A Game of Obituary

Hello All:

No, it's not quite the Halloween season just yet. But it's August, and the perhaps some of us are feeling those morbid fascinations as we anticipate the season's approach. It was around this time of year when I started writing my first short story book, Freaked out Horror (2009). I attributed the clear, near-to-life visions of the macabre to the fact that the season of Halloween was approaching like a morning star way off in the eastern horizon, barely visible.

I have just the piece to feature for today's blog post. It just so happens that while experimenting with some characters in my (at the time) upcoming Mapleview novel, I wrote a short story. You might even recognize the name, Daren, from the novel. No, this scene did not appear in the book. It was a character development exercise. Well, I dug the story out of the archives and cleaned it up. I hope you enjoy it.

A Game of Obituary

In the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the corporate world, Susan was a localized eclipse. While others navigated the office in palettes of beige and navy, she existed in a perpetual state of mourning for a world she seemed to barely tolerate. Daren, sharp-eyed and instinctively predatory, watched her with the calculated interest of a man who viewed interpersonal relationships as strategic maneuvers. He wasn't the only one; a coworker also fancied the idea of "getting some of that," but for Daren, the draw was more sophisticated. He didn't just want her physical form; he wanted to conquer the "difficult." She was a study in shadows: jet-black hair, dark lipstick, and a solemn aesthetic that functioned as a barricade against the mundane. He viewed her as a quest, a puzzle of defiance to be dismantled. However, the power dynamic shifted the moment he pulled out of her apartment parking lot. The evening he had meticulously curated—the upscale restaurant, the structured entertainments—was discarded with a single, cool suggestion. Susan took the wheel of the itinerary, steering him away from the familiar and toward a destination where his professional polish held no currency.

The "party" was held in a basement that felt less like a social gathering and more like a curated site of social performance. Daren recognized the setting instantly: a stage for the alienated to perform their despair. The air was heavy with the scent of wax from skull-candle centerpieces and the drone of flat-toned, depressing music that served as a soundtrack for the disaffected. Daren navigated the room with clinical detachment, evaluating the nihilistic poseurs. To him, they were not truly tortured souls, but individuals trapped in a prolonged, adolescent search for identity, using the aesthetic of the grave to mask a lack of substance. In a dark corner, a girl sat at a desk, her face illuminated by flickering skulls. She wasn't writing poetry; she was drafting her obituary. The arrival of Johnny, a man who maintained a monotone voice and a theatrical, morbid composure, deepened Daren’s refined hatred. Johnny was a vampire-wannabe, a collection of staged theatrics that Daren felt an immediate, professional urge to break.

The "Obituary Game" was the catalyst where performative morbidity collided with Daren’s genuine, alcohol-fueled cynicism. When Johnny challenged him to play, Daren viewed the invitation through the lens of his "management class" background—he had written an obituary in college as a goal-setting exercise, a pragmatic tool for life planning. The group’s version, however, required the participant to envision a tragic death occurring that very night. Johnny upped the ante by placing a revolver on the desk, suggesting Russian Roulette. The girl at the desk sighed, calling it "romantic." She spoke of her boyfriend who had died months prior playing this exact game, her voice dripping with a paradox where his death made her love him more, a love frozen and uncorrupted by time. Daren saw the chilling disconnect between her romanticized fantasy and the cold reality of a lead bullet. Recognizing Johnny’s bluff, Daren countered, insisting that Johnny go first. The ensuing silence marked a definitive shift; the social play had ended, and psychological warfare had begun. Daren took a long swig from his flask, feeling the alcohol shift his consciousness into a predatory clarity.

The strategic irony of the night became clear when the group, having just performed their obsession with death, prepared for a mundane night of clubbing. This transition from the basement to the cars exposed the fragility of their personas. Anne, one of the passengers, hesitated to enter Daren’s car because he had been drinking. Daren called her bluff, mocking the inconsistency of a death-obsessed artist fearing a ride. Once inside, Daren seized control, bypassing the radio for a tape of 1980s death metal: Hallows Eve. As the lyrics echoed through the cabin—“Death and insanity, a flicker in the flame / Death and insanity, are you truly sane?”—the music set a predatory tone, drowning out the group’s chatter about "fun." Susan watched Daren from the passenger seat, captivated by his silent, near-psychotic focus—an "impeccable madness" she found more authentic than the theatrics of her peers. Daren turned the car onto a dark, two-lane Arizona highway leading away from the city lights, the desert air thick and the saguaros standing like ghosts in the periphery.

The game of "Chicken" was the instrument of exposure. Daren accelerated into the opposite lane. The speedometer climbed: 90, 100, 105. The car vibrated, a mechanical scream against the desert silence. Then, with a calculated movement, he extinguished the headlights. Total darkness. The absolute void of the Arizona night. The only light left was the dim, spectral glow of the dashboard.

"Shouldn’t we turn the lights on?" Johnny asked, his monotone cracking.

"I don’t want an on-coming car to see us," Daren replied. His voice was a flatline.

"Shouldn't we slow down?"

"What if you run off the road?"

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. Pinpricks of white growing into twin suns. The passengers' facade shattered. Anne began to sob in the backseat. Johnny, the architect of morbid composure, began to fracture as the lights rushed toward them. One hundred feet from impact. The cabin was filled with the roar of the wind and the rhythmic thrum of the engine.

"OKAY, YOU PROVED YOUR POINT ALREADY!" Johnny screamed.

Daren waited until the final, impossible second. He flicked the lights back on and swerved. The oncoming car roared past, its horn a frantic, Doppler-effected wail of the living. Daren just laughed, the sound sharp and hollow.

In the aftermath, the silence in the car was the byproduct of genuine shock. The "So What?" of the encounter was the total collapse of the group's morbid facade when confronted with actual mortality. Daren had exposed the fundamental dishonesty of their nihilism; they loved the idea of death only as long as it remained a costume. Turning to Johnny, whose theatrical gloom had been replaced by the frantic gasps of the truly terrified, Daren delivered a final, cold glare. The triumph was absolute. He had seen behind the curtain and found nothing but hollow fear.

"You pathetic, staged victim," Daren remarked, his tone dismissive and icy. "You're nothing but a hollow tourist."

The evening had begun as a pursuit of the unusual, but it ended with the definitive exposure of the poseurs. Daren adjusted the mirror, the Arizona highway disappearing into the darkness behind them, leaving the pretenders to choke on the reality of the void they had claimed to crave. 

Swordfish Chili

 Hello All:

The Atlantic swordfish (Xiphias gladius) possesses a specialized heat-exchange organ right next to its eyes and brain. This biological heater warms its cranial cavity up to 10 to 15 degrees Celsius above the surrounding water temperature. This extraordinary adaptation grants them superior visual acuity when hunting in the pitch-black, freezing depths of the ocean.
However, when an invasive species of swordfish manages to adapt to freshwater retention ponds, their warm-blooded optical prowess turns toward entirely different prey—and their meat takes on properties that confound even the most seasoned suburban culinary enthusiasts.

Swordfish Chili

 

Lance adjusted the strap of his high-impact Kevlar vest and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. The morning sun beat down on Ridgeview Community Park, reflecting off the murky green surface of the retention pond. A couple of toddlers played on the swings fifty yards away, entirely blissfully unaware of the 1,200-pound apex predator lurking beneath the duckweed.
"Are you sure about the bait, Lance?" asked Gary, holding a five-pound, half-thawed mackerel with a pair of heavy-duty industrial pliers. "The town council only authorized us to use breadcrumbs for the bluegills."
"The town council doesn't understand the stocking quotas, Gary," Lance muttered, checking the winch mounted to the rear frame of his aluminum rowboat. "I filed the paperwork with the Recreation Department three weeks ago. They signed off on the freshwater swordfish trial to handle the Canada goose population. Now hand me the mackerel."
It was a absurdity known only to the residents of Sector 4. The local drainage pond, constructed primarily to catch overflow from the nearby cul-de-sac during torrential downpours, was now home to four mature Xiphias gladius. Nobody knew how they survived the runoff, but survive they did, growing at an exponential, terrifying rate.
Lance impaled the mackerel onto a titanium shark hook attached to a three-hundred-pound test steel leader. He cast the heavy line into the center of the pond—a mere eighty feet wide—and sat back on the rowboat’s bench.
For forty-five minutes, the park was silent save for the hum of distant lawnmowers. Then, the water exploded.
The drag on the heavy-duty reel screamed like a jet engine. The small aluminum boat lurched forward violently, carving a deep wake through the duckweed as the fish tore across the hundred-foot pond at nearly forty miles per hour.
"Hold on!" Lance bellowed, bracing his feet against the gunwales.
Out of the center of the pond, a colossal silver missile erupted into the air. A thirteen-foot swordfish, glistening with municipal runoff and pure, unadulterated rage, thrashed against the suburban skyline. Its primary weapon—a five-foot long, bony rostrum—glistened in the sunlight.
"It's charging!" Gary screamed, dropping his pliers and ducking behind a fiberglass cooler.
The fish struck the side of the rowboat with the force of a pneumatic ram. The sword punctured the starboard aluminum hull like a butter knife through tin, pinning Lance’s tackle box directly to the deck. Water began to spurt into the craft.
"Gaff it! Get the winch!" Lance shouted, pumping the rod with everything he had.
It took two hours, three broken oars, and the collective muscle of Gary, Lance, and a bewildered local mail carrier who happened to be walking by, to finally hoist the beast onto the grass. The swordfish thrashing came to a halt on the manicured lawn right next to the park bench, its tail still lazily whipping at a dandelion. A crowd of neighborhood children gathered at a safe distance, pointing in sheer disbelief at the ocean-going leviathan resting beside the playground equipment.
"Well," Gary panted, staring down at the massive pile of silver flesh. "We caught it. Now what?"
"Now," Lance said, rubbing his aching arms, "we butcher it."
By 4:00 PM, Lance’s deep freezer was overflowing. His refrigerator was full. His neighbors, having already received forty pounds of thick, meaty swordfish steaks each, had politely closed their blinds and turned off their porch lights. Swordfish, while remarkably steak-like, rich, and lacking any fishy odor when prepared with a nice garlic white wine reduction, loses its charm when you have six hundred pounds of it sitting on your patio table.
Lance stood in his kitchen, surrounded by vacuum-sealed bags of dense, pale meat.
"I can't throw it out," he whispered to himself. "It's too good."
He pulled out his giant thirty-quart stainless steel stockpot. He dumped in twenty pounds of cubed swordfish. Then came the dark, surreal inspiration that only comes to a man driven mad by excess protein.
He added six cans of kidney beans. Four crushed tomatoes. Diced jalapeños, chili powder, cumin, smoked paprika, and a touch of cayenne.
As the concoction simmered, the kitchen began to smell not of the sea, nor of a delicate fish bistro, but of a heavy, dark Texas chili parlor. The fish meat didn't flake; it absorbed the spices, breaking down into hearty, savory chunks that held their ground against the heat of the peppers.
Lance took a wooden spoon, dipped it into the thick red bubbling brew, and took a bite. It was smoky, rich, dense, and entirely impossible to categorize.
He smiled, looking out the kitchen window toward the quiet waters of Ridgeview Park Pond. Tomorrow, he thought, he'd go back out with the heavy rod. The town council was going to love the annual chili cook-off.

The Clinical Reality of Alien Abductions

 Hello All:

It's Podcast Tuesday and we explore the profound mysteries of the alien abduction phenomenon by suggesting that these encounters transcend our traditional understanding of physical reality. The Podcast highlights two primary themes reported by abductees: a sophisticated cross-species reproductive program and urgent ecological warnings regarding humanity's displacement of the Earth’s natural balance. By bridging the gap between clinical psychology and theoretical physics, the recording argues that these experiences may occur in parallel dimensions or "psychoid" realms where the boundaries between the spiritual and physical dissolve. Rather than dismissing these accounts as mere hallucinations there needs to be a serious evaluation of physiological evidence and consistent witness testimony, especially from children. The podcast also suggest these terrifying encounters to be a potential catalyst for spiritual evolution, moving from trauma toward a recognized connection with a cosmic source of creation.

Listen to the Clinical Reality of Alien Abductions

The Efficiency of Arthur Finch

Hello All:

Chronobiology—the study of biological rhythms—has revealed that our internal circadian clocks affect everything from cell regeneration to peak cognitive performance? While most people sync their day to the rise and fall of the sun, extreme time-optimization enthusiasts often attempt to override their natural biology entirely. The human obsession with shaving off seconds can lead to fascinating, if slightly surreal, behavioral adaptations.

Below is a complete short story expanding on a character concept I created in 2007 intended for the crafted Bizzaro genre to highlight a surreal, hyper-optimized life of a character that I named (in the character sketch) 37-second-cereal-eater.

The Efficiency of Arthur Finch

Arthur Finch did not sleep in pajamas. To Arthur, pajamas were a friction point—a two-minute structural delay that served no mechanical purpose. Every night at precisely 9:00 PM, after pre-making a brown-bag lunch and lining up his morning vitamin beside a single glass of water, Arthur showered, shaved, dressed in his pressed charcoal suit, and climbed under the covers fully clothed.

When his alarm sounded at 3:00 AM, there was no snooze button. Snooze was a metric of failure. Arthur sat upright, performed seven rapid arm rotations to push oxygenated blood into his torso, and retrieved his key fob. Before his feet hit the hardwood floor, he pressed the button. Across the house, the heavy garage door mechanism hummed open, and the sedan’s engine roared to life.

Five minutes and twelve seconds later, Arthur was sitting in the driver’s seat. It was twelve seconds off his personal record, a discrepancy he noted with a tight grimace as he adjusted his radar detector. By the time he hit the interstate—cruising at a deliberate eighty-five miles per hour—he had been conscious for a mere seven minutes.

At the plant, Arthur’s arrival was treated by his co-workers like the passage of a localized comet. He burst through the double doors seven minutes before shift start, carrying his lunch bag. He pulled out a plastic bowl pre-filled with dry flakes, unsealed a pint of milk, and poured. Spoon in hand, he executed a sequence of high-velocity shoveling movements. Thirty-seven seconds later, the bowl was entirely empty, wiped clean, and tossed into the cooler.

His morning rituals only escalated from there. Standing at the breakroom coffee machine, Arthur would hit the brew button, wait for the internal pump to engage, and snatch the paper cup away a split second before the dark liquid poured, letting the coffee wastefully drain away into the machine's drip tray. He would sprint to the sink, fill a glass with lukewarm tap water, gulp it down, and bounce violently in his chair while doing seated arm pumps. He refused caffeine; his system was powered entirely by kinetic momentum and ambient anxiety.

On the assembly line, Arthur was a terrifying marvel of biomechanical symmetry. While standard technicians worked on a single tray of circuit components, Arthur had mapped his nervous system to split down the spine. He deployed two trays simultaneously, his left hand soldering micro-capacitors while his right hand routed harness wiring, completely independent of one another.

During shift changes, co-workers occasionally witnessed his mid-day calibration in the restroom. Arthur would lean over the porcelain basin, rapidly slapping his own cheeks to force adrenaline through his capillaries while snorting handfuls of cold tap water directly up his nasal passages to reset his central nervous system.

His home was no less calculated. Precision-taped painter’s squares marked the exact coordinates for his keys, his wallet, and his remote controls. Clocks lined every wall, ticking in near-perfect synchronization. In his living room, two identical television sets sat side-by-side; one broadcasted the local evening news while the other ran international headlines, allowing Arthur to absorb double the global information in a single thirty-minute window.

Nothing in Arthur’s life was wasted. Every micro-second was accounted for, filed away, and banked against the inevitable entropy of the universe.

The Mantle of Fire: The Fiery Chariot

 Hello All:

The geographic and historical context of the Jordan River holds a profound place in ancient Near Eastern literature and theology. Flowing south from the Sea of Galilee to the Dead Sea, the river served not merely as a physical border between regions, but as a symbolic threshold between the wilderness and the promised land, between mortal existence and the extraordinary realms of divine action. In the ancient world, crossing a body of water was frequently depicted as an act of ritual transformation, a moment where an individual stepped past the boundaries of the ordinary world to meet their ultimate destiny.

From a narrative perspective, the mantle—a heavy, woven cloak worn by ancient prophets—was far more than simple clothing; it was the physical embodiment of authority, spiritual office, and historical lineage. When a leader passed their mantle to a successor, it represented a total transfer of duty, power, and accountability. The culmination of Elijah’s journey along the banks of the Jordan brings this long-standing symbolic tradition to its absolute peak, transforming a moment of heartbreaking separation into a triumphant, legendary passing of the torch.

The Mantle of Fire: The Fiery Chariot

The air along the lower Jordan valley was heavy with heat and the thick, muddy scent of the river. The water moved in a sluggish, murky brown current, cutting through the dense thickets of tamarisks and reeds that lined the muddy banks. Elijah walked at a steady, measured pace, his worn leather sandals kicking up small plumes of dust with every step. Directly behind him walked Elisha, his face set like flint, refusing to leave his master's side despite repeated warnings from the prophets of Jericho that this would be their final day together.

Reaching the edge of the rushing water, Elijah stopped. He stood tall against the desert wind, looking across the river toward the rugged, sun-bleached hills of Gilead on the eastern horizon. With deliberate, reverent precision, the elder prophet unclasped his heavy mantle from his shoulders. He rolled the thick fabric tightly into a firm cylinder, raised it above his head, and struck the surface of the Jordan.

The reaction was instant and miraculous. The water parted violently to the left and right, snapping like a broken whip as the swift current heaped up on one side, leaving a wide, dry path straight through the riverbed. Without a word, Elijah stepped down onto the exposed earth, and Elisha followed immediately at his heels. They walked through the heart of the dry riverbed, surrounded by walls of shimmering water, until their feet touched the dry soil of the eastern bank.

As they reached the open plains, Elijah turned to his loyal apprentice, his eyes softening beneath his weathered brow. "Tell me," Elijah said, his voice quiet against the vast silence of the wilderness, "what can I do for you before I am taken from you?"

Elisha looked directly into the eyes of the man he had served so faithfully. "Please," he requested without hesitation, "let a double portion of your spirit be upon me."

Elijah let out a soft breath, acknowledging the monumental weight of the request. "You have asked a hard thing," he replied quietly. "Yet, if you see me when I am taken from you, it will be yours; but if not, it will not be so."

They continued walking side by side across the arid expanse, the vast desert silence wrapping around them. Suddenly, without warning, the sky above the hills tore wide open with a sound like deafening thunder.

A blinding, celestial light burst through the atmosphere, illuminating the desert with an intense, amber brilliance. Out of the rift in the heavens descended a chariot composed entirely of living, white-hot fire, pulled by majestic steeds whose manes rolled like solar flares. The radiant craft swept down from the sky with terrifying speed, cutting a searing arc through the desert air and coming down directly between the two men. The immense thermal heat pushed Elisha backward, the blinding light forcing him to shield his eyes as the fiery horses reared, physically and permanently separating the master from the disciple.

A roaring whirlwind erupted around the chariot, spinning the desert sand into a towering, vortex column of light and wind. Elijah was lifted off his feet, caught up into the center of the vortex. As he ascended into the roaring storm of fire and wind, his silhouette stood sharp against the blinding radiance of the open sky, drawn inexorably toward the heavens.

"My father! My father!" Elisha screamed into the deafening roar, his voice cracking with anguish as he watched the scene unfold. "The chariots of Israel and its horsemen!"

He watched until the blinding light faded into a tiny point in the upper atmosphere, and the roaring wind finally died down into a gentle, cool breeze. The rift in the sky closed, leaving the vast blue vault of heaven completely empty and quiet once more.

Elisha stood entirely alone in the vast desert. In his grief, he grabbed his own clothes and tore them in two, mourning the loss of his guide and master. Then, his eyes fell upon the ground a few feet away. Resting softly in the desert dust was Elijah's heavy woven mantle, dropped from the skies as the prophet ascended into the whirlwind.

Elisha walked over, knelt in the dirt, and picked up the cloak. He held the coarse fabric in his hands, feeling its weight—the full, crushing responsibility of the double portion he had requested. He wrapped the mantle around his own shoulders, turned back toward the west, and walked back to the edge of the Jordan River.

Standing alone on the muddy riverbank, looking out over the fast-flowing, reunited waters, Elisha unclasped the mantle. He rolled it up just as Elijah had done, raised it high, and struck the water. "Where now is the Lord, the God of Elijah?" he called out into the quiet air.

The surface of the Jordan snapped apart once more, splitting to the left and to the right, opening a clear, dry path through the depths. Elisha stepped onto the riverbed, stepping boldly into his new destiny as the river parted before him.

The UFO Incident

Hello All:

It might be Saturday night where you are as I am making today's post later than usual. But, like last week I have a treat. I have a video review of the 1975 film The UFO Incident which examines the cinematic portrayal of the famous Betty and Barney Hill abduction case through a lens of subconscious psychological distress. Rather than validating the presence of extraterrestrials, the video suggests that the couple’s terrifying encounter was actually a temporary altered state of consciousness triggered by the mundane stress of a roadside prank and deep-seated personal anxieties. The video highlights a fascinating theory of dream hybridization, where Betty’s vivid nightmares were potentially transferred to her husband as a way to process the societal and marital pressures they faced as a biracial couple in the 1960s. Of course we praise the lead actors for their phenomenal performances. The story serves as a profound example of how the human mind can reassemble reality to cope with trauma. 

Watch The Video Review

Clandestine Operative

 Hello All:

Happy Friday! I'm short on time today, so not much of an update. Here's a short story about those unsung heroes, those clandestine operatives who we rarely hear about.

 

Clandestine Operative

He appeared as any normal passenger that would board a commuter train on a Friday morning. Bundled up in a coat and wearing a pair of earmuffs, he struggled to stay warm just like everyone else. But where-as the morning crowd head for the city for their jobs, school or even entertainment; Emmett was on a secret mission.

The mission was so secret, in fact, that even Emmett was unclear of who the people were that he worked for. None of them ever established contact with Emmett directly. Even still, not one telephone call, email, text message or letter in the mailbox had ever been used to recruit Emmett as a regular operative of these secret missions. Emmett assumed their communication was done by telepathic means. And it wasn't words directly transmitted into his mind. Rather, it was sort of conveyed through feelings, images or emerging concepts from the subconscious mind. That's how secret this bureau was. They could never be discovered, and there could never be a trace of their location.

The recent series of missions were stressful and somewhat traumatic. Emmett swallowed his fear and took a deep breath in and out after taking a seat on the train. He unbuttoned his coat, removed the earmuffs and then pulled out some cash from his inner coat pocket. It would only be a matter of minutes before the conductor made his way through the car for tickets.

But not a minute could be wasted in following the secret mission! Emmett next removed the Android smart phone from another pocket and opened the screen. It looked like any ordinary smart phone that the average person would own and operate. And this was a good thing for purposes of remaining inconspicuous; for the phone contained top secret, high tech apps that were to be used by clandestine operatives like Emmett; apps such as the one he now opened that appeared to be nothing more than Google Earth. If you've ever used this handy feature on your phone while out on the roads or walking unfamiliar neighborhoods, you would certainly agree how efficiently Google Earth serves as a navigation tool. And just like you and I would do, Emmett pressed the button for GPS locating.

Immediately, Google Earth zeroed in on Emmett's location and actually tracked him as the commuter train moved along the railway. But this simple, everyday software was only a disguise. Everyone’s phone, after all, can do this. What Emmett did next, however, is nothing short of remarkable! He simply concentrated on his moving location point which mentally seized control of the train. Yes, the secret app had been uploaded onto the phone so that Emmett could control and guide the commuter train to its destination with his own mind!

It was an urgent spur-of-the-moment mission that was given to Emmett that morning. Recently there had been a series of failed attempts of hijacking the train by enemy terrorists—terrorists who possessed similar technology that enabled them to mentally control commuter trains. Assuming they were suicidal; if ever successful, they could crash the train and ruin innocent lives! Can you see why these missions were so stressful for Emmett? Emmett was taking his life into his own hands. And there was no guarantee that his technology was more advanced than theirs—enough to disable their attempts and continue safely guiding the train to its destination.

Emmett stared at the tiny, moving triangle on the Google Earth satellite image of the railroad tracks. This initial step was sort of a diagnostic check. Was he really in control? To verify this, he zoomed out of the location just enough to see the next train stop. He concentrated on the train reaching this point. Sure enough, the train stopped at the intended place, and Emmett safely concluded that it was under his mental control.

But what was this? Upon glancing out the window, Emmett made momentary eye contact with a passenger who was boarding; a male with dark hair and dark eyes who wore a dark, business-like wool coat. He had a disturbing air about him, something that immediately alarmed Emmett. Apparently, this was the enemy terrorist who had intentions of crashing the train that morning. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary in the way that this boarding passenger made eye contact. Rather it was the split-second micro-expression that he attempted to hide. But Emmett saw it. Emmett knew that the boarding passenger was aware of who he was and his purpose for the morning. Emmett was the last person the terrorist wanted to see. For you see, he was the opposition that would ultimately foil the sinister operation.

Emmett watched as the terrorist took the stairs to the upper level. Maybe he believed this to be a safe location to unleash the morning's disaster as this would be a considerable distance away from the opposition. Hopefully the secret technology on Emmett's Android smart phone was advanced enough to defeat this maneuver!

It was now a battle of wits—spy vs. spy. Emmett had to do something fast to ensure he remained in control of the train. As he stared at the moving triangle on Google Earth, he concentrated on jolting the train ever-so-slightly off balance, just enough to indicate continued control while at the same time not alarming any of the passengers. As the train reached the next station, there was something in the way that the brakes were applied so that the stop was harsh, almost enough to throw people off balance who might be standing up. In fact, a couple voices could be heard some seats in the distance.

"Whoa!"

"Awe, come-on! I spilled my coffee!"

Emmett smiled to himself. He was still in control of the train. The terrorist had yet to unleash his disaster, and momentarily glanced down from the upper level at Emmett in hatred.

The train took off from the station and continued its way en route to the city. All the while, Emmett continued to guide it with his mind. Suddenly, he heard a loud voice.

"Sir?"

Emmett quickly glanced up.

It was the train conductor wearing a very, concerned look. Apparently he surmised that Emmett was the one who seized control of the train. Losing mechanical control of any sort of mass transit can be a frightening ordeal for transportation personnel. The only thing that can be done in such a moment is locate the individual responsible, and confirm that no harm will be done. But with no solid evidence, all the conductor could do in that moment was say, "Ticket? Do you have a ticket, Sir?"

"Oh, sorry about that." answered Emmett. He had to act quickly! In this brief moment, the terrorist on the upper level could dispel Emmett's mental control from the train and cause all sorts of damage with his own.

"Round trip, please." requested Emmett.

The conductor reluctantly took Emmett's money while maintaining a resentful and mistrusting look. It was almost as-if he took the situation of Emmett's mentally controlling the train as personal. If Emmett didn't know any better, the conductor had some sort of prejudice against him and believed that Emmett should not have been the one empowered to carry out the morning's secret mission of defense. Without further words, he punched the whole in the ticket for the inbound trip and then gave both to Emmett.

With the conductor moved on to another seat, Emmett immediately went to work and continued concentrating on the moving triangle on Google Earth. Did he still have control? Did the terrorist succeed in mentally hijacking the train? Emmett glanced up to the top level and studied the terrorist who quickly looked down with a continued bitter and hateful look. Apparently he was frustrated and had yet to succeed in mentally hijacking the train.

Relieved, Emmett momentarily looked over to an attractive, young woman that was only two seats away. She was so pretty, and definitely someone Emmett wished to get better acquainted with. How he wished to approach her seat and reveal the screen of his Android smart phone. "See this? See the moving triangle on the train tracks? That's us. I'm actually controlling and guiding the train with my mind. I'm on a secret mission to protect you and the other passengers from an enemy terrorist who is onboard and attempting to hijack the train."

The attractive, young woman would be so impressed and see Emmett as her hero. All women adore heroes and immediately fall in love with them. She would be all his after learning this.

But the mission for that morning was to remain a secret. How sad that Emmett could not approach the woman with this exciting information. Perhaps if he carefully approached her and casually mentioned, "Just so you know; if something bad ever happened on this train, I would be sure to rescue you and protect you from harm.” Her imagination would briefly wander and suddenly realize that Emmett is a clandestine operative on a secret mission to protect the train.

But that's how the mysterious people who direct Emmett go about communicating with him. They appear in the faces of other people; force Emmett to zero in on certain phrases or sentences, and understand situations or plans through what is implied. It’s an encrypted language, and Emmett knows all too well that implying things is as good as directly stating them. He could get himself into big trouble for implying this to the woman; maybe even endure unpleasant punishment from the mysterious people. It was best to forget about impressing the attractive, young woman.

The train conductor walked past Emmett in the center aisle and provided another resentful and mistrusting look. What was his problem? Couldn't he just put his prejudice aside, relax and take comfort in knowing that Emmett would safely guide the train to its destination? There was a terrorist onboard. But thanks to someone like Emmett; the diabolical, enemy scheme would be foiled.

The train conductor needed to be taught a little lesson. He needed to understand what Emmett was capable of. As Emmett continued to guide the train along the tracks via his secret Google Earth app, he was tempted to cause a severe jolt to the train—enough to cause the conductor to fall down. Emmett would rush over and help the conductor to his feet, "Are you okay?" But Emmett would also provide a look of warning to be a bit more respectful. Maybe then the conductor would change his attitude.

Emmett thought of doing this on a few of his missions. Sometimes people triggered an overwhelming amount of rage just in the way that they looked at him. Fools; didn't they realize that he could cause so much damage on that train? With the power in his hands, Emmett could mentally guide the train over the tracks and onto—perhaps—a highway, below, where it would smash cars and kill hundreds of innocent train passengers and motorists. But Emmett would never do that. That wouldn't be right. He had to be responsible and use the secret technology to protect the innocent lives onboard that train.

Suddenly, as the train traveled under a series of electric towers and transformers, Emmett's Android smart phone lost connection with Google Earth! This was not good! This might have been the opportunity that the terrorist had been waiting for. Only a few seconds would be required for the terrorist to cause damage as he momentarily gained mental control of the train. Emmett needed to act quickly!

He closed the app and opened it again. But the phone displayed the disheartening message, "Waiting for network... Unable to establish connection with Google Earth"

"Damn-it!" yelled Emmett.

The attractive, young woman glanced up in return. Who would be her hero, now? She and everyone else were at risk of dying in terrible tragedy!"

Emmett looked up to the second level and was horrified to see the terrorist busily working on his laptop. Apparently he seized control of the train and was doing something to either prevent Emmett from regaining mental control, or even preparing to finally crash the train.

Without a second to lose, Emmett darted out of his seat and ran for the stairs. While ascending to the second level, he attempted to open the Google Earth app one, more time. It was either regain mental control of that train, now, or physically disable the terrorist by snapping his neck or simply knocking him out.

Upon reaching the second level, the train jolted and shook while following a curve on the tracks. It was happening! The terrorist was about to succeed in causing a disaster! But by some miracle, Emmett's Android smart phone finally restored contact with Google Earth. Only a few feet away from the enemy, Emmett opted to simply locate himself on Google Earth and then guide the train to safety. "That's it... that's it... good... just move forward..." Emmett finally regained mental control of the train.

The terrorist turned his head to face Emmett and provided an incredibly bitter, scornful look. What was Emmett doing there? Even more, how did he succeed in regaining control of the train?

"Nobody can know!" said a mysterious voice that came out of nowhere in Emmett's mind. It was the people who directed Emmett to carry out these missions that now urged him to walk away from the terrorist as-if nothing ever happened. Preventing a scene from happening was best if the mission was to remain a secret.

Emmett did as ordered and descended back to the lower level.

"Is everything okay, Sir?" It was the conductor who appeared at the bottom of the stairs and looked as-if ready to wrestle with Emmett, maybe even throw him off the train.

"No, everything is fine."

"Good! Please get back to your seat! If you need to use the lavatory, it's at the opposite end of the car."

How Emmett despised the conductor's attitude and lack of respect. Was that any way to speak to someone who just saved hundreds of lives? But Emmett maintained his dignity and calmly returned to his seat while continuing to look at the Google Earth screen. The train was back in his control and only a few miles from safely reaching the destination.

Emmett momentarily glanced up towards the terrorist who busily worked on his laptop and appeared to desperately attempt everything in his power to mentally hijack the train a second time. But he would never succeed. Emmett had control and continued to safely guide the train to its final destination. There would only be another couple minutes of travel before the ride was over.

Feeling proud of himself, Emmett glanced over to the attractive, young woman and realized that he truly was her hero. He saved her life as promised. He thwarted a horrible terrorist attack from happening that morning.  But, sadly, no one would ever know. That's the life of a clandestine operative. They are to remain silent heroes who never dare claim an act of heroism.