Image courtesy of The Montgomery Sentinel
President Trump is back on TV again this morning busy patting himself on the back telling Americans that, “Nobody has ever done anything like this. No other President has ever faced anything like this. I think I’ve done a marvelous job.” Continue reading
Do you remember the TV series, 24 with Jack Bauer?
I do. Because I was and am a big fan. So, sometimes, I write what’s known as fan fiction. Which is where you create your own story line and write it out.
I have done two, OneThreeThirteen and The Hunt For Red November. And the third one, Mr. President, is in the process of being completed.
Colonel Jim Madison is Jack Bauer.
Kiefer Sutherland as Colonel Jim Madison
Wilmer Valderrama as Juan Jose Alvarez – Marines Master Sargeant
Charlie Hunnman as Tavin ‘Blaine’ Kaslowski Navy Chief Petty Officer
Corey Hawkins as Roy Johnson, Army Specialist Operations Officer.
The JSOC Team 2-4 is really on display in the second novel of the series, The Hunt For Red November.
And Madison shines in OneThreeThirteen.
Alvarez, Kaslowski, and Johnson in The Hunt For Red November
https://24thehuntforrednovember.wordpress.com/2017/03/12/24-the-hunt-for-red-november-chapter-24/
Chapters 39 and 40 of The Hunt For Red November
THERE WAS SOMETHING about this section of Point Lookout Road with its abundant lush tree forests that reminded him of home.
His home town of Magnolia Springs, Alabama had long stretches of tree-lined roads like this one and the one on Lighthouse Road, his final destination. There were no glaring street lights or the constant din of humanity. There was only the road and his thoughts.
During the summer months – once or twice a week when he’d make the long drive – he’d roll down the driver side window and listen to the familiar sounds of chirping crickets and Oystercatchers. The clean, fresh scent emanating from the Loblolly pines and the Potomac River were intoxicating. So was the thought of the unbridled sex that lay at the end of these tree lined roads.
He could feel himself harden as he turned off Piney Point Road onto Lighthouse Road and listened to the tires as they bumped along the narrow two lane road that led to the little whitewashed wood frame house that he’d purchased in her name. It was secluded; sitting some twelve feet back from the road and was shrouded in tall Loblolly pines.
The house had been built in the eighteen hundreds and had front and back enclosed porches. The bottom portion of the porches were clad in the same whitewashed oak as the rest of the house. The upper portion, however, was surrounded in a fine wire mesh to keep out mosquitos and other insects that floated in from the Potomac.
He turned the black Chevrolet Impala into the gravel driveway and quietly steered the car around to the side of the house out of the view of the neighbors. He made no attempt to get out. This was hard for him. He sat in the car in the dark, thinking.
Arnold Stone had bested all of the other Republican candidates and he was winning over the hearts of even more voters. When the time was right, Stone was to persuade his many voters that they should back Noah Daniels for President since Daniels was the more experienced man. And that meant that he, Jackson ‘Ready’ McRae, was the next Vice President of the United States of America.
And now that bin Caneer was dead and buried no one would ever know about his or Daniel’s part in the plot. The only thing he had to fear now was a sex scandal. He opened the car door and got out.
It was eight o’clock on a Sunday night and he knew that she’d be in the kitchen which was at the back of the old house. No doubt, she was busying herself washing the supper dishes. It was her habit to do so before she took him to bed. She’d told him that she liked the house to be clean for when he rose in the pre-dawn morning to make coffee for the long drive back to Georgetown and his official life.
The door to the back porch squeaked whenever it was opened and served as a warning signal to the occupant within that someone was about to knock on her door.
A mish-mash of collected outdoor furniture graced the back porch that no one but the two of them ever saw. And a worn out black rubber welcome mat had been thrown down casually in front of the door through to the interior of the house.
He paused, his hand motionless in midair, ready to knock, but memories of nights spent in her bed flooded over him leaving him weak. The old-fashioned spring bed had sagged every time he’d pushed downward forcing him to work harder. Sweat had poured from his body soaking her fine white sheets. The memory of her black skin against the stark white sheets sent a shock of unanticipated desire through his body.
“This has to be the last time. She is a threat to your chances of being Vice President,” he warned himself, aloud.
She had violated his number one rule, whether innocently or deliberately, he wasn’t sure. She had secretly taken pictures of them together. He’d found them the last time he was here. And that had led to an argument.
She’d been infuriated that he’d rifled through her things; accusing him of spying on her. In the heat of the argument, he’d accused her of setting him up for blackmail. It hit him later that she hadn’t denied it. She had to go. No matter how great she was in bed. She had to go. And he hoped that the one hundred thousand dollars he had in his upper breast pocket plus the deed to the house would soften the blow.
He pulled the key from his pants pocket and unlocked the door.
Chapter 40
JOHNSON STOPPED THE CAR about half a klick from where he saw McRae’s car turn into a driveway. He and Kaslowski waited a minute or two, making sure McRae didn’t double back on them, before getting out of the car. As quietly as possible, they began hiking towards McRae’s car.
“What the hell is McRae doing way out here on a Sunday night,” Kaslowski whispered.
“There’s only one reason I can think of,” answered Johnson. “A woman.”
“You think the old man drove way out here to get some.”
“Hell yes. Wouldn’t you.”
“I guess. But it would have to be some prime stuff. That was a long drive.”
“When was the last time you had prime?”
“How about that time in Paris?”
“Paris?”
“Remember, Chief gave us leave right after we rescued that woman from bin Caneer’s mansion hideout. What was her name?”
“Lucinda.”
“Talk about prime.”
Johnson put up a hand and both men halted.
“McRae’s car,” pointed Johnson. “He must be in that house.”
The two men, dressed in black, dropped to their knees and crawled on their bellies up to the back of the house. Kaslowski checked the perimeter to his right and Johnson checked left.
“Sounds like they’re having an argument,” said Kaslowski.
“Yes. But who’s the woman? Can’t be McRae’s wife. She’s in Alabama.”
“Well, if you’re cheating on your rich old wife, all the more reason to stash your girl way out here.”
“Circle around to the other side and see if you can get a clear picture, while I plant the tracker on his car.” ordered Johnson.
Kaslowski, crouching low, made his way around to the other side of the house. The gentle sound of waves slapping against the shore were barely audible over the yelling coming from inside.
The argument that had started at the back of the house was moving towards the front. At one point, the woman inside yelled, “You old ass bastard! All you wanted me for was sex.”
“Please my dear, you have to understand. This is for the best. Think of what you can do with the money. And you’re welcomed to keep the house, if you hand over the pictures.”
“A hundred thousand. Is that all I’m worth. I can get three times – four times that much if I take those pictures to the Huffington Post.”
“And everyone will know that you’re nothing more than a whore,” Kaslowski heard McRae yell.
“I maybe a whore, but you’ll never be Vice President once people see those pictures.”
The house sat on a concrete slab that was level with the ground. All Kaslowski had to do to see inside was stand up.
The argument was getting extremely heated. Kaslowski was sure the occupants of the house were completely unaware of his presence. He peered through the lower part of the window and was shocked by what he saw. A young Black girl dressed in a gray and blue tee shirt emblazoned with the letters USSP across the front and a pair of gray short shorts. She was desperately struggling trying to take a phone away from McRae. What shocked Kaslowski the most was not the girl’s race, but her age. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. And she was losing the battle with McRae. Kaslowski’s gut was telling him that the girl was in serious trouble. Snapping a picture, right now, would alert McRae to his presence, but would distract McRae long enough for the girl to get herself to safety. It was a chance he had to take. Kaslowski stuck his arm up level with the window and snapped a quick succession of photos.
“What was that,” McRae asked, stopping his argument with the young girl.
“What was what,” Shaquita asked.
“I thought I heard something.”
“It was probably the sound of your arteries hardening.”
“Shut up and stay here,” ordered McRae.
Kaslowski tucked the infrared camera inside his shirt and hauled ass for the other side of the house where Johnson was waiting.
As soon as Johnson heard Kaslowski’s hurried footsteps, he readied himself. He quickly closed McRae’s car door and plastered himself against the side of the house, out of McRae’s line of vision. Training told him Kaslowski wouldn’t make it before McRae turned on the lights. So, he motioned to Kaslowski to take cover by the car. Kaslowski slid down behind McRae’s car on the driver’s side that was opposite to the house, just as the back porch lights went on.
Both Johnson and Kaslowski slowed their breathing as they were trained to do in anticipation of imminent danger when they heard the squeak of the back door as it opened.
“Who’s out there,” yelled McRae.
Johnson lowered his hand to the sheathed knife that was strapped to his right leg. Slowly and without making a sound, he pulled the knife free, wondering how long a prison sentence he’d get for killing a US Senator.
McRae took two steps onto the gravel pathway and stopped. Something wasn’t right.
Johnson readied his knife. There would be lots of embarrassing questions for the President and the military if they were caught. And only a slim, slim chance – if they did things right – that the police would track McRae’s death to them.
The hairs on the back of McRae’s neck stood up. Fear surged through him like an electric bolt. He felt the urge to run but knew better. Slowly, he backed up. And when he felt the handle of the screen door, he jerked it opened and threw himself inside, locking the door behind him and quickly turning off the light.
Kaslowski and Johnson double-timed it back to their car.
“What the hell happened back there,” Johnson asked, while parking the car in a small grove of Loblolly pines.
“It was a little Black girl wearing a United States Senate Page t-shirt,” spat Kaslowski. “I hate that shit. Old men fucking around with young kids,” cursed Kaslowski.
They were still parked in the grove of pine trees when McRae’s car pulled out of the gravel driveway and onto Lighthouse Road at one o’clock in the morning.
Today, I worked from home. The thing about writing, is that when you say you’re working from home, no one who knows you takes you seriously. However, here’s a little insight into some of my work processes. Continue reading
In case you think I don’t do anything but whine about being stalked, here is what I do late at night after finishing a chapter or two of my new book, Mr. President. Continue reading
Why had I prayed, Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand.
When I was forced out of Exxon, because of the stalkers, I knew, eventually, that I’d have to return to Maywood, Illinois and live with my stepmother, again.
I knew this because my efforts at finding another job was being hampered by the stalkers. They’d show up at my jog interview or when I’d get a new job, at the new location and scream and carry on even louder and more profane than they’d done at Exxon.
The stalkers had two goals in mind with this behavior.
First, during my ten year (1981 – 1991) employment with Exxon, I’d gotten my act together, lost a lot of weight, bought a great wardrobe, and I’d met a man; a single rich marriageable man. And, of course, they couldn’t allow that.
Because if that had happened, I’d never have to return to Maywood and live with my stepmother, again.
That’s when the pandemonium started. It ended as it always did, in Maywood and Chicago, with my losing my job.
Going back was going back to Maywood, Illinois, their home ground where they were well established and venerated.
But, I prayed – Hard – that if I had to go back, I’d go back with the sole purpose of exposing the stalkers and taking from them, as they had taken from me, that which they cherished the most. For me, it was marriage and home. For them, The Game.
For them, The Game is everything. They will lie, cheat, steal, murder, assault, and sell their first born in order to play, The Game.
Truth does not matter. Reputation does not matter. Neither does the sanctity of the home. And especially not the sanctity of the Church. The only thing that matters, is The Game.
No matter where these daemon psychic people exist on Earth, they play The Game the same way. Now, I know a lot of you out there don’t believe in a daemon and I understand that. But try and think of them as psychopaths who can read your mind. That’s what I’m dealing with.
They first present themselves to the victim, usually a young child, as a friendly playmate. And to the parents of the child/victim as a friendly concerned helpful neighbor.
As the child gets older and develops more of their own personality, is when the violence (yes, psychics can hurt you physically. Your mind is what controls your body’s pain and they’re in your mind) and sexual defilement (putting obscene thoughts or images in the child’s mind or giving the child the feeling of actually being touched) of the child begins.
If the child resists, they go deeper in and start forcing the child, usually a teen by now, into simulating the signs and symptoms of schizophrenia.
That’s not to say real schizophrenia doesn’t exist, because I’m sure it does, but the true meaning of schizophrenia is ‘two minds’ in one body.
Now, a variable of The Game, is to get the victim to go searching for help, usually from a trusted family member or, as in my case, The Police.
However, that usually doesn’t end up well. And the victim is now convinced that he or she has lost their mind, because all of the people that we should be able to trust are telling us that there is something wrong with us.
I knew all of this, in 1991, going back!
So, I pray, Lord, please no matter what I have to do, no matter what I have to endure, no matter what I have to say, no matter how I have to be, please don’t let go of my hand.
I also, knew well-meaning people were going to try and persuade me that it was me and not the screaming stalkers who needed psychiatric help. After all, they wouldn’t be out there screaming if I hadn’t done something, in one of my manic states, to them. Right.
I knew all of this, in 2001 when I sat down at my dining room table and started writing, STALKED! By Voices
You are sport!
I am no stranger to isolation or Social Distancing.
Due to a severe case of stalking and verbal harassment, I have been in isolation and social distancing for over 40 years Continue reading
A few minutes ago, President Trump was on TV, giving the nation an update on what he’s doing to combat the Covid-19 Virus. Continue reading
Laura Washington passed the above question and titled article on to me, three days ago.
Until that happened, I was trying my best to stay away from the subject of Elizabeth Warren. Because, quite frankly, I’m still angry. And I know how easy it is to get on that keyboard and write something really nasty when you’re angry.
But, here’s how I answered Laura:
Even if they are, that’s still no excuse for what Elizabeth Warren did on that debate stage. Actions Like hers are why men are so dubious of the #MeToo Movement.
Elizabeth Warren got up on that debate stage with the sole purpose of destroying Mike Bloomberg. And she did that. She also came across as 10 times worse than any Republican, with the exception of Mitch McConnell. And that’s why she lost BOTH of her home states. And that’s all I’m going to write.
A Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth
By
Eliza D. Ankum
Author of
Flight 404 – A Novel of Aviation Disaster
Ruby Sanders (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 1)
Jared Anderson (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 2)
Ruby and Jared (The Ruby and Jared saga Book 3)
OneThreeThirteen – A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 1
The Hunt For Red November A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 2
Dancing With The Fat Woman
Thou Shalt Eat Dust – A Second Chance Love Story
Eleanor Grunsback – An Ugly Woman’s Love Story
https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com
A Woman’s Voice: A Little Book of Poems
STALKED! By Voices
A Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth
https://mystalkingblog.wordpress.com
A Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth 