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Back to the literature page. Last Updated 12/15/00

TWO DAY NOVEL
Author: High Priest of Relaxism

Prologue:

"The second commandment: Don't declare any holy wars."--Supreme

Guru of Relaxism.

Afghanistan: 16:00

"Hey Mohammed, what do you want to do tonight?" asked Akbar.

"I don't know. What do you want to do?" he responded without

much enthusiasm.

"I don't know. Do you feel like renting a movie?"

"No, I'm starting to really hate all those movies. We cheer

for the good terrorists all movie and then those corrupt sinful

Americans pull through in the end. I can't take it anymore," he

said shaking his head violently.

"I heard Sadia is having a party tonight. We could head over

there," broached Akbar carefully.

"No, her party's are really lame. I want to do something cool

tonight," he said enthusiastically as his pager went off.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, why don't you think for a change?"

"I know! Let's declare a jihad on America!" he piped. "We can

start making plans to terrorize different states and everything!

Then when we have our plans in place, we'll make some bombs and

send them over in the mail. You got to love the American mail

system, they won't expect a thing until it hits them!"

"You know," thought Mohammed out loud, "that's a pretty good

idea. A little drastic though. How about we go to Blockbuster, and

if Blockbuster is closed, then we declare a jihad?"

"That sounds good to me. Let's go."

The two teenagers jumped into the back of Akbar's jeep and

sped off to the Blockbuster. They spun into the parking lot at

sixty and nearly flipped the Jeep over.

"You can drive a little slower, you know," remarked Mohammed.

"Well, it looks like the Blockbuster is closed. Guess we're

declaring a jihad on America. Damn Americans. Greedy, materialistic

people. Have no idea what it means to be religious. So what should

we do first?"

"Let's make a prank call to the White House," suggested

Ackbar. "I just bought a new cell phone, let's put it to get use.

I get free weekends and evenings with my plan."

"Sounds good to me."

The two boys sat down on the back of the jeep.

"Here, I'll dial the operator," said Ackbar dialing. "Hello.

Yes. I would like to make a call to the White House. Thank you,"

he spoke winking at Mohammed.

"Hello, this is the White House. Mary speaking, how can I help

you?" came a tiny voice from the phone.

Ackbar panicked not knowing English. He jabbered out the few

english words he knew.

"Bomb."

"What?"

"Bomb." Mohammed held out his two arms and ran about the jeep.

"With plane."

"Can you please hold a moment?"

Mohammed and Ackbar burst out laughing.

"Is New York a big American city?" Mohammed asked as he grabbed the

phone. Ackbar shrugged as a new person came on the line.

"Hello, this is Admiral Bates speaking."

Mohammed uttered in a monotone voice, "Bomb. Plane. New York."

Then he pressed the end button and burst out into laughter. The two

boys sat laughing in the back of the jeep.

Washington, DC: The White House: 9:15

"Mary, do we have a trace on that call?" said the Admiral

pacing about the room slowly.

"Yes, Admiral. We've got it coming from a cell phone in

Afghanistan. They cut off before we could pinpoint the location."

The Admiral stopped pacing.

"Sounds professional. There has been a lot of terrorist

activity originating from that area. I think we better warn the New

York Airport authorities to double surveillance and monitor any

unusual activity carefully. Damn, that plane might already be in

the air."

Mary stood up and said, "I'll notify the proper parties, sir."

"All right. Keep me informed."

"Yes sir," she spoke and then she walked out of the room.

------------------------- End of Prologue -------------------------

Chapter One: The Cab Driver

"Relaxism is an attitude, a state of mind if you will; not a

lifestyle."--Supreme Guru of Relaxism

New York, Near the World Trade Center: 9:15 EST

"Damn, it's ten fifteen already!" Joseph said glancing at his

watch. He ran out of the large grey Micom edifice into the crowded

street.

"Hey, taxi! C'mon! I don't got all day!"

He whistled and hooted while crossing the street, narrowly

avoiding a bus. To his dismay, the taxi passed him by. Why does

this have to happen to me? he thought to himself silently. Fuck.

He continued hollering at the traffic in frustration. He

finally saw a cab slowing to stop for the red light while honking

its horn. No one was in the cab. This was his chance. He ran

alongside the cab with his expensive alligator leather gucci

briefcase flailing beside him.

"Hey! Wait up! What are you doing!"

The taxi came to a sudden halt during a green light stopping

all traffic behind it and eliciting a chorus of honking and profane

language. Joseph jumped into the cab panting. He quickly adjusted

his tie and raised his voice to be heard over the traffic,  "To

Union and Third! Hurry up, I'm going to be late for an important

meeting! I have to be there be ten thirty!"

The taxi driver turned around and smiled.

"No english, mister."

Oh no, thought Joseph to himself. Not now.

"Union and Third. Union," Joseph paused and for emphasis

showed three fingers to the driver, "and Third. I'm late." He

slowed for a moment and rushed on. "You just go down three blocks

and then take a left. Then you go down a bit more..."

He stopped his explanation halfway as the driver accelerated

spontaneously, slamming Joseph to the back of his seat.

"Oh yes. Know where that is," spoke the driver in broken

English. "From Italy, you know. J'ai arrive, um, week ago. Come

visit Mama and my brother. He get me job." The cabbie smiled and

continued blissfully. "Mama make good spaghetti. Your mama make

good spaghetti?"

"Yes, my mother makes good spaghetti," spoke Joseph aggravated

while wiping the sweat off his brow. He glanced at his watch. It

was ten eighteen. Only twelve minutes to reach the meeting. A

sudden honk startled him as the driver quickly cut to his right.

"No, no! You're going the wrong way! Turn around!" shouted Joseph

over the constant noise of New York.

"Yes, yes," replied the driver while smiling in his rearview

mirror. "Right way. Laundry."

Joseph stared shocked into space as a dump trunk pulled in

front of them. The driver braked suddenly, slamming the briefcase

that Joseph gripped so tightly into the unoccupied passenger seat.

He unclenched his hold on the briefcase revealing a series of marks

on his hand. He reminded himself to relax. Extra stress wouldn't

help him before his big presentation.

How come I'm so late? he berated himself. How could this

happen? A little voice in his head responded, Because you couldn't

find your briefcase you idiot. Well, that's all over now, the

calmer side of him responded. Can't do anything about that now.

Just sit back and wait. And what is the driver doing going the

wrong way?

"Hey!" shouted Joseph. "You're going the wrong way! Let me

out!"

The driver ignored him while scrambling to the left.

"No, no! Shortcut this yes," he spoke to Joseph while looking back

in his rearview. He braked sharply, as he realized that the traffic

in front of him was stopped, slamming Joseph's head into the back

of the seat then jerking him forwards.

"Be back," spoke the driver with his ever so polite smile.

Joseph shook his head in his haze. The driver jumped out of the car

and ran inside the drycleaner that they were parked outside of.

Shaken, Joseph peeped at his watch. He still had eleven minutes. If

he ran now, he still had a chance of making it to the meeting on

time and sealing the big one. He wanted it so bad that he could

taste it. He would get a promotion. His muscles loosened up with

these thoughts. He jumped out of the car facing the oncoming

traffic. Narrowly avoiding a dump truck and holding onto his dreams

of instant fame and fortune, he began his run while crossing the

street.

"Man, what will my wife think!" That reminded him of the fact

that he forgot to buy milk and he didn't pick up the laundry from

the laudromat yet.

The mad rush of New York continued on beside him. He tried to

hail another taxi. Miraculously, one pulled up beside him. It was

the same guy. I can't believe this guy doesn't speak English,

Joseph thought to himself. Everybody should speak English. I'm

never going to get there on time. He mentally reminded himself to

relax. His wife always reminded him to breathe deeply. He tried

doing so now.

He stepped back into the cab and shouted furiously, "Union and

Third! Let's go!"

"No problemo," spoke the cabbie. "Eh, hold suit n' dress, eh?

Might get wrinkled. Mama no like wrinkled suit."

The cabbie turned around and handed him a tuxedo and a wedding

dress from the front seat.

"Hold them up, mama no like wrinkled suit."

Joseph stared incredulously at the driver who sped on once

again. He looked idlely for a place to put the two items and

spotted an expensive alligator leather gucci briefcase in the back.

His expensive alligator leather gucci briefcase! He had left it in

the cab when he started running. He looked down at his watch and

then upwards in a silent prayer. His prayer ended when the cabbie

took a wrong turn into Brooklyn.

It was 10:25. Five minutes late won't be that bad. People will

still be getting into their seats. He leaned forward attempting to

find a spot for the two items.

"Take a left here! Left!"

The cabbie glanced back in his rearview to make sure Joseph

was still holding up the tuxedo and wedding dress. Then he swerved

to the right down into an alley.

"No! No! Left is the other way! Wrong way!" he gestured with

the tuxedo.

"Yes, yes. Go get groceries. Mama need tomato for some

spaghetti sauce, you know. Can't make spaghetti without tomato."

"I don't think you quite understand the point of your job. You

see, you," he enunciated pointing at the cabbie with the wedding

dress, "are supposed to drive me where I want to go," motioning to

himself. "No laundry. No groceries. No. Nada. Union and Third. It's

10:40. We're going down an alley. I'm supposed to be in a meeting.

Not in an alley. So let's go. Please," smiled Joseph weakly hoping

he had made his point.

The cabbie stopped the sputtering car and jumped out.

"Hold on. Back with some tomatoes."

Joseph resigned himself to praying. It was eleven. He looked

to escape from the cab. A gunshot rang out. He changed his mind and

succumbed to staying in the cab numbing all thoughts. The cabbie

returned with the fresh produce, laying it delicately next to the

spice rack in the front seat.

"Mama mia, them nice tomatoes," the cabbie said approvingly.

"Come on!" yelled Joseph venting from the back seat. "I'm

going to get fired! It's eleven!"

His mind raced. Maybe he could just tell the truth. In this

instance, telling the truth might actually be a good thing, he

mused.

"UNION and THIRD! Hurry up! Or your wedding dress goes out the

window!"

"Hey, what you doing, eh? Dat's my sister's wedding dress. Put

it down, eh," spoke the cabbie watching Joseph scrupulously.

"We go to Union and Fourth, oh I forgot the onions!"

"And Third," repeated Joseph.

The cab inched on painstakingly in traffic. An overturned

truck blocked all traffic and the street was a chorus of honking.

The cabbie cut down an alley to fourth knocking over some trash

cans.

"You know, you relax, eh, everything going to be OK."

Joseph's eyes were transfixed on his watch. He sat statuesque

in the back seat deaf to all voices except time.

The cabbie shot into the intersection blocking all traffic

eliciting a melody of honks. He pulled up to the curb and turned

to face Joseph. "Dat will be $24," he spoke smiling.

"I'm not paying you, you idiot! It's eleven thirty!" spat out

Joseph jumping out of the car dropping the wedding dress and the

tuxedo onto the back seat. He slammed the door, ran around the car,

and sprinted up the stairs holding on to his flailing necktie. He

wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleave of his sport jacket. He

looked back. The cabbie was waving both hands in the air like

someone brandishing semaphore flags and yelling something or other.

"You're a bastard," yelled Joseph back at the cabbie. He

sprinted onward to his meeting.

The cabbie stood by the side of the road with his cab door

hanging open.

"You forgot briefcase!" he hollered cupping his hands around

his mouth for the last time as Joseph entered the World Trade

Center. The cabbie glanced at the World Clock Tower. It was 10:30.

I got him here on time, mused the cab driver. What was his rush

anyway?

A man jumped in his cab.

"Can you take me to the airport?" he shouted over the din of

traffic.

"Sure, eh. I know airport."

The man carefully moved the wedding paraphanelia to the side

and spotted the handmade leather alligator gucci briefcase.

"Someone left their briefcase in the cab."

"Last guy," mumbled the driver rushing into the pandemonium.

The man placed his briefcase next to the misplaced attach‚.

"You have some pretty nice tomatoes up there," he

gesticulated.

"Mama like tomatoes. She's a'makin' some spaghetti tonight,

you know."

"That's good. Tomatoes are good. Taste good. Taste better in

spaghetti."

"You know, I like it when mama put just a little bit of

oregano in da spaghetti. Just a touch," spoke the cabbie holding

his thumb and forefinger together. "Too much is too much," lectured

on the cabbie passionately as he got onto the highway.

"And a little bit of basil..." he continued with his passenger

listeneing intently until they arrived at the airport.

The man grabbed his briefcase, paid, and headed to the

departures bay to the checkin for Air America.

A tall receptionist was about to close the counter as he

arrived.

"Hi, I'm going to Switzerland. Flight CS152," he smiled

handing her his ticket.

"Are you going to check that briefcase, sir?" pointing to the

handmade alligator leather gucci briefcase.

"Oh my God! This isn't my briefcase..." he trailed off. "Hold

on a second," he vocalized as he ran back to see if the cab was

still there.

The receptionist was quite unclear what to do. She looked at

her nails and mused. The man had left his ticket and briefcase and

had ran out. Mr. Lecarte, she read from his ticket. Oh well, she

thought. She checked in the briefcase and got his seat ready for

him waiting patiently. Finally, after twenty minutes she closed the

baggage check and left.

Mr. Lecarte was running after the cab driver when his flight

took off.

------------------------- End of Chapter 1 -------------------------

Chapter Two: The Mailman

"One man's just cause is another man's foolish venture."--Supreme

Guru of Relaxism

Flight CS152: Passenger and mail cargo plane, Charter Flight to

Switzerland 3:30 GMT

The air traffic controller came over the radio with a cackle.

"Captain, this is air traffic. We just received a phone call

from the government. Apparently they received an anonymous tip from

the Middle East about a bomb threat. We believe you may have a bomb

on your plane, over."

The captain flinched slightly in his seat. The copilot

straightened up in his seat. The captain grabbed the radio.

"Good afternoon Tommy. This is Jim, over."

"Hi Jim. We suggest that you either make an emergency landing

or evacuate the plane. Since we have you over the Alps right now,

we suggest you evacuate the plane before attempting an emergency

landing. We'll have rescue teams notified and ready for any

situation. Over."

"What do you mean, you only 'believe' that it is this plane?

Over."

"The anonymous phone call didn't reveal very much information,

but preliminary reports indicate that some baggage was checked in

by a Mr. Lecarte, who is believed to be an agent of Islamic

terrorists. His luggage is on your plane, however, he failed to

claim his seat. He may have planted something other than his

luggage. The police are questioning him right now in New York.

Over."

"Thank you very much Tommy. We'll be evacuating shortly.

Please inform the rescue teams. Over."

"This is going to be a tough one, Johnny," spoke the captain.

"That's right, Jim."

"We better tell the passengers that we're evacuating. Do we

have enough parachutes for them?"

Johnny spoke through the intercom to the crew in the back of

the plane for a couple of minutes. The brow of his young clean

shaven face was covered with sweat. He ran his hand through his jet

black hair.

"We're one short Jim. We can give them one of ours."

"Inform the flight attendant to pick up our parachutes."

"Yes sir."

The captain paused for a minute thoughtfully rubbing his

speckled beard before taking up his intercom to forward the news

to the passengers.

"Ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. We are

currently cruising at 35 000 feet. It is 3:50 GMT. The flight

attendants will be serving refreshments shortly. And, oh yes, we

have been informed that there is a bomb on the plane. Please do not

panic. And if you have not already noticed, the seatbelt sign has

now been turned off. Enjoy the rest of the flight."

Captain Jim heard a clamour of shouts coming from the

passenger section of his charter flight. He hit the fasten seatbelt

sign and began descending. Then he picked up the intercom once

again.

"Please stay calm. We will be evacuating the plane shortly.

The flight attendants will be giving out parachutes and

instructions for their use. And please note that the fasten

seatbelt sign has now been turned on again. Once we drop to ten

thousand feet, you will be leaving the plane. My copilot and I will

be attempting to land the plane. We apologize for any

inconvenience," he spoke firmly shutting off the intercom.

"Should we drop the luggage Jim?" asked the copilot

quizzically.

"Yes, that should make our landing a little easier. What's our

altitude right now?"

"We're at thirty three thousand feet."

"And what about our cargo?" said Johnny stonefaced.

Jim turned and looked Johnny squarely in the eyes.

"The mail comes with us, Johnny."

"Jim, it's just some mail. If we're dropping the luggage, we

can drop the mail."

"No."

"Jim..."

"I don't think you understood me, Johnny," spoke the captain

coldly. "My great-grandfather was a postal carrier. My grandfather

was a postal carrier. My father was a postal carrier. And by jove,

I would be a postal carrier if I wasn't a damn pilot! I'm going to

deliver this mail, damn it, if it's the last thing I do! You

understand that Johnny?"

"Jim, if we're dead, we're not going to be delivering any

mail. By the way, we're at ten thousand feet. We'll be clear of

this mountain in approximately two minutes. Should we try to land

on the other side?"

The captain stopped the plane's descent as they passed between

two mountains.

"We'll discuss this after the passengers are safe."

A flight attendant quickly poked her head into the cockpit and

spoke, "Captain, we're ready to begin evacuation now."

"Thanks Janet," said Johnny smiling. Then pointing to Jim he

spoke, "I believe we can land in that plateau at three o'clock."

The captain veered the plane to the right and flipped on the

intercom.

"This is your captain speaking. We've completed our descent

to ten thousand feet. I'm sure you have now become very well versed

in the usage of your parachute by now. The flight attendants will

assist you in jumping out of the plane. If you do not wish to jump

out of the plane at this time, I reassure you, it will be much

safer than attempting to land the plane in these mountains.

However, you are welcome to stay on the plane for the crash

landing. Thank you for flying with Air America. We hope you've had

a nice flight," the captain spoke in pleasant tones as he shut off

the intercom.

The signal that warned of the opening of the emergency doors

on the wings lit up. As the cabin became depressurized, two oxygen

masks fell from an opening in the roof of the cockpit. The two

pilots put on their masks calmly while scoping out a landing area.

The captain picked up the radio and forwarded their location to air

traffic.

"We'll drop the luggage after the last of the passengers is

off the plane," Captain Jim enunciated carefully. "But the mail

stays."

"Are you crazy? That cargo takes as much space as the

luggage!"

"You don't understand do you?"

"No, no I don't! You're endangering our lives for some mail!

Let me think about this one, Jim," Johnny spoke gesturing with his

hands. "On one hand," he spoke raising his right hand to eye level.

"This is how important us living is. On the other hand," he said

lowering left hand, "This is how important the mail is. Wow, we

have to make a really tough decision here," he uttered derisively.

"This is so ridiculous!"

"This is about more than our mail, Johnny," the captain spoke

quietly. "This is about our societies misplaced values Johnny. If

we don't got the mail, what do we got? We got nothing, Johnny,

nothing," the captain trailed off.

"What world are you living in! We'll be alive! Living is good

the last time I checked you debased idiot!"

"No, Johnny. What's a life without principles? We might as

well be serial killers if we don't try to deliver this mail. Did

you drop the luggage yet?"

"Luggage is now dropped," spoke young Johnny pushing a button.

"I'm going to drop the mail Jim. I'm going to do it now."

"You do that and there's a mutiny on this aircraft. You

understand that?" spoke the captain evenly.

Johnny paused for a moment and then said quietly, "Why Jim?

Just tell me why."

"Why? Don't you understand why? This is about courage, my boy.

This is about valour. And more than that, this is about our

compassion for the world. What right do we have to deny a little

girl her letter from her mother or someone hearing from their

lover? Imagine the smiles on their faces and the joy they get from

receiving a letter. Do we have a right to refuse them? We don't

Johnny, that's what. We don't. And that's why we're going to

deliver this mail."

"Yeah, imagine their faces when we deliver them some bills.

Imagine the unhappiness we're causing by delivering this mail. And

we're going to die. Why are we trying to land this plane like this?

The plateau is coming up in approximately ten minutes in case you

wanted to know."

"Thank you Johnny." The captain paused. "Johnny, you got to

understand. This mail," the captain hesitated searching for words,

scratching his grizzly beard, "this mail is our responsibility. If

we don't deliver this mail, nobody's going to deliver the mail. My

grandfather always said to me, 'Son, we're only going to live once.

So make sure the mail gets there on time.' And now I'm a pilot. No,

this is more than our responsibility Johnny. No, this is our duty.

Remember that."

"Tough to remember something dead," Johnny muttered under his

breath. "Jim, I'd hate to break it to you, but the mail has nothing

to do with compassion, duty, or responsibility."

"Mail is what holds the country together. Back in the old

days, the mail was the only way to communicate. Before the phone,

the telegraph, the radio, the only thing we had was the mail. Mail

is what has made the world today. Imagine a war without a

courageous mail carrier. The generals wouldn't know if a fortress

had fallen or if they were going to receive reinforcements. Wars

have been won and lost in the mail. Like my great-grandfather used

to say, 'In every good war, there's a good postman.' The world as

we know it today has been shaped by us postmen. Thousands have died

before us, and thousands will die in the future delivering the

mail. But it must be done. And we're the only ones that can do it."

"You're deranged, Jim. I'm not a bloody postman. I'm a pilot.

And you're not a postman either. You're a pilot, too. And we got a

bloody bomb on this plane. Do you understand? Maybe the bomb is in

the mail. You ever think of that? What if you're delivering the

bomb that blows up the city? Where are your morals then?" spoke

Johnny triumphantly.

"I'm not responsible for the actions of others," said the

captain flatly. "The weight of the mail doesn't rest on the

shoulder's of one man. The mail is powerful and people must use it

responsibly. I do the best I can, the best I know how. And

delivering the mail is part of that. The mail is good, it's the

only thing that holds our fragile world together, other than money.

I'm going to deliver that mail, Johnny, whether you like it or

not."

Johnny realized at that moment that the captains genealogy had

severely warped all logical reasoning when it came to the mail.

"OK, I give up. We'll keep the mail. We got to land this

plane. And it's going to be hard enough."

"Don't worry Johnny, I'll get you home," said the captain. He

picked up the radio.

"Control tower, this is flight CS152, we're attempting to land

at 17 East and 40 North. Everyone is off the plane and we've

dropped the luggage. Over."

"All right, we're going to be looking for you. Good luck.

Over."

"All right we're going down now. Light me a cigar for me,

Tommy," spoke the captain gruffly. "And tell my wife I'll be home

by midnight. Over and out."

"I don't want to die Jim," lamented Johnny.

"We'll pull through kid."

The captain yanked on the stick sending them thundering

through the air to the plateau. Johnny clutched to his seat,

fingernails piercing the armrests. The captain levelled out the

flight and began slowing to landing speed. Johnny closed his eyes.

The plane dropped to the ground with a heavy wallop bouncing on the

uneven ground.

"It's over Jim! We're going to die! I don't want to die!"

wailed young Johnny.

The plane rampaged through clumps of small trees finally

grinding to a halt in a small vineyard. The cockpit was filled with

smoke and pieces of glass.

"Johnny, Johnny, are you all right?"

"They got me Jim. Leave me here. Go on," whispered Johnny

clutching his shoulder whispering palefaced.

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!" the captain bellowed. "You're

coming with me. If I'm going, you're coming with me. Come on

Johnny. I'm not leaving you here. And I'm not leaving the mail here

either."

"No, Jim. Go on. Save yourself," he spoke hoarsely through the

smoky air. The captain surveyed his nonexistent windshield. The

nose of the aircraft was buried in the ground. He looked at Johnny

lying in a heap on the floor and with one smooth motion he picked

up Johnny over his shoulder and jumped to the ground.

He placed Johnny gently on the ground and examined the wreckage

that was once his plane. He looked Johnny over.

"You're going to be all right kid. Everything's gonna be all

right."

Then a great realization dawned on the captain.

"Johnny, for God's sake, you're not even hurt!"

Johnny looked himself over.

"Hey, Jim, you know, I think you're right," he said brushing

himself off and sitting up. "I think I got a crink in my neck or

something."

The captain walked off in disgust.

"Well, I got important things to do Johnny. Tell my wife I'll

be home at midnight. I'm going to deliver that mail. Grampa would

have wanted that."

The captain walked off with reaffirmed vigor whistling the

Star Spangled Banner, leaving young Johnny to stare into space.

Then Johnny went to look for help in the demolished vineyard.

------------------------- End of Chapter 2 -------------------------

Chapter Three: The Artist

"In the midst of chaos, there are many suckers. Only a cool head

prevails. And having a French accent doesn't hurt either."--Supreme

Guru of Relaxism

South of Paris: Someone's backyard: 4:00 GMT

A alligator leather gucci briefcase fell out of the sky next

to Pierre's hammock.

"Mon dieu! What is this!" he exclaimed startled out of sleep.

He looked skyward and all he saw was flying luggage. A large

handbag landed in his flower garden crushing his beloved petunias

followed by a grey suitcase pulverizing his daisies.

"Nooooooo! This cannot be! My lovely flowers! What am I to

do?" he sobbed to himself.

"Pierre, what is wrong?" his wife called to him out of the

window of their quaint cottage.

"My priceless flowers, crushed, dead, by this barbaric

philistine flying luggage. Bah, probably Jacques, our jealous

neighbour who cannot grow flowers worth a cow's bottom, sending

this flying luggage to ruin us. Ah, darling, what now?"

Upon seeing the carnage of their flower garden, Marie burst

into tears.

"Non, how," she weeped, "how could this happen? Our precious

flowers! The bright daisies...the passionate lilies...how I will

miss our violets, they were always so violet. No, not the roses,

too! How will we go on!"

"Oui, mon cherie, the evil flying luggage has killed them

too."

The air was filled with her ragged breath.

"No, don't cry, mon cherie. I will take care of it. No, don't

cry. I know what I will do. I will go into Paris today and I will

buy new seeds by selling," he motioned to the plethora of

suitcases, "these wicked flying valises. Then tonight, we will

plant, yes, we will plant a new flower bed. And we shall celebrate

our new found good fortune and we can continue to live in our

blissful happiness."

Upon hearing this, Marie stopped her endless wailing. "C'est

vrai Pierre? You will do that? You will do that for me?"

"I will do anything for you Marie. What is life without love?

No, life is nothing without love and friendship. Why, you should

know, how much I have done for that ingrate Henri, I would at least

do twice as much for you."

She smiled when she heard his sweet words.

"Oh Pierre!" she exclaimed forgetting all about the flowers.

The phone rang inside and she went to answer it.

"I must go buy some seeds before the shops close, cherie,"

Pierre said wiping tears from his eyes. "I go," he called out

walking to his car with the alligator leather gucci briefcase. He

drove into Paris that afternoon and parked near main street. Pierre

was about to walk into his favorite flower shop when someone called

over to him from underneath the Eiffel Tower amidst the multitudes.

"Yes," he questioned the person who was sitting in a lawnchair

eating a large watermelon.

"Monsieur, by chance are you looking for some seeds?"

"Why yes, in fact, I am looking for some seeds. How did you

know that?"

"Well, monsieur, I knew that because you were walking into a

flower shop that only sells seeds."

"That is indeed very clever of you monsieur, but I must be

going now to buy some seeds," said Pierre turning to enter the

store with the alligator leather gucci briefcase.

"Non, monsieur, wait a moment. My name is Antoine and I sell

magic seeds for a living. I will sell you these magic seeds for a

very petite fee," he spoke pointing to several small white

containers behind him next to his lawnchair and watermelon remains.

"Magic seeds?" asked Pierre intrigued.

"Yes, these magic seeds grow any type of plant that you want,"

exclaimed the man with the beret. He smiled. "Non, non, it is true.

When you plant one of these seeds in your garden, all you have to

do is whisper to it very quietly like so," he spoke holding the

seed very close to his mouth, "and then place the seed in the hole.

And because it is a magic seed, after some loving care, it will

grow into any type of plant you have choosen. I plant my garden

with these seeds every year without fail," holding up a white can

with the seeds.

Pierre examined the seeds very closely. He spoke suspiciously

eyeing Antoine and the watermelon remains, "These look quite like

watermelon seeds."

"Yes, they look very much like watermelon seeds, but that

doesn't make them watermelon seeds, no? A stick in water looks

bent, but when you pull it out, is it bent? No, monsieur, it is

not," persuaded Antoine.

"I will trust my eyes," responded Pierre. "Why if it appears

to be a watermelon seed, then indeed, it must be a watermelon seed.

There is no sane reason that a magic seed would want to look like

a watermelon seed. Appearances are everything and these do appear

to be watermelon seeds."

"Very true, monsieur. Very well said. One must trust their

eyes as their common sense. But look carefully at the packaging.

Look here," Antoine pointed. "It says here that these are magic

seeds. Everyone knows that everything written down is true. That

and everything on television is true. These are the only saviours

of truth in our troubled times. And clearly here it says that these

are magic seeds. If you cannot trust the label, what can you

trust?"

Pierre mused to himself for a while and looked carefully at

the label. He read to himself, Magic Seeds. Water Daily. Give

tender loving care. "Non, I cannot deny that these are magic seeds.

How much are you selling them for?"

"Ah," said Antoine, sizing up Pierre. "A small price like I

said before. Small in relation to the bounty that you will reap

with these seeds. With that in mind, I cannot part with these seeds

for less than five hundred francs."

Pierre reeled back in astonishment. "Five hundred francs, why,

that is simply ridiculous! No one will buy your magic seeds for

five hundred francs!"

"Mais non monsieur, regarde-ici. I have sold almost all of

them today. I only have two containers left. Quite frankly, they go

quite fast. Surement, ten people will not be foolish enough to

spend five hundred francs on magic seeds if they do not work?"

Pierre contemplated once again. "No, you are right. The majority

can never be so completely foolish. Otherwise this world would be

a disaster area filled with wars and carnage and people killing

each other for no reason at all."

"Exactement," replied Antoine.

"Mais," stuttered Pierre, "I do not have five hundred francs

with me for these magic seeds."

"Hmmm...well, I'm am sure your alligator leather gucci

briefcase must be worth at least five hundred francs."

"Oui, oui," shouted Pierre ecstatically. "I give you this

alligator leather gucci briefcase, and you give me the magic

seeds."

"Brilliant idea. Here you go," responded Antoine giving him

the seeds and taking the briefcase.

"Merci beaucoup monsieur," shouted Pierre as he ran off to his

car.

Antoine sat back down in his lawn chair and picked up the

tender watermelon and began chewing on a piece. He watched Pierre

out of sight and then he began spitting out the seeds into the

white containers labelled magic seeds.

Sacre bleu! What an idiot! It is magic that people are stupid

enough to buy these seeds, Antoine thought to himself laughing.

Vraiment, these seeds are definitely magic. He examined the

briefcase and tried to open it. It didn't open. No matter, he

thought. He looked about for his next victim. He saw a man in a

uniform walking briskly with a sack slung over his right shoulder.

"Bonjour monsieur, I see you have a sack slung over your

shoulder."

Captain Jim Clemens stopped walking and looked at Antoine.

"Son, this isn't a sack. This is the mail." Jim paused. He

straightened up and spoke before marching off, "And I'm the postman

that's delivering it."

Antoine stood stunned for a moment before selecting some more

receptive prey. He saw a tourist couple, most probably Americans,

walking down the boulevard. Only a male American would wear a

cowboy hat like it was the crown of the King of England.

This is my chance he thought. He quickly hid his watermelon

and lawnchair behind a bush. He stepped in front of the two

sightseers and bowed slightly.

"Bonjour Madame et Monsieur. Mon nom est Antoine," he spoke

gracefully. Noting the startled look on their faces, he chuckled

and continued on, "Oh, excuse-moi! My name is Antoine. I am an

artist and I could not happen to note that you two seemed to have

a deep appreciation of the arts." He held out his hand.

Leonard Trapp took the outstretched hand almost crushing it

in a ironfisted handshake. "Howdy there son! My name's Leonard, my

friend's call me Leo, and the wife's Linda," he said smiling in his

southern drawl. His wife giggled and blushed slightly as Antoine

kissed her hand.

"Yup, we folks sure appreciate some good art down south. So

yer an artist are ya?"

"Yes sir, indeed. I would like to call myself one, but I do

hardly compare to the greats. My work is what the critics call

ultra-modern," he told modestly.

"Really there, darlin'," spoke Linda. "Well, yer going to show

us some of yer stuff now ain't ya?"

"Only if you would care to follow me to my studio," he said

beaming. He picked up the alligator leather gucci briefcase,

adjusted his beret, and began to walk into the building next to the

Eiffel Tower with the pair in tow.

"That's a very nice briefcase, son. How did you come upon it?"

"Well, sir. That is a very long story. It's is actually my

grandfather's who fought in the first world war. He had bought it

as an antique. Apparently, Napoleon himself used this briefcase to

store letters to his lover when he was at war."

"Well, I'll be damned. Slap me silly and call me Susan!"

exclaimed Leo dumbfounded as they climbed into the elevator of the

lobby.

"We're heading now to my studio. It is very modest, it is

quite expensive to get space near the Eiffel tower, you know," he

spoke frankly as they stepped off the elevator into a corridor.

"Well, diddly-do I bet it's pretty expensive," responded Leo.

Antoine looked about him and then quickly opened the

janitorial closet. "Indeed, it is very small. I barely have enough

room to store all my work." He pulled up two lawnchairs from the

closet and seated the pair of Americans.

"I will now show you my latest creation," said Antoine with a

flourish. Then he disappeared into the closet, stepping out

brandishing a mop full of muck, both wet and dry, both alive and

dead.

"Mes amis, this is my latest creation. You may think it is a

mop, mais non, non. This piece of work is about garbage. Look

carefully how tangled the strings are," he spoke passionately. "How

filled they are with putrid garbage. This represents the core of

our society," he said pulling on the strings. "Note how every

string is interwoven and tangled with the others." Then pointing

out a knot, "Here is the attachment of one element of society, tied

to another. Admire how I have binded a chocolate wrapper with a

piece of gum to this knot. The chocolate wrapper illustrates the

gluttony and greed of present day society and its attachment to

money."

The couple stared dumbfounded. Antoine continued on, flipping

to the other side of the jumbled mess. "I have painstakingly

removed many of the strings. This is to show the contrast between

the have's and the have not's in today's society. Notice how there

is less garbage on this side of the mop. That is because the poor

of today's society have less and are attached to less." He sighed.

"I do not know why I bother to explain. People, even other artists

have trouble understanding my work." He turned to put the mop back

into the janitorial closet.

Linda burst out, "Why Antoine, that's a wonderful piece of

work! Does the crack in the shaft portray the trouble at the core

of society?"

Antoine feigned a look of astonishment. "Yes, yes,

mademoiselle that is exactly correct. How did you know?"

"I don't know," giggled the Southerner.

"Well, brand my ass and run me over with my tractor. This is

the best darn tootin' piece of art I've ever seen if I've ever seen

a piece of art. Right honey?"

"I'm with you on this one darlin'."

"Well," smiled Antoine weakly, "art is in the eye of the

beholder. Do you really think so?"

"Well, of course, son, I don't exaggerate. I like it so much,

I'll make you an offer. How much is it worth to ya son?"

"I have spent countless hours working on this piece. I cannot

bear to part with it." He looked at his mop. "Non, I cannot let

this one go. I must have it for myself."

"No, son. C'mon."

Antoine looked down at the ground. "Well, you two look like

you truly appreciate my work," he paused to collect himself.

"Even though I am extremely attached to it, I must part with

it to pay for the upkeep of my studio," he said gesturing with the

mop towards the closet.

"I have worked arduously on this piece. With that in mind, I

cannot part with it for less than two thousand francs," he spoke

despondently clutching the mop to his chest.

Leo got up, reached for his wallet, and handed over a roll of

bills. "I hope this will cover your achin' heart, son."

Antoine took the money and placed it in his pocket. Then he

gingerly laid the mop across his two hands and stretched his arms

out. People will buy anything these days, he thought to himself.

Linda raised herself from the lawnchair, slowly took the mop with

both hands, careful not to disturb the garbage that was caught

within.

"Is that your signature there?" she whispered glancing at the

A which was the hook at top of the mop.

"Yes, yes that is," sobbed Antoine.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, son," said Leo as he placed his

hand on Antoine's shoulder. "Are you willing to sell your

grandfather's antique alligator leather gucci briefcase that was

used by Napoleon?" he said quietly turning both of their bodies

away from his wife.

"Surely you jest," he said offended.

"How about for one thousand american."

"No, you insult my family and my heritage," he said spitting

on the wall.

"Two thousand."

"No."

"Three thousand."

"No, you wound my delicate heart," responded Antoine.

"Five thousand."

"Certainly not."

"Son, this is my last offer. You certainly are playing some

hard ball. Ten thousand american, take it or leave it," he said

sternly holding out the cash.

"Done," said the French man tossing over the briefcase. He

looked at his watch. "Mon dieu! I am late for my meeting at the art

gallery! You will have to excuse me. This is very important." He

grabbed both lawnchairs and tossed them into the closet. "Shall I

escort you down to the main lobby, mademoiselle et monsieur?"

"No, that's all right son. Thanks a bundle. We'll be on our

way now," said Leo. His wife and he walked down the hallway into

the elevator. "Why, the neighbours will be so jealous with us

picking up this 'ultra-modern' French art and this antique

briefcase, don't ya think?"

"Yes, darlin'. But I'm worried about Antoine. He's looking so

sad." Antoine waved despondently as they entered the elevator. As

soon as he saw they were heading to the main floor, he jumped in

the closet, grabbed a broom, and began sweeping the floor while

whistling.

The two Americans got into a taxi after exiting the Eiffel

Tower both holding their respective items attentively. Linda looked

at her watch.

"We have to meet our niece Janet for dinner, honey."

"All right sweet pea."

They went to Le Chateau and Janet was waiting for them.

"Sorry, darlin' we had to buy this piece of art," said Leo

pointing at his wife's mop, "and this alligator leather gucci

briefcase in which Napoleon placed his letters to his lover."

Janet resisted laughing. Her aunt and uncle were well meaning,

but that didn't count for much most of the time.

"Would you like to have it, darlin'?" asked Leo.

"I couldn't uncle. Seriously," Janet said sternly.

"All right then. Let's eat. I'm so hungry, I could eat a herd

a cattle."

"Uncle, did you know you don't get to order in French

restaurants?"

"Whatcha mean I don't get to order? What kind of load a crap

is that?" brayed Leo.

"Relax, uncle," urged his niece. "When you go back home you'll

be able to eat as much red meat as you want. Don't worry about it,

the food is really good here."

"All right," he muttered.

The trio ate dinner and chatted about the past few years. When

it was seven o'clock, they parted ways. Leo and Linda Trapp

leisurely strolled to a taxi with Janet trailing. Leo opened the

door for his wife, and she carefully placed the mop inside. She

gave Linda a hug, shedding tears as she stepped inside the taxi.

Leo put down his briefcase and gave his niece a monstrous bear hug

while laughing at his overemotional wife. He sat down in the taxi,

and the couple left for their hotel. Only when they departed did

Janet realize her uncle had left his briefcase behind. She would

send it back to them in the mail. He probably paid a ridiculous

amount of money for this, she thought. She hailed a taxi and she

left for the train station.

------------------------- End of Chapter 3 -------------------------

Chapter Four: The Scotsman

"When something needs to be plugged, and nobody else is going to

plug it, be relaxed and plug it yourself."--Supreme Guru of

Relaxism.

London, England: Chunnel Headquarters: 20:00 GMT

"Sir, there is a problem in the chunnel!"

"What do you mean problem in the chunnel?" questioned the

supervisor. "I've been working here for six months, and there has

never been a problem in the chunnel!"

"The gas company managed to blow a hole in the pipeline. They

must have tried to transfer too much gas too fast. The pipeline

probably couldn't take the pressure. Idiots, trying to make some

more money. It's leaking into the chunnel. If we keep on running

the train, it might set off an explosion and the entire thing might

go!"

"OK, laddie, stop the train. Has the gas company shut off the

transfer yet?"

"No they haven't. I talked to them a couple minutes ago and

they said they can't. They don't have a man where the actual

transfer is taking place. Cutbacks, you know. They're trying to get

someone up there right now."

"Bloody idiots. Is the train stopped yet?"

"Yes, the train is now stopped."

"All right good. At least there won't be any sparks setting

off an explosion. Send a message to the train. Tell them they'll

have to wait till the gas is shut off."

"Will do."

Chunnel: Between France and England: Train car two, Spirit of

St.Peter: 20:30 GMT

"Why's the train stopped?" asked the gnarled old man.

"I don't know," said Janet apprehensively. She held the

alligator leather gucci briefcase tightly. The car was filled

predominantly with members of the London Retirement Home, who were

on a field trip. She looked outside into the darkness which

revealed nothing. The train filled with a cacophony of muttering

and whining.

"We're going to die," cried an old lady. "I don't want to die

yet!"

"Shut up woman! It's about time you kicked the can, you're

only a hundred and two," bickered her husband who sat beside her.

"Then I can finally have that affair with your sister."

"My sister died twenty years ago," said the old lady turning

to him. "And you already had an affair with her."

"Yeah, yes, that's right," returned gruffly. "Wait, you had

an affair with her husband."

"Yes, you remembered!"

"Yes," said the man reminiscing. He paused looking at his

surroundings. "Where are we Bea?"

"We're on a train between France and England, honey." Then

whispering, "We just came back from Paris. It was our 82nd wedding

anniversary."

"Right, right! I remember now. I married you instead of your

sister!"

"That's right Alfred."

"Don't worry, Scottie 'ill save ye!" shouted a young burly

Scotsman with a fiery red beard. He seemed to be the only other

member of the train who didn't belong to the retirement group. The

old people began to panic as the strapping man jumped out of his

seat rolling up his sleaves ready to confront any danger.

Janet asked him, "Sir, what do you plan to do?"

"Well, I'll kill the lion with my bare...wait a minute,"

hesitated Scottie. "Why, there's no lion here!" exclaimed Scottie.

"Someone said there was a lion on the train. How are ye s'pposed

to save people without a lion?" He stopped and rolled down his

sleaves. "Well, I guess my work here is done," he uttered brushing

off his hands and heading back to his seat. "Call me if ye find a

'nother lion. I'll take care of 'im just like dat," called out

Scottie before falling asleep.

"Bea, why is the train stopped?" questioned Alfred.

"I don't know, honey," responded Bea while continuing her

knitting. "Why don't you ask someone else?"

Suddenly the public announcement system came on with a click,

echoing throughout the train.

"Ladies and gentlemen. We are sorry to report that the train

is experiencing some technical difficulties that should be resolved

shortly. Please do not attempt to leave the train. We hope the

train will be starting again shortly. Thank you for your

cooperation." The intercom clicked off, clicked back on, and then

the man resumed talking.

"Man, what do we do now? Those people are going to die!"

"There aren't going to die laddie, we've sent in someone to

fix the gas leak," responded a different voice.

"How are they going to find that leak? And when they find it,

how in the hell are they planning to fix it?" said the first voice

even more panicked than before.

"What do I look like laddie, a guy who knows how to fix a leak

in the middle of the ocean? No, laddie I'm not. But I'm sure

they'll figure out something."

"Damn, I left the intercom on!" With a loud clank the voices

cut off and the train was silent.

"Why does he have a footrest and I don't Bea?"

"I don't know, Al. Maybe you should ask him," she responded

while carrying on with her sweater knitting.

In the seat behind them, a man sat alone staring out the dark

window.

"Well, you've done it now, Scottie," he spoke out to no one.

Then he turned and faced the other way and stared into the aisle.

"Done what you said?" he responded to himself before changing

direction once again.

"You know what you've done, Scottie. You ate that apple pie.

I told you not to eat that apple pie. You should be ashamed of

yourself." He turned back to face the aisle.

"Well, I did it for the good of the world. Imagine what would

have happenned if Hitler had gotten a hold of that tasty apple

pie."

"You're right, Scottie," he said to the window. "You did good.

Why they just don't make trains like they used to. I remember back

when they ran on steam and everybody on the trains were drinkin..."

Janet decided to ignore the entire incident. Suddenly, the

burly scotsman woke from his nap in a start and jumped out of his

seat. He immediately searched out the only person that wasn't

talking to themselves. He found Janet and lifted her from her seat

into the air with her shoulders.

"I jus had the most 'orrible dream! I was a wee lad and der

was a leak in da chunnel, an' we explodin' in da train. Tell me

ain't tru, darlin'! Tell me it ain't tru!" he bellowed.

She managed to guide herself back to the ground by pushing

gently on his shoulders. "No, um, Scottie. It wasn't a dream. There

is a leak in the tunnel. But there are people who are going to fix

it," she said when she was standing on her own two feet.

"Ay," spoke Scottie. "I thought so me darlin'. Well, der's

only one thing we can do in this situation." He looked about the

train. Half the members of the London Retirement home were picking

their noses, and the other half was complaining about the lack of

footrests while playing with their dentures. A din of muttering

enshrouded the train as he spoke, "Scottie's gonna go out in that

tunnel, an' e's gonna fix dat leak!"

The din of muttering continued. Janet sat down.

A voice piped up from the back of the train.

"I'll go with you Scottie." Then the same voice responded. "I

would expect no less of you." The ancient man grabbed his cane,

popped out his dentures, and started walking to the door with a

limp.

"All right, let's go Scottie," he called out to the window.

Scottie stood up straighter and towering over the old man he

spoke in a husky voice, "So yer comin with me are ye?"

"I wasn't talking to you, you boneheaded monkey," raged the

man. "Now open the door!"

"Well then, if that's how it's gonna be," spoke Scottie

staring at the old man.

"That's how it's gonna be," responded the old man without a

flinch.

"Then that's the way it's gonna be then," said Scottie with a

huff.

"That's the way..." the old man shook his head and then

started pointing to the door violently with his cane. "Go open the

door you oversized lout!" he shouted.

"Well, if that's the way it's gonna be," responded Scottie

stepping to the door. He forced his hands in between the two

sliding doors, and in a feat of brute strength, he thrust the two

doors wide open. His burly muscles ripped through his shirt leaving

him standing half naked in the train. The old man stepped off the

train.

"You ready Scottie," he questioned the wall.

"I'm ready," he responded. Then he took a sniff and started

walking upwind.

Scottie stood stunned in the train. "'Ho in da 'ell was 'e

talkin' too?" Then regaining his composure he shouted, "I'll be

back, don't ya worry 'bout Scottie!" Then he jumped off the train

and headed off after the old man.

Janet stood up and leaned out of the doors. "Wait Scottie!

Wait for me!"

Scottie turned around and shouted, "No, me darlin'! Stay in

da train! Wandering 'bout in an underground tunnel in da middle of

the night ain't the place for a nice girl like youself."

"No, Scottie, I'm coming with you," stepping off the train

into the dank air of the tunnel.

"Ah no ya don't," spoke Scottie lifting her gently back onto

the train with grace belying his form. "Even if 'cha come with me,

whatcha gonna do me darlin'?" he asked. "Better to be safe here,

an' I'll be back in a bit with the old guy who keeps a talkin' to

himself." He looked at her name tag. "Stay 'ere darlin'. For me."

Then he turned and left down the dark tunnel.

She stared after him. He was right, what was she going to do

if she was with him anyway? She gazed back into the train.

"Bea, the lights are too bright," whined Alfred. "How do you

turn them down?"

"I don't know, Al honey. Why don't you ask someone else?" she

responded mechanically while knitting.

A shabby woman sitting next to Alfred across the aisle leaned

over and started talking. "You know, Al, I had that problem with

the lights being too bright a couple of years ago."

"You too?" Al exclaimed.

"Yup. But now whenever the lights get too bright, I just close

my eyes just like this," she spoke excitedly while closing her

eyes. "It really works like a charm."

Al tried it. "Why you're right, it makes things a lot darker.

Bea, why is everything so dark?"

"I don't know, honey..."

Janet stepped off the train and went after Scottie, the burly

Scotsman, and Scottie, the man who talked to himself.

Further down in the tunnel, the two men had found the leak.

It came from a pipe that was broken in two, an obvious structural

fault caused by cheap construction. The natural gas flowed out

quickly nearly suffocating the two men.

"How are we going to fix this one Scottie?" mused the old man.

"I dunno Scottie," responded Scottie.

The old man snapped, "I wasn't talking to you, you muleheaded

shrimp! And my name isn't Scottie! I am Admiral Knight of the 4th

Brigade. You will address me as Admiral or sir. Is that

understood?"

"Well," said Scottie furiously, "if that's how it's gonna be."

"That's how it's gonna be," replied the Admiral stonefaced.

"Then that's the way it's gonna be then," said Scottie with a

huff.

"That's right, that's the way..." spoke the Admiral before

stopping. Then he began talking to himself again.

"Well, I don't know, why don't you think for once?"

"OK, Scottie, go find something to plug the damn leak with."

Scottie exclaimed, "That's a good idea Admiral! I'll be back

or my name isn't Scottie!"

"How many times do I have to tell your jellyfish for a brain

that I'm not talking to you!" shouted the Admiral as Scottie

bounded off.

Janet watched all of this while walking towards the gushing

fissure. Suddenly, she tripped and let out an awkward scream.

Scottie, who was examining the train for anything that would fit

in the fissure spun about and ran toward her.

"Janet, Janet are you al' right?" he spoke in concern. Janet

lifted herself into the suffocating air.

"I'm fine. I just tripped on something here," she spoke.

Then Scottie lectured angrily, "Janet, din I tell you to stay

in the train? A tunnel under the sea ain't the place for a nice

girl like you. Go back to the train."

Janet mournfully spoke while pulling the unwieldy briefcase

up beside her, "But I just wanted to help Scottie!"

Scottie didn't hear a word she said. "By jove, you've found

it!" he exclaimed grabbing the briefcase. "We can plug da 'ole with

this alligator leather gucci briefcase!" He turned to go back to

the fissure. "Go back to the train!" he shouted over the torrent of

gas.

"No, Scottie! I'm staying with you!" she yelled back.

"Fine! If that's the way it's going to be then!" he spoke

angrily.

"That's the way it's going to be!" she responded in turn.

"Well," roared Scottie grabbing his fire red beard, "Then

that's the way it's gonna be ain't it!"

Janet grabbed him and stumbled to the rift in the pipe where

the Admiral was still talking to himself.

"Quick Scottie! Plug the hole with the briefcase before it's

too late!"

Scottie looked down at the briefcase and asked, "Will ya do

this one for Scottie?"

Then with a blood-curdling yell, he stuffed the briefcase into

the fissure. The torrential flood of suffocating gas stopped in

mid-stream.

"Thank God that pipe was square," spoke Scottie.

"You did it Scottie!" Janet exclaimed.

"No Janet. I din' do anythin'. The alligator leather gucci

briefcase did it. I'll miss you," he spoke patting the briefcase

that was crammed into the fissure and shedding a tear.

"It'll be all right Scottie," said Janet comforting him. "It

will be all right."

"Good job Scottie," spoke the Admiral.

"Thank you, Admiral," responded Scottie.

"How can I explain that I'm not talking to you?" he spoke

while limping back to the train. Then he began conversing again.

"They just don't make alligator leather gucci briefcases like they

used to."

"No, I didn't even see any scales in that leather..."

The Admiral trailed off in the distance.

"What a crazy cuckoo bastard," muttered Scottie. The two

figures started heading back to the train. They stepped onto the

train and Scottie closed the doors with another feat of Herculean

might. Janet looked about the train. No one seemed to care or

notice their return. Alfred still had his eyes closed. Beatrice was

still knitting away oblivious to the world. The Admiral continued

his soliloquy. Everyone else was playing with their dentures.

"Scottie," called out someone in a hoarse voice. "Did you

bring us back some footrests?"

Scottie shook his fist in anger and shouted, "Damn ingrates.

What's Scottie got te do fer ya? I seal the leak with my bare hands

with an alligator leather gucci briefcase and this is the thanks I

get!"

Janet took the emergency phone and informed headquarters that

the leak had been blocked so no more gas could escape. Luckily, the

gas company had managed to shut off the flow. Then the public

announcement system came on with a hum. "The technical difficulties

with the train have been resolved and we'll be continuing on to

Paris shortly. Thank you very much for your cooperation."

The train began moving and reached Paris in two hours. The

London Retirement Home exited the train leaving Scottie and Janet

staring into each other's eyes. Just before they were about to

leave the train, Scottie grabbed Janet's hand and stopped. "I got

ta confession to make," he spoke haltingly.

"What is it Scottie?" she asked looking deep into his eyes in

the dim light.

"It's jus that," he paused. "It's jus that I've fallen in love

ya," he rushed on.

"I love you too Scottie!" Janet gushed.

"Let's get married!" exclaimed Scottie.

"Yes!"

Scottie picked her up in his husky arms and the embraced in a

kiss. "By the way," asked Scottie, "what's yer name?" Then the two

strangers left the train station and eloped in a nearby church.

Meanwhile the chunnel headquarters finally conveyed a team of

technicians to the site of the leak to plug the hole. They

discovered the alligator leather gucci briefcase that was blocking

the leak. They managed to remove it and replace the cracked pipe.

The gas company started pumping through twice as much gas to make

up for lost time. And after all that, the team of technicians made

their way back to London.

------------------------- End of Chapter 4 -------------------------

Chapter Five: The Clairvoyant

"Sometimes, you got to fill up space. Just relax."--Supreme Guru of

Relaxism

London, England: Cafeteria of the Chunnel Headquarters: 23:00 GMT

"Well guys, who gets to keep this briefcase?" asked Alex.

"I found it so I think I should get to keep it," responded

Alice.

"I say we draw straws for it," said Lauren.

"That makes sense," touted Alex.

Alice went to the cupboard next to the coffee machine and

picked out three straws. She folded them and placed them in both

of her hands.

"Wait a second guys, let's be a little creative here. Let's

call a psychic line and see which one of us gets to keep the

briefcase." Lauren and Alex looked at her blankly. "It's going to

be on the company bill anyway," she suggested. "And this way, we'll

find out who this briefcase 'really' belongs to," she said smiling.

"You know, that might be fun," laughed out Lauren. "Let's do

it."

"It's two against one, so you guys win," spoke Alex turning

the phone on the table to speaker mode so all could hear. "Anyone

know the number. Alice smiled and dialed.

"Hello, this is Vanessa of the Psychic Connection. How can I

help you?" came the voice over the phone.

"Shouldn't you already know that?" piped Alex.

"Well, do we have a smart aleck here or what. With the vibes

my getting from your group, I believe you're having trouble with

some sort of transaction."

Lauren whistled his approval. "She's good," he commented to

Alice. "What kind of transaction?" he questioned.

"OK, guys that's enough of the test questions. What do you

want?" asked Vanessa irritably. "I've been working all day and I

want to get some dinner."

"I am going to ask a question," spoke Lauren. "Can you

answer?"

"Please ask your question," replied the woman.

"I have already asked."

"I have already answered."

"What did you anwer?"

"What did you ask?"

"I asked nothing."

"I answered nothing."

"She's really good," whispered Lauren.

Alice interjected, "Well, we found this briefcase, and we were

wondering who it belonged to."

"Wouldn't it be easier to open it and find out?" questioned

the disembodied voice.

"Actually, the briefcase has a lock on it, and we don't want

to break it," she responded.

"Hold on, I'm getting someone else to help you. I'm getting

some dinner," Vanessa spoke. A new person came on the phone. "This

is Gabriel here," said a undulating voice. "Gabriel feels," she

paused, "she feels that your briefcase has travelled a long way and

has gone through many, many adventures." She continued slowly, "It

has journeyed many miles, through air and through water. It has

come from the west, from America." She paused again. "At least

that's the weird shape on my crystal ball looks like. It might just

be a tadpole or something."

Alex laughed. "Come from America! Are you crazy or something?

We found it in the chunnel from somebody in Paris."

"Don't laugh you insolent child. Gabriel doesn't like that,"

spoke Gabriel fiercely. "How don't you know it was some American

tourist?"

Alex was silent. "Well, I guess we don't."

"Bah," spoke the phone. "Well, it wasn't an American tourist.

It was a burly Scotsman who stuffed the briefcase into the gas

pipeline."

The three stared incredulously at the phone.

"Gabriel hasn't gone fire dancing this past week, so her

powers are waning. Please hurry and ask your questions."

"Who's briefcase is it?" interjected Alice.

"Gabriel looooks," said Gabriel ondulatingly, "Gabriel sees a

man in New York, he is missing his briefcase. It is his briefcase.

Yes, it is his briefcase."

"How did it get here?"

"Gabriel don't know. Gabriel cannot see the details of the

past or future clearly, only shades of colour," she responded.

"Maybe it got here by plane," she suggested.

"Who should keep the briefcase?" asked Lauren.

"No, no, no! Don't keep the briefcase. Gabriel sees an evil

briefcase that will cause great strife to all that own it! It is

possessed by a great devil who destroys life and love! Throw it

away! Now! Get it far away from you and your family! Quickly!" she

gasped.

The three congregated around the table in shock.

Alice held out her hand to stop the questioning about the

briefcase. Then she sighed longingly, and blushing slightly, she

asked, "Will I ever find the love of my life?"

There was a pause on the other line.

"Why do I always get asked that question?" demanded the

psychic. "Every single person always asks Gabriel that question.

'Will I ever find the love of my life?'" mimicked Gabriel. "Do you

realize how impractical love is?" she interrogated.

Alice looked in shock at the phone.

"Gabriel sees that you are a student," she spoke. "And you

have never truly been in love. You see, love is the most

impractical thing in the entire world, Gabriel doesn't understand

why people subject themselves to it."

"People fall in love, they get married, they spontaneously

fall out of love, and they get divorced, leaving their children in

a one parent family on child support payments. Then they fall in

love again, and out of love again, repeating the cycle over again.

And you expect Gabriel to be able to predict the whims of

overemotional people," the phone growled. "Gabriel thinks not."

"Love is useless as it makes one imagine things that aren't

there and it proves nothing. For example, you think of the person

while they aren't there because you are so 'in love'. One can't

think straight because they are so 'in love', and then they get

fired because they can't think straight, they can't find a job

anywhere, and then their lover stops loving them because they don't

have a job anymore," spoke Gabriel angrily.

"Did this happen to you?" asked Alice.

"No," sobbed the psychic. "No, it didn't. OK, yes it did.

Don't do it, men are such jerks."

Lauren and Alex looked at each other.

"You were a briefcase saleswoman in a store before you became

a psychic," spoke Alice with her eyes closed.

"Yes," the voice wailed.

"And then you fell in love and you lost your job. And now

you're a psychic."

"Yes," sobbed Gabriel.

"You should get even with him," spoke Alice.

"What should Gabriel do?"

"Marry him."

Gabriel stopped sobbing. "Gabriel must go."

There was a click and then a dialtone.

"Look what you've done now Alice!"

"Oh well, what can you do? Does anyone want to keep the

briefcase?"

"No, not really," responded Alex.

"No, me neither," said Lauren.

"Let's leave a note and tell people they can have it if they

want it."

"Sounds good."

They left the building, leaving the alligator leather gucci

briefcase on the table with the note. The supervisor of the chunnel

came in the cafeteria after a long day. He spotted the briefcase on

the table.

"My, this is a fine alligator leather gucci briefcase." He

read the note. "How nice, I think I'll take it with me on my

vacation tomorrow."

He picked up the briefcase and headed home.

------------------------- End of Chapter 5 -------------------------

Chapter Six: The Tour Guide

"              "--The Supreme Guru of Relaxism

South Africa: 12:00

The airplane finally arrived in Malaysia. Andrew walked out

of the plane into the musty air of the airport with his luggage and

the alligator leather gucci briefcase. The hundred passengers

rushed off the plane past him into the customs area. There was no

real security, he remarked to himself. Where are the people asking

questions like, 'Are you planning to kill anybody?'

He finally spotted the customs officer. The customs officer

was leaning against a counter watching people go by without a care.

He looked up and saw a man carrying some golf clubs. He alertly

went over the man. The man took off his clubs and handed them over.

The customs officer examined the clubs and took a few practice

swings. The man shook his head, grabbed the club, and gave some

directions before handing the club back. They were discussing the

finer points of golf as Andrew walked by to the car rental area.

"Hi," he spoke to the lady at the counter. "I would like to

rent a car."

"Sorry, we're not renting any cars today," she responded.

"What do you mean you're not renting any cars?" he demanded.

"This is where people go to rent cars isn't it?"

The lady pointed to a sign above her. Car rentals on Monday,

Wednesday, and Friday Only.

"You're kidding me right?"

She pointed to the sign again.

"All right, where can I get some transportation?" interrogated

Andrew frustrated.

"You can't. I would try to take the bus. The bus is two miles

south down the road," she spoke. "Oh yeah, and a word of advice.

Don't go into the city at night. Around two white people get shot

every night by the blacks. If you see them, start running." She

continued staring into space.

Andrew walked out of the airport. What a nice vacation, he

thought. There were no signs of any taxis. He looked around. He

started walking south down the dusty dirt road. He started

sweltering in the hot sun and he wondered why he brought the

alligator leather gucci briefcase. Two miles later, covered in

dust, he entered the bus depot. He looked about. There was only one

bus and it was stuffed with travellers such as himself. He stepped

into the bus.

"Where does this bus go?" he asked.

"Does it matter? It's the only bus for the next day."

"Still, it would be nice to know," insisted Andrew.

"It goes to a hotel around ten miles down the road."

"Thank you very much."

The bus driver started the bus and drove the down to the

hotel. "This is the stop," shouted the driver. He got out of the

bus and headed into the shabby hotel. The passengers filed out

grumpily and headed into the hotel.

Andrew made his way into the hotel, and he spotted the bus

driver behind the hotel counter.

"Um, do you run this hotel?" he asked.

"No, I'm just filling in. A room is $10 if you want one. The

bus to the city leaves in the morning. The city is twenty miles

from here if you want to walk."

Flabbergasted, Andrew pulled out ten dollars. He didn't bother

asking about the exchange rate.

"Take room number ten," said the bus driver. "Down the hall

on the left," he spoke motioning down the hall. I guess there is

no key, thought Andrew. He entered a small room with no windows

that was made of cement. There were two beds in the room which

consisted of mattresses on the floor. The closer one on the left

had a large pool of dried blood on it and had mold growing on the

sides. The one on the other side of the room only had a little pool

of blood. He decided he would take that one. He placed his luggage

on it and left the room.

He decided that he wasn't going to spend the entire day

waiting about the hotel. He promptly wandered outside finding a

safari guide waiting next to a Subaru Outback. A chance for

adventure, he thought.

"What do we do on this safari?" he asked.

"We wander unprotected into the jungle, fearless in the face

of danger, clinging to our lives," responded the guide. "At times,

it's fun."

"Sounds good," replied Andrew. "How much does it cost?"

"It will cost you two hundred pounds."

Andrew fished out the cash and handed it over. "Is anybody

else coming?" he asked.

"No," replied the guide blandly as they sat down in the

Outback. "It's too dangerous." The guide put the station wagon in

gear, and they headed into the dense bush.

The guide started talking. "I remember the time when one guy

decided to get out of my car to take a picture of a tiger. The

tiger came and bit his leg off. But he managed get back into the

car and we escaped. I like telling that story to all my

passengers."

"Why?" asked Andrew.

"Makes them think twice about getting out of the car."

Suddenly, they were surrounded by a tribe of pygmies.

"Oh no!" cried the guide breaking his even demeanor. "Not the

pygmies!" He stepped on the accelerator panicking. Andrew was

thrown back in his seat with the sheer power of the Outback.

Suddenly the car stopped as a net fell over the car making the

wheels slip in the mud. "Damn pygmies," muttered the guide.

"Andrew," he spoke facing him. "These are the Cannibalistic Riddle

Pygmies of the South, or the Garkatloptakin as they like to call

themselves, not as nice as the Happy Vegetarian Sharing Pygmies of

the North," the guide rambled. He stopped as the pygmies surrounded

the car and started pounding with the car with their spears. "If

you don't answer their riddles, they will eat you. I've met up with

these fellows before." The glass broke, and the pygmies stormed in

the car. The guide yelled at the pygmies.

"What are you doing? You guys catch me every damn week! No

need to break the bloody windshield, you know!"

The pygmies stopped their stomping and yelling. "Sorry, Ned,"

spoke one sheepishly stepping up to talk to him and release the two

prisoners from the net. "We just got kind of carried away."

"No excuse to break the bloody windshield," berated Ned. He

sighed. "All right, keep going."

The head pygmy let out a lion-like roar and the pygmies

continued their dance around their prey. Andrew looked around for

a possible escape route. Suddenly, a short pygmy began poking him

with a spear. The pygmies swarmed him and tied up his hands and

feet, binding him to a log. "Take it easy on him!" shouted Ned from

another log over the tribal dancing. "He's a newcomer."

"Sorry Ned," said the head pygmy. He signalled his underlings.

The pygmies untied Andrew and let him drop to the ground.

A younger pygmy walked up to him on the ground. "Can I have I

piggy back ride?" Accepting the dumbfound expression on Andrew's

face as assent, the youngster jumped on his back. Andrew was led by

the pygmies back to the camp while Ned was carried hanging upside

down from the log. They set Ned's log down between two tree stumps

and offered Andrew a lawn chair. They continued banging on drums

and dancing around jabbering songs of victory.

"Stop it for God sake's!" shouted Andrew. "You guys are giving

me a headache!"

The leader raised his hand and the tribe was silent.

"All right," he spoke in a high pitched voice. "Here are the

rules. You must perform the Ladder Walk of Death. If you two cannot

perform the Ladder Walk of Death, well, we eat you. Otherwise, you

go home. Got it?"

"Hey, wait a minute! What happenned to the riddles?" demanded

Ned.

"Oh," replied the leader. "We are no longer the

Garkatloptakin. We are now the Oljakanbaktor," he explained.

Ned rolled his eyes.

"Can somebody fill me in here?" asked Andrew.

"They are now the Cannibalistic Ladder Walk of Death Pygmies

of the South," interpreted Ned hanging upside down. "So what's the

Ladder Walk of Death?"

The chief pointed to a large ladder leaning against a tree.

"You walk up that ladder. If you don't come back down with anything

to eat, you know, mangoes or something, we eat you."

"Ahhh," hummed Andrew and Ned in assent.

"So who wants to go first?"

"I'll go first," said Andrew. He climbed up the tree and began

tossing down mangoes. Then he jumped to another tree and tossed

down more exotic fruit to the awaiting hands of hungry pygmies. He

finally jumped down from the tree with a fruit in his hand.

"Is it my turn yet?" whined Ned. "I'm tired of hanging upside-

down."

"Don't worry about it, Ned. Your buddy here was so good at the

Ladder Walk of Death," he said chowing on a mango, "that you won't

even have to do it." He signalled the pygmies to release him from

the log. Ned landed on the ground with a thump.

"Do you guys always have to drop me like that? I'm getting

back problems, you know."

"It's a matter of style, Ned. Want a piece?" he asked pointing

to the ample bounty Andrew had provided.

"Sure thing. I'm kind of hungry myself," Ned said picking up

a piece. After everyone ate, Ned and Andrew got chased back to the

Outback as a matter of tradition.

"Sorry about the windshield," called the chief as the two men

drove off back to the hotel. "You know, that Ladder Walk of Death

deal is a lot easier than that riddle business," he remarked to

another pygmy.

Andrew and Ned made it back to the hotel and parted ways.

Andrew went back to his room to find his luggage missing. He

immediately went to the front desk. "Where's my luggage?" he

demanded the bus driver who was reading the paper.

"The maid probably tossed it in the garbage," he responded.

"Where in the hell is the garbage?"

"I don't know, I don't work here."

"Where is the maid?"

The bus driver pointed at a sign. Maid returns tomorrow.

Frustrated, Andrew went back to his room. He lay down on the

mattress with the smaller pool of dried blood, and then he fell

asleep.

------------------------- End of Chapter 6 -------------------------

Chapter Seven: The Garbage Smuggler

"Try not to partake in unrelaxing activities."--Supreme Guru of

Relaxism

Garbage Smuggling Ship: Pacific Ocean: Off the Coast of Alaska:

8:00 PST

"Why this is some mighty fine garbage we picked up here, eh,

mate?" remarked the captain with his Australian accent.

"Aye, captain."

"I mean, look at this fine alligator leather gucci briefcase.

Best I've ever seen mate. Look at the fine scales," he spoke

rubbing his hand over the bag. "Must've taken a year just to dry

the leather, I'm tellin' ya."

"Aye, captain."

"Only a idiot woulda tossed this piece out, right mate?"

"Aye, captain."

"An' look at the other fine garbage we got 'ere," he spoke

sniffing the air. "You gotta love that sickly odour, right mate?"

"Aye, captain."

He sifted through the pile of garbage that was on the deck

decomposing in the Alaskan sun. "Look at this priceless stuff mate.

We got a half broken vase here. If it wasn't for South Africa that

got no where to put its garbage, mate, we'd be out of job, you

know?"

"Aye, captain."

"This garbage smugglin' business is gettin mighty popular, you

know with all the money we've been makin, mate."

"Aye captain."

"I love talkin' to ya mate. Ye always got so much to say. I

mean one of us got to listen, right, and I like talkin so this

works out really good. Right mate?"

"Aye, captain."

He looked at his compass and redirected his clandestine

smuggling operation further from the shore.

"We'll be there in no time mate."

"Aye captain."

"Do you want a cracker there Polly?" he asked his parrot.

"Aye captain," squawked the bird catching the cracker in its

beak.

A sudden noise startled the captain.

"This is the coast guard. We have you in our sights. Prepare

to be boarded."

"Oh no! Mate what are we gonna do!" the captain exclaimed.

"Aye captain."

"Bloody good for nothin bird, I don't know why I keep you.

There's no way this garbage scow is gonna outrun that Coast Guard.

I guess we don't got no choice mate."

"Aye captain."

"Please stop your ship, place anchor and prepare to be

boarded."

The captain stopped his ship and placed anchor. Two men in

black suits boarded his ship.

"Wait a minute. You guys ain't the coast guard."

"That's right, we're not the coast guard," said the elder.

"All right, who are you guys?"

"We're the ones that run the garbage racketing in this part

of town. So that garbage you got there," said the older one

gesturing to his deck, "is now our garbage. Right son."

"Ya pa," responded the son.

"We're trying to keep it in the family see. Now, we're gonna

take this garbage, and there's nothing you can do about it." He

waved his arm and a giant crane from his ship began scooping the

refuse from his deck.

"Nooooo! They're taking our garbage mate!"

"Aye captain."

Soon, his deck was clear except for a few large piles of junk.

"We'll let you keep some," scowled the older man. "Just in

case the coast guard does come," he smirked. Then he began to laugh

as the two men made their way back onto their own ship. "Remember

who runs the garbage operation before you come back in this part of

town!" he yelled from his ship.

"I'm going to get you bastards!" the captain called out. "A

virtuous man can't even make an honest living smuggling garbage

these days because of people like you!" he yelled as the ship

sailed off.

He collapsed in a chair next to his parrot. "What are we gonna

do mate?"

"Aye captain," squawked his first mate.

"It was a rhetorical question mate."

"Aye captain."

He heard another boat coming in. He jumped out of his seat and

ran to the port side to see who it was.

"Are you having trouble with your ship there, sir?" asked a

man in a white uniform. "You're a little far from shore to have

anchored."

The captain smiled. "No, no, trouble at all. Just enjoying the

Alaskan sun, mate. You know how it is."

"All right then," responded the coast guard. Then he took a

sniff of the air. He asked more suspiciously, "You have an

Australian accent. What's your business in American waters?"

The captain stuttered out, "Well, I, um, I'm on vacation with

my first mate. Right mate?"

"Aye captain," called out a high tiny voice over the side of

the ship.

"Do you have any garbage on your ship?" demanded the coast

guard.

"NO, no, not at all," denied the captain. "Just my parrot an

me, dat's it," he spoke smiling weakly.

"Then you wouldn't mind if I took a look at your ship would

you mate?"

"Oh no!" cried the captain. "You wouldn't want to waste your

time with a garbage scow like this would you mate?" Why did I say

that? thought the captain.

"Garbage scow, eh? I'll be right there."

The coast guard called for backup and then boarded the ship.

"So what's all this muck on your deck here captain?

Decoration?" said the coast guard superciliously.

"No, no, it's just that my mother always said to keep some

garbage on board to keep the rats away. Right mate?"

"Aye captain," responded the parrot.

"So you weren't planning to smuggle any of this garbage were

you captain? Like this fine alligator leather gucci briefcase for

instance?" he said picking it up.

"Oh no, mate, not at all. I told you it keeps the rats away."

"So you wouldn't mind if I tossed it on board my ship like

this, would you?" He spun around with the briefcase and tossed it

over to his vessel.

The captain winced seeing his profit dropping with every

passing minute. His brow was covered with sweat. The coast guard

walked up to face the captain.

"You know captain. I don't believe that your mother would say

that having garbage on your ship keeps away the rats. Because my

mother would never say anything like that," spoke the coast guard

quietly. "You sure you're not smuggling this garbage?"

"No, nobody smuggles garbage these days. You got us all wrong

chap. We were just, just going, just going to toss it overboard and

pollute the ocean, ya know. No biggy," he said rubbing the back of

his neck. The coast guard was silent.

"Oh, and all this time I thought you were part of the big

garbage smuggling operation out here," laughed the coast guard. "To

think," bellowed the coast guard doubling over, "that you would be

smuggling with a terrible ship like this. You're obviously just

dumping this garbage and polluting the ocean like any good man

would."

"That's right chap," laughed the captain. "My mate an' I, we

just take the African garbage, come out 'ere, and dump it in the

middle of the ocean, causing a whole lot of pollution and killing

a whole bunch of animals, chap. No smuggling going on here. We

'ould never contribute to the garbage black market. My mate an' I

we like polluting and killing. We're even planning to a bit of

fishin' in restricted water after this, right mate?"

"Aye captain."

"Sorry about inconviencing you. Now go have a good time

polluting our waters," said the captain smiling. He walked to the

port side to board his own ship again. Then he stopped. "Wait a

minute. What are you doing with African garbage?"

Damn, the captain thought to himself.

"Well, it's fairly obvious we're polluting the earth with the

garbage," uttered the captain. "There's no other sane reason we

would have African garbage on this garbage scow, right mate?"

"Aye captain," squawked the bird in response.

The coast guard sighed. "I'm going to have to confiscate your

garbage," he said sternly.

"You have no proof that I'm a smuggler! It's not illegal to

be in the possession of garbage!"

"Garbage smuggling is a serious crime. And even though I can't

prove you're smuggling, you're looking mighty suspicious. I am

exercising my right to confiscate your garbage, do you have a

problem with that?"

Then his radio turned on and chirped, "Coast Guard Four, are

you there, over."

He answered, "Coast Guard Four here, over."

"We have a situation near Prince Rupert. Some Canadians have

hijacked an Alaskan ferry. Request assistance. Over."

"I'll be there in a couple of hours. Over."

"Thank you, over and out," cackled the radio before stopping.

"You got lucky this time captain," spoke the coast guard. "But

be warned, if I catch you in these waters again, I'm going to put

you behind bars," he said leaving the ship.

"But I'm not even one of the real smugglers!" called the

captain in frustration as the coast guard's ship sped southward.

"I'm just a honest man trying to make a honest living in this torn

world chap!"

------------------------- End of Chapter 7 -------------------------

Chapter Eight: The Negotiator

"Patriotism in small doses unites nations, but an overdose can warp

the mind."--Supreme Guru of Relaxism

Prince Rupert, Off the West Coast of British Columbia: 11:00 PST

"This ship isn't going anywhere!" shouted the fisherman to the

ferry captain. "Not till we got somebody on the negotiating table!"

Hundreds of Canadian fishing boats surrounded the returning

Alaskan ferry, not allowing it to dock in the harbour. The American

coast guard circled about the Canadian fishermen who were circling

about the Alaskan ferry.

The American captain radioed the coast guard. "Do we have a

negotiator coming?"

"I'll call Washington again," responded the coast guard unit.

The ferry captain waited and looked reprovingly at the

surrounding throng of fishermen who were waving their pickets on

their little ships. I should just run them over, thought the

captain. But I'm sure Washington is bringing in the Marines, he

chuckled to himself. Or maybe even some nuclear missiles to clear

away these pesky little fishermen! That will teach them, he

guffawed out loud.

His radio came on again. "Captain, the negotiator will be

there in a couple of minutes."

"Negotiator," responded the captain clenching his teeth.

"Where is he coming from?"

"He'll be coming in from Alaska in a couple of minutes," came

the reply. "He's arriving right now. Out." The radio was silent.

The captain looked to the north. A coast guard ship was

rocketing in. It came to a halt on his stern. A man in a double

breasted suit came in over a rope ladder. He shouted over the edge

of the ship, "Thanks for the briefcase Mike! I love it! I never had

an alligator leather gucci briefcase before!" He waved and the

captain heard the coast guard's ship roar off.

The negotiator walked up and shook hands with the captain.

"Hello, my name is Walter. What seems to be the problem here?"

"Walter," spoke the captain walking along the deck, "the

problem is that these rebel fishermen have taken my ferry and its

passengers hostage. They want us to stop fishing in their waters."

"Stop fishing in their waters," laughed Walter. "Why, that's

preposterous. How are we going to get any fish then?"

"I don't know, Walter, but you better know one more thing.

Most of the passengers on this ship are Canadian. Maybe that will

help you out a bit."

"Thank you captain. Where are we planning to do the

negotiations?"

"I believe you're going to have to go over there," spoke the

captain. "On that boat where they are burning the American flags."

"Insolent bastards. One wonders why the Middle East hasn't

declared a jihad on them yet. Well, I better get going." He grabbed

his briefcase and he headed down to the Canadian fishing boat.

The captain watched him move from the ferry to the enemy ship

and wished him good luck.

The negotiator greeted the Canadian fisherman with an

outstretched hand.

"So you're the negotiator, eh?" asked the fisherman accepting

his hand.

"Yes, my name is Walter," he spoke.

"Well, my name is Eric, eh, and we're going to be doing some

negotiating now, so let's get started, eh?" while moving inside the

boat.

They sat down at a table and Eric rolled out a North American

map. The map had hundreds of criss-crossing lines, but a major one

was especially conspicuous being a centimeter wide in black felt

marker across the forty-ninth parallel.

"You see this line, eh?" remarked Eric to Walter pointing out

the black felt marker. "This is the border between Canada and the

US. And you see it extends past the land across the 49th parallel

into the water, eh. You're not supposed to be crossing that line

without our permission. So what are you guys doing taking our fish

from up there, eh?" he demanded.

"Well, the fish is eventually going to come down to this side

of the 49th parallel, so why should we wait? We just go up across

and get it, if you know what I mean," replied Walter sheepishly.

"No harm done."

"The problem is Walter, I know exactly what you mean. That's

exactly what is wrong. You're not supposed to do that. We don't go

over to your side without your permission, and you don't come here

without our permission, eh. That's the problem."

"What's wrong, there is plenty of fish to go around. I mean

there's got to be a never ending supply, kind of like wood, and

donuts. You never see Tim Horton's running out of donuts do you?"

"This isn't about the fish, Walter," Eric echoed softly. "This

is about respect. You boys aren't supposed to be fishing in our

waters because they are our waters, eh. And that's that."

"That's like saying that Canadians aren't supposed to be on

their land because the Native Indians were there first."

"This ain't about no damn Indians. They're living on the

reserves. This is about our water. It is 'our' water. That means

'you' aren't supposed to be in 'our' water, eh."

"Come on, don't be picky. It's everybody's fish right?

Technically, how can you own a fish? That's as preposterous as

owning land!"

Eric hesitated and then relented. "All right, Walter, I admit

it. You're right. The fish wasn't the real reason we hijacked the

ferry."

"It wasn't," said Walter astonished.

"No, it wasn't," he said shamefaced.

"What was the real reason?" asked Walter curious.

"We fishermen have come together," he spoke firmly, "and we

know there is a neverending supply of fish. But we want the

Winnipeg Jets and the Quebec Nordiques back in Canada."

"So this is all about hockey?" spoke Walter incredulously.

"Of course this is all about hockey! We're no Islamic

terrorists you know. What in the hell did you think it would be

about, eh?"

Walter thought about it for a little while.

"I thought this was about the fish."

"Well, you were wrong."

"What about all the Canadians trapped on the ferry?"

questioned Walter.

"Oh, they want the Quebec Nordiques and the Winnipeg Jets back

too."

"Oh."

"Here is a list of our demands," spoke Eric pulling out a

list. "Number one you've already heard. Number two. We want Brett

Hull, that audacious traitor, banned from international play.

Number three. We want a team in Halifax and another team in

Hamilton. No more teams where they don't have any ice, like

Southern California, eh. And finally, number four. We want to get

rid of the Vancouver Canucks. Give us the Tampa Bay Lightning or

something, and we'll be happy. Oh yeah, and no more glowing pucks

on TV anymore, eh. I just added that one," he said smiling.

"Um, I will have to talk it over with the President," replied

Walter hesitantly.

"Well, hurry up about it. If we don't get immediate results,

we're going to have to take action," said Eric with flinty eyes.

"What are you planning to do?" asked Walter.

"We're going to starve every single one of the people on that

ferry of yours to death," he replied coldly with a fishy breath.

"But most of those people are Canadians!"

"And they're all ready to die for our national game. You

remember that, Walter. You remember that."

"You Canadians are crazy!"

Eric grinned and spoke slowly, "That's right, eh. Now, go talk

to that Prime Minister of yours. We're taking our game back."

Walter pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the emergency

number for the President and walked outside the negotiating room.

"Hello Mr.President, this is Walter speaking."

"Have you made any progress, Walter," asked the President.

"Well, it appears that the fishermen were using the illegal

fishing that we're doing as a cover for their real reason for

hijacking the ferry."

"So they realize that there is an unlimited number of fish,

too," mused the President. "Then what is their real reason?"

"They want the Colorado Avalanche and the Phoenix Coyotes back

in Canada." Walter heard the President gasp.

"Not only that, they want to ban Brett Hull from international

play, bring two hockey teams to Halifax and Hamilton, trade the

Vancouver Canucks to us, and they don't want any more expansion

teams in regions with no ice, like Disneyland."

The president was stunned to silence. "These aren't demands,

this is completely ridiculous. We can't do this. How about a

billion dollars? Will they be bought?"

"No, these hockey fanatics seem to pretty adamant about their

demands. And they said if we don't comply to their demands, they're

going to starve all the people on the ferry to death," spoke

Walter. The president was silent.

"Those fatherless illegitimate fishmongering numbskulls! Going

to starve the good people of America to death are they! We will

never acquiesce to these terrorist demands! The United States of

America will not negotiate with terrorists!"

"But sir, I forgot to mention one thing..." trailed off

Walter.

"What's that Walter?"

"All the people on the ferry are Canadians."

The president was silent once again.

"Mr. President?" called Walter over the phone.

"We have to stop these fanatics before it's too late, Walter.

It seems they will stop at nothing to regain control of their

national game. But we can't stop plan alpha now," the president

muttered. "It's too late."

"Um, if you don't mind me asking Mr. President, what's plan

alpha?"

"We have been trying for years to take over their national

game. Ever since the Nixon years. We were getting close in the

eighties, but then came along Wayne Gretzky and the Edmonton

Oilers. That set us back ten years. But now, we got the Canadians

on the ropes. We can't stop now," grumbled the President.

"Why exactly are we trying to take over their national game?"

asked Walter astounded. "I mean we already have football and

baseball and basketball. Then we have some of the best track

athletes in the world. We even have the fastest man in the world!

Why would we want to have hockey, too, I mean, we don't even have

any ice. And a true American cares more about his mail then about

hockey. I don't understand Mr. President," he spoke dumbfounded.

"The White House couldn't care less about hockey either. But

Canada has been a thorn in our side for years. We can't attack and

take over their pitifully weak nation because they are the world's

best peacekeepers. Above that, they keep us looking respectable

when we attack people randomly. But once they lose their national

sport, they will gladly join the United States of America, their

hockey superiors. Then the world would have to honor our

intentions, no matter debased and money oriented," spoke the

president.

Walter finally realized that this wasn't about the fish. This

was a conspiracy. A massive conspiracy. He knew there was something

fishy about the whole thing. But how was he supposed to stop this

capitalist plot from reaching its conclusion. He wasn't. He was

going home tonight and having a nice steak. He decided all this

just wasn't any of his business.

"So what do you want me to do Mr. President?"

"Stall them for a bit, Walter. And when negotiations break

down, get the hell out of there. Fast. I'm going to send in the

Marines."

"No nukes?" questioned Walter.

"No, that will take out too much of the Western seaboard,"

replied the President.

"All right Mr. President. I'll do the best I can."

"Good luck Walter and by the way, we have a job for you in

Seattle after this," spoke the President before hanging up.

Walter turned around slowly to head back to the negotiating

table.

"So what did your President say, eh? Are we fishermen making

this fish problem go away or..." Eric cut himself short.

"The President says that we are removing all fishing boats

from above the 49th parallel. We will never come up North again."

"What?" grilled Eric. "That isn't what this whole thing's

about!"

Walter went on, "And on top of that, we are willing to concede

our share of the unlimited supply of fish."

Eric gave Walter a cold look. "I'll have to talk with my

superiors," he said before walking out of the room.

Outside the room, he took out his cellular phone and dialed

Ottawa.

"Hello, Mr. Prime Minister."

"Hello, Eric, how are the negotiations going, eh?"

"They have offered to never come above the 49th parallel and

concede their share of the unlimited supply of fish."

"Damn, capitalist pigs. Always thinking of money. That's not

good enough. We have to stop the decay of our nation somehow. What

happens next? Once the Montreal Canadians are gone, we are

finished," spoke the Prime Minister in a dying voice.

"So what should I do, eh?"

"We have no choice. Starve the Canadians on the ferry. They

will understand. They are willing to die for their country, like

any other true patriot."

"Yes, they are, Mr. Prime Minister," spoke Eric.

"Good luck Eric," ended the Prime Minister.

"Thank you," replied Eric as he hung up.

He returned to the negotiating room to meet with Walter.

"Well, the negotiations are off. Those Canadians are going to

starve now, eh. Get the hell off my fishing boat."

"Gladly," said Walter grabbing the alligator leather gucci

briefcase. He went back to the ferry and then took the waiting

helicopter to Seattle. The Marines came in, disarmed the fanatic

hockey stick wielding fishermen, and fed the starving Canadians.

The Prime Minister then allocated 30% of the national budget to the

junior hockey program sending his country spiralling further into

debt.

------------------------- End of Chapter 8 -------------------------

Chapter Nine: The Police Officer

"Do good, but be relaxed."--Supreme Guru of Relaxism

Seattle, United States: Downtown, 16:00 PST

Walter arrived in the Seattle airport. He realized that he

arrived in Seattle slightly late, and would have to spend the

night. He went outside to the cool air and hailed a taxi. Maybe I

should take a look around downtown, he thought.

"Downtown, please," he told the cab driver.

They whizzed to the downtown area into the intense rush hour.

Walter saw a hot dog stand, and realized how hungry he was.

"Pull over here!" he pointed.

He got out of the cab, pulled out his new alligator leather

gucci briefcase, paid the driver, and walked to the hot dog stand.

"I'll take one of the really big jumbo dogs," he instructed

the man.

"Sure thing, mister. Coming right up."

"What's there to see in Seattle?" he queried.

"Well, there's the Space Needle, a couple of museums, you

know, the usual stuff," responded the man handing over a two foot

long hot dog. "That will be two dollars please."

"That's mighty cheap for this hot dog," remarked Walter.

"Well, we're in mighty fierce competition with those guys down

the block," the man informed him. "Thanks," he said taking the

money. Walter took the two foot long hot dog in both hands and

began walking to the nearest bench, leaving his briefcase behind

on the sidewalk.

Two dubious looking black juveniles walked down the busy

downtown street. They seemed quite out of place as the rest of the

road was filled with business men trying to make their way home.

"Yeah, nigger. We got it goin' on! Man, when we took that

bitch's purse and ran, man, we got some play there brother!"

"You know it homey! She didn't stand no chance! You went

buckwild!" he said admiringly.

Then he spotted the lonely briefcase on the sidewalk. He

adjusted his baseball cap from the backward to the sideways

position.

"Look over there, brother!" he gestured to the alligator

leather gucci briefcase. "A beautiful alligator leather gucci

briefcase! You ready chump?"

"Nah man. I'm tired of stealing and ripping people off for one

day. There is only so much disorder a tired young black nigger can

do in one day, brother."

"C'mon," urged the other."You with the program, what's the

dilly-o homey?"

"How 'bout this, we try to find the dude who lost his damn

briefcase, and if we don't find him, we keep it. All cool?"

"Aieeett, if ya feel that way. Looks like you gettin soft on

yall, living the good life outta the hood."

"Nah, man, I jus wanna feel what's it like doin' somethin'

good for a change, you know, man?"

"Shut up foo! Nobody gonna do nothin' good for you, you

understand ya stupid beeatch!"

"I don' care man! I'm returning this alligator leather gucci

briefcase," walking by the hot dog stand and picking up the

briefcase.

"Wait till I tell the brothers about this," spoke the other

adolescent shaking his head. "You on your own, foo," he spoke

storming off.

The black youth looked about for any business men who seemed

to be missing a bag. He questioned the hot dog stand operator

holding up the attache, "Hey man, you seen who owns this

briefcase?"

The man shrugged and continued cooking hot dogs.

The youth looked about him. He started asking people randomly

who walked by him to no avail. He thought for a moment. Well, since

the majority of people are right-handed, by the angle that it was

facing the hot dog stand it means that the person was walking

north. He started jogging up the block. He waited at the end of the

block and quizzed people.

"Y'all ever seen this alligator leather gucci briefcase

before?" he demanded. To his dismay, he didn't get much of a

response from the executives. Not to be discouraged, he looked

carefully at the people walking up and down the street. Every

single one of them was carrying some sort of item. The person was

long gone. Unless, he thought, they came in and out of some

vehicle. Then, if they were heading north, they would have to

return coming south. So I should actually be on the other side of

the street. He sprinted across the street and looked about once

again, this time trying to spot people in vehicles.

A man stepped out of a Toyota. "Hey man, this your briefcase?"

he asked. The man stepped back into his car and drove off. What's

up with this? he thought.

He asked a woman walking his way. "Hey lady, this your

briefcase?"

"No," she responded. "But it's a very nice alligator leather

gucci briefcase. You selling it?"

"No, I'm jus tryin to find the owner."

"I'll buy it for a hundred dollars," she spoke inquisitively.

"This young nigger ain't gonna fall for no unvirtuous

activity, woman. Get your ass outta here," he spoke while walking

off.

This is going to be my last try, he thought. He saw a large U-

Haul pulling over to the side of the road. Might as well ask this

guy, he reflected. He walked up to the door and saw a brown man

with a shaved head and a small moustache scrutinizing a map.

"Hey brother," he spoke, "this is your briefcase?"

The fellow in the truck peered out of his open window.

"Jihad?" he uttered in a distrustful voice. Then repeating the

mantra to himself, he put the map away and drove off.

"Wait!" yelled the black man sure that he had found the owner

of the briefcase. He sprinted after the truck. He caught the truck

at the lights. I'm finally going to do something good, he thought.

"Hey man!" he yelled through the window. "You forgot your

briefcase!"

The bewildered man rolled up his window and accelerated off

when the light turned green, attempting to escape. The adolescent

continued sprinting after the truck with briefcase in hand. Why

doesn't he want his briefcase? he thought. Must be a foreigner or

something like that. Well, I'm going to show him what America is

about. I'm going to give him back his briefcase.

A police car that was passing through the interection, saw the

shabbily dressed black man sprinting with the briefcase, and began

a pursuit. The police car swept through the intersection, cutting

in front of the truck and blocking all traffic on the road. The

police man stopped the sprinter when he reached the truck.

"Is that your briefcase son?" interrogated the officer.

"No, officer," panted the young man, "it's his," he huffed

pointing to the truck. Whew, thought the man, he's finally going

to get his briefcase back. Lucky that officer stopped him.

The officer didn't even look at the truck.

"Look, I been runnin in my kicks for the past three blocks,

man. It's his briefcase man. I asked him and he said jihad. I'm

pretty sure that means yes in his language, but then the light

turned green and he started driving."

"You expect me to believe you the way you're dressed? You

don't look respectable at all. You can't be wearing clothes like

that if you want to be taken seriously," spoke the officer.

The black man looked himself over. His sideways cap told all.

That and his untied shoelaces. The seven gold chains around his

neck didn't help very much either. "You're right officer. No way

you should believe a word I'm saying," he said holding out both

hands.

"I'm glad you agree. You're under arrest, son." He pulled out

his handcuffs and shackled the man. He grabbed the alligator

leather gucci briefcase and began reading him his rights.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and

will be used against you in court."

The man in the truck panicked, not knowing what was going on,

and decided to pummel through the police car.

"What the hell!" yelled the officer. He took his radio and

immediately called for backup.

The U-Haul crashed into cross traffic at the next

intersection, flipping over and spilling fertilizer everywhere.

"My God!" cried the officer. "He was trying to make a bomb!"

The man attempted to escape from the truck, but was promptly

wrestled to the ground by the officer. Soon, police surrounded the

area and arrested him. Both the Islamic terrorist and the black man

were taken to the police station.

At the police station, the officer was heartily congratulated.

"Hey Bob, you realize you just caught the notorious Khallid

Abdul? That Islamic terrorist guy?'

"Really, wow. Can you put take this briefcase down to evidence

for me? I got to write up this incident."

"Sure, no problem. Hey, this is a pretty nice alligator

leather gucci briefcase. Do you think this is the same one New York

is looking for?" asked the jailer.

Bob examined the briefcase carefully. "I don't know, you

better check it out."

In the jail cell, the black adolescent looked around pacing

about. He turned to another black man, sitting on a bench in the

barred room.

"Brother, can you do me a favour?" he asked.

"Whas up?"

"Next time I think of doing something good, nigger, put a cap

in my ugly black ass," he said vehemently.

"You got it brother."

------------------------- End of Chapter 9 -------------------------

Chapter Ten: The Janitor

"For every intelligent action, there is a much larger and opposite

overreaction."--Supreme Guru of Relaxism

New York Police Headquarters: 20:00 EST.

"Do we got the prints off that alligator gucci briefcase yet?"

asked Alan.

"Yeah, there are a hundred damn prints on this briefcase, and

none of them are Lecarte's."

"Damn Darren. I guess we got to let him go."

"Yeah, and we better give him his briefcase too."

"Maybe we should work him over a bit first and see if he

breaks."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

The two officers walked down to his jail cell.

"This is your last chance to confess Lecarte," spoke Alan.

Lecarte turned from his bench to face the two officers. "I

didn't do anything," he whined. "It's not my briefcase. Leave me

alone. I don't know anything about Khallid Abdul, I don't know

anything about bombs, I don't know anything."

"Yeah, that's what all the terrorists say. Although, I must

admit, you're a lot more convincing than most. All they usually say

is jihad. You at least speak english."

"Does that mean I can go?" spoke Lecarte with hope.

"No, we're going to make sure your body rots in this cell for

pulling that bomb thing. Two hundred people died in that crash. Did

you know that?" told Alan.

Darren whispered, "Alan, everybody survived on that flight."

"Shut up!" he whispered back giving him a shot to the ribs.

"Ow! You didn't have to elbow me that hard," he whispered

rubbing his ribs. Lecarte watched the two cops.

"Well, I'm sorry. On a brighter note though, I guess it was

good that I left my briefcase in the cab and had to run twenty

blocks after it thereby missing my flight," contemplated Lecarte.

"You're a bastard Lecarte. Let's go Darren." The two cops

turned and left. Lecarte lay back down on the bench. As soon as

they entered the hallway, the officers stopped and waited. "Do you

think he's going to break anytime soon?" spoke Darren.

"No, let's wait another five minutes."

They waited to hear any signs of crying or yelling. There were

none. "Well, I guess we should go release him."

The officers returned to the cell.

"You're free to go Lecarte," Alan spoke turning the key. "Just

don't let us catching you promulgating any more terrorist

activity."

Leclerc sat up once again. "You're kidding me aren't you." He

rubbed his eyes. "You guys have been hounding me constantly for the

past three days, and now you're letting me go. I'm an Islamic

terrorist remember? And you guys would string me up by my eyeballs

until I confess except that it's against the law. Have you guys

gone through some sort of memory lapse? This doesn't make any

sense. Where are you guys taking me?" he asked.

"Outside, where you're going to find a taxi and go home."

Leclerc laughed. "All right, the joke is over guys. Ha ha."

He lay back down on the bench.

"Let's go," said Darren lifting up Lecarte.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere! I didn't do anything!"

Darren and Lecarte struggled until Alan intervened. Together,

they dragged Lecarte in his wrinkled suit up the stairs and to the

front entrance. Then they threw him out of the police station and

watched him roll down the eighteen stairs.

"And we don't want to see your face around these parts again!"

spoke Darren as Leclerc crumpled to the ground.

"And don't let us catch you doing anything again, Lecarte,"

spoke the other officer. "By the way, here's your briefcase,

Lecarte." He threw the briefcase down the stairs. It bounced

several times and finally landed beside his collapsed body.

"It's not my briefcase!" he yelled. "How many times do I have

to tell you!" he forced out tearing his hair.

"We know it's not your briefcase. Anyway, you're free to go.

But keep it. It's a pretty nice alligator leather gucci briefcase."

They turned and walked back into the police station.

Lecarte angrily shook the briefcase but couldn't think of

anything to say. He threw the briefcase away in the alley behind

the police station, hailed a cab, reflected about his missed

flight, and headed home.

The janitor came out half an hour later to throw away the

police station garbage. He tripped on the alligator leather gucci

briefcase and fell flat on his face. He pivoted about, all thoughts

of the garbage leaving his mind as he spotted the attache.

"Why, I could sure use an alligator leather gucci briefcase!"

he exclaimed to no one in particular. So impressed with his find,

he neglected his job and began walking down the street with

briefcase in hand.

Unanticipatedly, a beggar came out of the shadows of the badly

lit street.

"Spare some change, sir," he asked pitiably.

The janitor, caught in an awkward position, responded, "Sorry

chap, I don't got any change."

"Can you spare anything?" implored the man. "I've got to feed

my family and I lost my job two weeks ago because I hurt my back."

He went into a lull as the janitor stopped to face him. "I can't

even collect unemployment insurance because the bastards messed up!

Give a guy a hand will you?"

The janitor thought of the briefcase he just acquired.

"Well, don't you have some family or anything you can ask for

help?" inquired the janitor.

"My mother lives with me and my father is dead..."

"Well, that's too bad. Family is always good to leech off of,"

responded the janitor. "Well, I would give you this alligator

leather gucci briefcase that I just acquired, but I've grown

extremely attached to it in the short while that I've had it."

"But I could sell it and feed my family!"

"You should stop thinking about yourself so much you selfish

bastard! You should think about others more often, and maybe then

you wouldn't be in the situation you're in!"

"But I'm thinking about my wife and children!" cried the man.

"Maybe you should stop thinking and stop talking. Actions

speak louder than words, you know, maybe you should do something

about your situation," lectured the janitor.

"But I'm trying..."

"Trying isn't good enough. Try doing something."

The beggar stormed off in frustration.

"Well, that was one senseless person there," muttered the

janitor to himself. He continued walking down the street. He

realized that he didn't really need the alligator leather gucci

briefcase. Well, it would be a waste to keep something you don't

need, thought the custodian while walking. I should really throw

it out. He looked about him. There was no garbage can around. With

a swift motion, he tossed the suitcase across the street. It flew

over a fence, hit the door of the small cottage, and plopped down

on the entrance. The dogs, startled by the noise, started barking.

The janitor headed back to the police station.

A drowsy man dressed in a robe opened the door. "My

briefcase!" Joseph shouted upon viewing the alligator leather gucci

briefcase. He brought the briefcase inside and turned the light on

examining it carefully. What's my briefcase doing here! he thought

to himself. I can't believe I got my briefcase back in such good

condition in New York! The world isn't that bad after all. He

stared in disbelief.

Some goodhearted person came and gave me back my alligator

leather gucci briefcase, and then left because they didn't want any

reward! he thought. Indeed, it was a wonderful world. He unlocked

it and viewed the contents. There was a large note he left for

himself that caught his eye. He chuckled as he read the note to

himself. It read, "Remember to Relax."

------------------------------- FIN -------------------------------

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