the nickel tour.  And I'll give you a shiny quarter. Shouldn't take me any more than, I dunno, a week . . . ten days, tops.  You got a fancy cook, do you?  I could use a good crab puff about now.  What do say, Pulver, a deal?  You do take South AmericaCard, right?"
     The three sailors formed a phalanx and began moving forward.  You might wonder, Nikki, how three men could possibly form a phalanx?  All I can tell you is, these white-clad mastodons pulled it off.
     "Okay, okay," I said, backing up a step.  "You don't take plastic. No problem. I can write you a check.  How's that?  Fifteen dollars, American.  Free and clear.  You guys can split it up any way you like. I might have to post-date it a couple of months, but I'm good for it.  As my old Papa used to say, 'I'd rather owe it to you than cheat you out of it.'"
     They kept advancing one step at a time.  I retreated in kind.  "Tell you what, fellas, maybe I should speak with the lady of the house. Is she in?  If she's out, I wouldn't mind waiting . . . in the bar, maybe?"
     I'd just about run out of level real estate.  Once I hit the stairs, I was reasonably certain I'd hit them hard.  I had one last ploy up my sleeve.
     I flipped my wallet open, then closed in the blink of a gnat's eye, and stopped retreating.  "Okay, guys," I said, in a stern voice.  "Fun time is over.  I'm Agent Toots Shor with the DeBali Shore Safety Patrol.  We've had numerous reports of dangerously wet decks on board this vessel and sub-standard sunscreen usage.  You are in violation of International Codes--"
     Just as my heels hovered over the first step, an angry spate of Arabic issued from the deck, stopped the phalanx.  But it came too late.  I lost my balance, and fell backwards . . .
 
**************************************
Good poker players don't bluff to win.
They just hope you'll think so. - L. Oliver Bright
************************************** 
 
The Mickey (10-21-16)
 
    Actually, Nikki, I didn't fall backwards to my certain death--though, later, I almost regretted I didn't.  At the very last nanosecond, Pulver grabbed my wrist and yanked me forward.  My first impulse, of course, was to thank him profusely.  But before I knew what was happening, he'd spun me around wrenched my arm into a very painful hammerlock, and duck-marched me back toward the ship.
     "Okay, okay, Ensign Pulver,"  I cried (almost literally), you can let go now.  I've regained my balance."
     "Shut up, Infidel," he growled as he yanked my wrist even higher.  My shoulder joint sent dire distress signals to my brain which, in turn, recommended I release my arm immediately.  As if I could.  Meanwhile, my shoulder blade nearly pierced the skin.  Yeah, Nikki, it hurt like hell.  Suddenly, Pulver let go of my wrist, and pushed me forward.  I stumbled a few steps, but managed to keep my balance.  The rail at the deck gate helped.
     Waiting just inside the gate was my old friend and adversary Colonel Twixt, from the Helga Uhtred.   
     "Oliver Bright," he said by way of greeting, "I can't say I'm surprised to find you here."
     I stood up, rolled my insulted shoulder joint.  The ball felt wobbly in the socket, and the socket felt jilted.  "Colonel Twixt.  How is it we always patronize the same drinking establishments?"  The drunk-ploy had gotten me this far, I figured I'd wring it for all it was worth.  "C'mon, buddy, let's go inside and get us a toddy."
     Twixt moved aside, motioned me aboard.  Considering the three mastodons looming at my stern, I decided to accept the Colonel's gracious invitation. Actually, I was elated.  Finally, I'd boarded The Fish-Eye, which after all, had been my primary objective.  Maybe my plan was working after all?
     "What are you doing aboard Saud's yacht?  I thought you worked for Sikh, Twixt?"
     He led me down the polished deck, the phalanx following close behind.  "Of course you did, Oliver.  What do you think now?"
     "If you don't object, old man," I said, "I'll withhold my answer until all the chips are in.  You have a kinky knack for shuffling the deck.  I need a drink.  Then, I need to speak with the girl."
     He affected confusion.  "To which girl do you refer, Oliver?  Sheikh Saud has many wives--and even more concubines.  You need to be more specific, dear boy."
     "You know damned well who I'm talking about, Colonel.  Gasparini's girl.  The General's daughter."
     "Ah," he said as he indicated an interior door through which he wanted me to pass, "I expect you mean the Admiral's daughter Ms. Sally Anne Gasparini?"
     I ducked through the open hatch.  "Let's cut the crap, Twixt.  Is the corn-fed girl here or not?"
     Colonel Twixt chuckled. "Believe it or not, Bright, you ask a very bright question . . . for once.  Perhaps we do need that drink after all."
     He led me into a plush salon.  Spacious. Unoccupied. Acquitted with round booths upholstered in smooth-worn suede.  Soft light beamed, as if golden, from shaded lamps.  The carpet felt like healthy moss beneath my feet.  Restrained guitar jazz--Wes Montgomery, maybe?--enveloped the room like a cool fog.  For a scant moment, I wondered why God had decided to locate Heaven in DeBali Harbor.  I shook it off and sat in a booth.  Twixt sat across from me, grinning.  Grinning?
     That's when I realized I'd been slipped a mickey.  Not drugs.  No alcohol.  I'd been slipped an ambiance mickey. My eyelids grew heavy.  My feet turned to lead.  But try as I may, I didn't really give a damn.
     Damn!
 
*****************************************************
All our lives we're taught to 'watch out' for this or that.
But it's always something else that bites your butt.-L. Oliver Bright
*****************************************************
 
 
The Mop Closet Mambo (10-28-16)
 
    I acknowledge this is nothing to be proud of, Nikki, but I know my hangovers all too well.  Gin brings on the 'pinecone mouth'.  Tequila, the 'cactus tongue'.  Scotch, the 'plaid visions'.  Rye, the 'Rye, oh, why am I still alive?'  But that particular hangover?  Nikki, there isn't enough liquor in Las Vegas to bring on that motherboard of a headache.  And not enough coffee in the Andes to give me those all over jitters. I'm telling you, girl, Twixt had slipped me the Mantle of all Mickeys.  And to this day, I still have no idea how he did it.  
     I woke up in a dark mop closet.  How did I know it was a dark mop closet?  First, there was no light.  None.  Second, it smelled exactly like damp mops.  I put two and two together.  Then, I held my throbbing head.  Several moments later, I came up with four:  Mop closet.
     For what it's worth, mop closets and hangovers can make for a copacetic combination.  I upchucked--profusely.  Fortunately, there were several mops in the vicinity.  But I ignored them all.  You can't slip a guy a mickey and then expect him to clean up after himself.  Even Emily Post wouldn't expect that.
     I struggled to my feet and staggered two-and-a-half steps before my face made rude contact with the door jamb.  I fumbled for the knob only to discover it been locked from the outside.  Why not?  Who'd put a lock on the inside of a mop closet?  An amorous janitor perhaps, but such was not my luck.  Besides, why would someone slip me a Finn, toss me into a mop closet, then provide me with means of escape?  I had to face it, I was in mop-closet jail.  And I hadn't been allowed to collect two hundred dollars, either.
     I began searching my confines for something to aid me in my escape.  A bazooka, perhaps?  You laugh.  But if you owned a super-luxury yacht I doubt you'd store your bazookas out in the open, would you?  Of course not.  Emily Post would blanch.  So, why not a mop closet? Stranger things have happened.  Alas, I found no bazookas.  Not even a mortar.  Not even an atomic bomb.  What I did find were chemicals!
     Yes, I did attend spy school.  No, I did not always pay attention.  You know how spies in the movies are always fashioning explosives out of common household cleaning supplies?  Well, those are the spies who paid attention.  I skated.  Molotov cocktail?  No.  It ain't me, babe.  I can barely remember the recipe for a gin and tonic.
     Okay.  If I wasn't going to blast my way to freedom, all that remained was brute force.  Unfortunately, I'd left my brute force in my other jeans.  I decided to take the existentialist route.  I sat on the floor--careful to avoid my puke--and awaited my dire destiny.
     I awaited a long time.  If my records are correct, I awaited exactly two hundred and twelve choruses of Row-Row-Row Your Boat.  I won't lie, Nikki, the song is forever ruined for me.
     When the door of the mop closet finally opened, I expected to hear a choir of Heavenly angels.  Instead, I heard Twixt.
     "Get on your feet, Bright."
     I squinted into the overpowering light.  "Why should I?"  A retort that's good for the playground is equally good for the mop closet.
     I heard condescension in his slithery voice.  "Perhaps because you're tired of sitting in your own vomit?"
     Love him or hate him, you have to give Colonel Twixt points for coming to the crux.
     Once again, I struggled to my feet.  "You're under arrest, Twixt," I said.
     He sighed heavily.  "And you're under drug-induced delusions."
     Oddly enough, I had the munchies.
 ​
***********************************
When contestants don't see eye to eye,
it helps to be the taller one. -L. Oliver Bright
***********************************