The Home Threat – Segment Four

The sun burst through the bedside window at 7:15 AM. Jason rolled over in the bed with an ache in his left arm that he hand’t felt for months. Mira put him through the ringer on the combat course and the bruise on his right shoulder gave testament to the fifty rounds from the 338 Lapua. It proved he wasn’t quite in the shape he had once been in, however, he still made the shot. Forty out of fifty rounds were placed on their mark at a thousand yards. Jason couldn’t remember the last time he had shot so well. If The Judge wanted him to be a sniper, he believed he could fit the bill. His performance was sure to gain him a spot on the team.

Jason rose from the bed and made his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. Standing in front of the mirror, Jason took a long look at the scars and his disfigured arm. There was a four inch gouge in his forearm  where part of the muscle was so badly damaged that they had to remove it. His shoulder was severally disfigured from all the damage that the shrapnel had done. It took four surgeries to give him back even partial motion in his arm. He lifted it as high as he could and winced from the sharp pain from the stress he had put on it sparing with Mira the day before. A smile came across his face. The Judge was right. Mira was good. If she hadn’t been controlling herself, she could have easily ended his life in short order as they sparred on the combat course.

He thought about what The Judge had planned for him. The skills that he had proven where going to get him exactly what The Judge had envisioned. Jason smiled, got himself dressed, and left his apartment to begin his daily two mile run. When he returned to his home, he found the front door ajar. Moving slowly into the doorway he found a elderly man dressed in a black suit sitting in his recliner.

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Cannon, my name’s John. The Judge sent me here to bring you up to speed.”

“Up to speed on what?”

The man stood and walked to Jason’s kitchen table and opened a briefcase that he had placed on the far end. “Mr Cannon come have a seat.”

Jason walked around the far side of the table and sat down. The man pulled a photo from the case and slid it across the table in front of Jason. “I know you recognize this man.”

Jason looked down at a photo of Michael Hussan, the current Democratic President. “The Prseident?” he said.

“Thats right. Do you know who he really is?”

Jason shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

“Mr. Hussan’s real name is Almir Mahmud. Everything you’ve read about this guy has been made up by the people who put him here.” He slid another photo in front of Jason. “He’s the son of an Islamic extremist by the name of Ismah Mahmud. He’s top ranking in Hezbollah and was an instrument in the bombing of the US embassy in Beirut in 1983. Almir Mahmud was sent to the US in the ’80s to go to school under the name of Michael Hussan. A citizen of the US who never really existed. US social security number, birth certificate, the works.  He went to Princeton, got his degree, went to law school at Harvard,  and has worked his way into politics by the support of the socialist groups that, we believe brought him here.”

“How did he get his US papers in the first place?”

“Corruption in our government has been a problem for the last fifty years, Mr. Cannon. It’s really not that hard.” He gathered the photographs and put them away. “Jason, you ever wonder why this administration won’t make a decision on border security, or why they refuse to label a crime by a islamic terrorist anything other than  workplace violence?”

“Yeah.”

“We believe that Mr. Mahmud and his group of US terrorist have infiltrated our government and are planning on overtaking us and turning us into a state of Islam. That’s where you come in.

 

 

 

The Home Threat – Segment Three

Jason arrived at the warehouse at 7:30 sharp, just as he was instructed. There were three cars parked in the parking lot in front of the large roll-up doors. He walked to the door he had entered the morning before and found it to be locked. After several knocks, Jason realized that no one would be letting him in. He looked back toward the cars and began to walk toward them. As he reach the doors, the first one began to open. Jason stopped. As the door rose it revealed a beautiful dark haired woman dressed in black tactical pants and a black t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail and her hands were placed on her hips.

“Mr Cannon. We’ve been waiting for you. Follow me.”

Jason followed the woman to the conference room where he met with The Judge the morning before. The old man sat, once again, at the head of the table. To his right sat two middle aged men, both dressed as the woman with the same black t-shirts. Jason and the woman sat to The Judge’s left.

“Mr. Cannon, I see you decided to join us this morning.” The old man said.

“Yes sir.”

I want you to meet the rest of my team.” Pointing to the woman he said, “The young lady to your right is Mira Solinki. Ms. Solinski is ex Mossad. Ten years Special Operations with Mossad. She speaks five languages, Hebrew, English, Arabic, Farsi, and Turkish. She’s a Krav Maga instructor and holds black belts in both Karate and Jujitsu. Needless to say, this young lady is quite deadly.” He pointed to the man sitting across from Jason and said, “The man sitting across from you is Simon Baker. Mr Baker came to us from MI5. He is flaunt in English, German, Italian, and French. Heavily trained in  counterespionage as well as being the best thief i’ve ever known. Next to him is Awadi Quraishi. Mr Quraishi cam to us from Saudi Intelligence. He also speaks English, Farsi, Arabic, and Turkish. He is a computer specialist. Mr Quraishi can hack into anything, including our friends systems at the Ferm.”

Jason was in awe. He couldn’t believe the talent that surrounded him.

“So Mr. Cannon. What skills do you think you bring to this group?

Jason looked to the head of the table. “This is quite a group. I think if there is anything your missing, I’d say it was backup.”

Mira turned to him and said, “We back each other up. There’s no cowboy shit in this group.”

“Not exactly what I meant, Ms. Solinski. I have the unique ability to place a steal jacket 308 through the center of a moving fifty cent piece from two thousand yards away, effectively covering your six.”

“That would be a skill we could use in certain situations, but can you still do it after the arm injury and two years out of the Navy?’ The Judge asked.

“Any time. Set it up and I’ll prove it.”

“Mr Cannon, let me tell you where I see you fitting into this group, given you can still perform.” He closed Jason’s file that once again laid in front of him on the table. “Your place here is the muscle. The warrior. There’s not to many undercover situations I can put a six foot three inch, two hundred forty pound war hero, that someone’s not going to notice you. Just as you said, your the backup. The guy that goes in with guns blazing. I’m not sure I need that, but if I do maybe you can fill that spot.”

Jason was a little turned off about the spot he would hold. He didn’t see how the job at hand would need that type of position.

“Mira, take Cannon to the range, get him a rifle, and see if he can still shoot. Then run him through the combat course and make sure he can fight. I want to know if this bum arm of his is going to be a problem. Mr. Cannon, when your finished with Mira, go home. I’ll contact you and give you your first assignment. Don’t contact me again.”

 

The Home Threat – Segment Two

Daylight broke at 6:57 AM and Jason was already consuming his second cup of coffee. A meeting had been scheduled for 8:00 AM at a warehouse along the Potomac River, on the west side of the District near a small airport. He was to meet with a man known as The Judge, who was suppose to be a retired Army General who ran a consulting firm for the CIA. Jason had heard about The Barken Group, but had never met, The Judge. He didn’t know the man’s name and probably never would. He had only been told to meet the man, at the warehouse on Canal St at 8:00 AM.

Jason pulled up to the warehouse and stopped out front of the large steel doors. There were no other cars in the parking lot and the place looked like no one had occupied the building in years. Grass had grown up along the broken down fence and the gate at the entrance was leaning over and no longer functional. The building was dilapidated and old. Jason opened the car door, reached back to check that his pistol was secure before walking toward the door. As he reached it, he heard a click, and the door began to open. Jason cautiously stepped in. He starred down a hallway that was no more than twenty foot long. It was clean and white with a drop in ceiling and bright lighting. At the end of the hallway was a door that was open to a darkened room. Jason walked forward with his hand firmly on the handle of his holstered Glock 23. He stepped through the door into the dark room. He could tell he had entered the warehouse portion of the building because it was cool and his footsteps echoed as he slowly stepped forward. As his eyes began to adjust to the darkened room, he could see an image of something large in front of him.

“Hello. Is anyone here? Judge?” he yelled.

There was no answer. Jason pulled his phone from his breast pocket and turned on the flashlight app. As he raised the phone and shown the light toward the object in the room, he saw it. A Gulfstream G650, one of the most beautiful private jets in the world. Jason was in awe. It was sixty five million dollar airplane. He walked toward the plane looking it over. He had always had a love for aircraft though he had never been able to get behind the business end of one.

“You like my plane, Mr Cannon?” a voice said as the lights came on with a loud bang from the electrical switch gear.

Jason quickly crouched and spun around pulling his pistol and canvasing the room.

“Relax Mr. Cannon, I think your here to see me.” The voice said again as an older gentleman walked from in front of the plane. “They call me The Judge. I understand the firm wants you and I to work together.”

Jason lowered his pistol slowly and returned it to his hip. He stuck his hand out stepping toward the man. “My friends at the CIA think that if I can work with you, maybe we can do something about what’s going on with this administration.” Jason said shaking the man’s hand.

“First of all son we say the Firm not the CIA. Second of al,l I decide if you will work with me, not your friends at the farm.” He turned and started walking away from Jason, heading toward a door on the far end of the warehouse. “Follow me kid.”

Jason looked around the warehouse as he followed the old man. There were several caged in areas with weapons stored in racks. At the doors to the warehouse sat two black Suburbans with blacked out windows and two black four door Jeep Wrangles deck out the same way. A smile came across Jason’s face when he reached the door. This was exactly what made him click. he loved the game. They stepped into a conference room that had a large fifteen foot table lined with twelve high back black leather chairs. The room had a sixty inch flat screen TV on one end and other was covered with a large white dry erase board. The old man sat down at the head of the table and told Jason to have a seat. In front of him was a large blue folder with Jason’s name written across the top. Jason sat and pulled himself up to the table looking at The Judge.

“So I understand you spent several years in the Seals?”

“Yes Sir.”

“What makes you think you have what it takes to work in my group?”

“Look Mr…” Jason paused hoping the man would give him his name.

“Just call me Judge.” He said.

“Judge, I want to do something about what’s going on. I’m tired of hearing that everything my buddies I fought for over there is going to shit. I want to get back in the game. I want help.”

He turned several pages in the files, “You were injured in Panjwai?”

“Yes sir.”

“Says here that you incurred some pretty serious trauma to your left arm along with shrapnel damage to your head torso and left leg.”

“Yes sir. I spent a long time recovering from that.”

“So your back to a hundred percent?”

Jason didn’t answer. He starred down at the table in front of him and flexed his left hand.

“What makes you think you can accomplish what we need to do with a bum arm, Mr Cannon?”

He turned and looked into the mans eyes and said, “Judge, put me in the game. I can prove it to you.”

The Judge slowly began to nod his head as he looked back at Jason, “Okay Cannon, lets see what you got. Come back here at 7:30 tomorrow morning. We’ll see if you have what it takes.”

The Home Threat – Segment One

He heard the news as it came across the radio. More Americans had lost their lives to the barbarianism of Islamic terrorist in Syria. Jason Cannon listened to the reporter as he drove home from work. The memory of the time he spent in Afghanistan, fighting against the Taliban, as well as his last day in country, was still clear in his head. He spent six years as part of the Navy’s Seal Team Six, participating in hundreds of covert missions. He only wished he could still be with his team, but a well placed RPG that killed two of his brothers and destroyed his left arm, ended his carrier in the Navy. Jason spent the best part of two years recovering from his wounds and only recently secured a job as a security consultant at National Oilwell in Washington DC.

The news he was listening to, infuriated him. If the idiots in Washington hadn’t pulled out of Iraq, this new Islamic threat wouldn’t have taken such a strong hold in the cities he and his buddies spilled their blood to win. Between what they had caused in the middle east and what they where doing in the states, it was obvious to Jason that this administration was somehow apart of the Islamic threat. He needed to do something. His country was being infiltrated and overrun with the people he fought to stop in Afghanistan. He still had friends in the Pentagon that he knew he could contact. He wanted find out what he could do. How he might help keep anyone else from dying by these murderous extremist. It wasn’t going to be easy. His injuries were going to keep him out of going back in play with the Navy. He thought about what he might do.

Jason picked up his cell phone and made a call. After a short two minute conversation he hung up. He knew that this was the right move, and he knew he was the guy to get it done. He would have to walk away from the new job. His family would have to be lied to. His friends would never be able to know, but he would be back in the covert game, only this time, not with the military. This time he would be working with a privately funded organization that worked completely off the grid. A company operating with instructions from the CIA Counter Terrorist Unit. A company that took all the risk. Jason knew what that meant for him. He knew that if he was caught, he would be prosecuted, and know one from the CIA would back him up. He could never talk about the CIA having any involvement even if he went to jail. Jason smiled, He wouldn’t get caught.

(To be continued)

 

Loss of focus

When I created this blog I wanted to have a place where I could create my stories and have people follow along and watch as the creative juices flowed. It started out pretty good. I wrote daily, stuck to my guns, and came up with a few really good posts. Then life, and all the things associated with work and family, seemed to kill my creativity for a while. A few weeks ago, I was asked, by a family member, how my book was going and when would it be finished. I went home and told myself that I had to get it done. I only needed to finish edits on the last few chapters and then I would be done. Last weekend after a few days of uninterrupted work, I finished the book. Now I want to start working on my next story. Hopefully I can hold on to my creativity and keep the blog going. If your all still with me, follow along as I try to entertain you with Stories From The Mind Of A King.

A Day In The Life

Matt Yeager was sitting in his blue and white police cruiser outside a sandwich shop on South Gessner St. His attention was on the Ipad that he held in his hands. With a subscription paid to access the At Bat application, he could watch the Astros matinee game while sitting in his car. The team was having its worst year in twenty, but Matt didn’t care. He was a huge Astros fan. It was 2:00 PM and the sun was hot shining into the cars driver’s window. It was well past Matt’s lunch hour and he knew he should be back on patrol but nothing was going to keep him from seeing his beloved Astros play the Yankees in their home field. Matt wished he was at Minute Maid Park drinking a $5.00 beer and watching Lucas Harrell play what Matt thought would be his sixth home win.

The speaker box on the cars radio lit up as a call from dispatch rang out. “9261,” the dispatcher said.

Matt looked from his tablet toward the radio with a disappointed look. He picked up his microphone and answered, “9261 go ahead.”

“8300 Sands Point Dr. Resident reports a confrontation with a man threatening him with a knife. The man was described as a black male, 20 to 30 years of age, wearing a dark blue hooded jacket and baggy jeans. Complainant states that the man is still outside of his apartment yelling and screaming.”

Matt looked back at his Ipad. He raised the microphone back to his mouth and answered, “9261 clear. Show me in route, 5 minutes out.”

He threw the ipad into the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. Matt was angry. Another crazy domestic that he would have to deal with that would probably keep him from seeing the remainder of his game. With his lights flashing Matt made a mad dash the two miles to the apartment complex at the corner of Gessner and Sands Point Dr. As he turned the corner he began to look for the man described by the resident. He slowed the vehicle and picked up his microphone.

“9261”

“9261 go ahead.”

“Do we have an apartment number at 8300 Sands Point drive?”

“Complainant stated apartment number 106.”

“That clear, show me out at that location.”

“9261 that clear. Showing you out at 8300 Sands Point.”

Matt pulled his cruiser in front of the apartment labeled 106. He stepped out of the car and walked to the apartment door. He was thinking about the game and how the last time he looked, the Astros were up by two points in the bottom of the 4^th inning. Matt reached for the doorbell. Just as his finger touched the button the door swung open and a large Hispanic man was staring down the barrel of a large bore pistol that was aimed directly at Matt’s head.

The man yelled, “Back up!”

Matt lifted his hands and said, “Easy sir, there’s no need for that. What’s going on?”

“Just back up and get away from my door.”

“Sir, I was responding to a call to this address about someone threatening a resident with a knife. Was that you that called?”

The man looked scared. He was wide eyed and had sweat beading up on his forehead.

“Sir, how about you put down the gun and let’s just talk about what’s going on here.”

Matt had stepped back two steps but the pistol followed him and stayed no more than 18” from his face.

“Sir, I’m off your porch and away from your door. Just lower your pistol and tell me what’s going on.”

The man had the gun in both hands and had his finger firmly pressed into the trigger. He wasn’t responding to Matt’s requests to lower his gun. He knew, that at that distance, there would be no way he could miss. One wrong word, one wrong move and the distraught man may twitch and Matt’s career and or his life would end right where he stood.

“Sir, how can we end this? Do you want be to leave?”

The man looked up from the pistol but kept it pointed at Matt’s head. “No,” the man replied. “I need you.”

“Okay, that’s why I’m here. Now why don’t you lower that pistol just a little bit, and tell me what’s going on.”

Slowly the man lowered the pistol as he stared at Matt with wide eyes. He looked as if he was staring straight through him. Matt began to lower his hands as the guns aim moved down his body.

“That’s it, easy does it.” He said as the man brought the gun lower and lower. He reached for the pistol slowly as he stared into the man’s wild eyes. “Just hand the pistol to me nice and easy.” Matt reach out and grabbed the gun from the man’s hands and removed it from his grip. He took the gun and stuffed it into the back of belt. He grabbed the man’s hand and twisted it behind his back and placed them in handcuffs. He pointed to the ground and asked the man to have a seat on the edge of the porch.

“Now tell me what’s going on here. What’s got you so upset?”

The man began to tell his story. Matt had difficulty understanding him. Between his horrible accent and his obvious intoxication Matt had to really listen to try and understand what the man was saying.

His name was Arturo Villeneuve; he was 63 years old and had come to this country from Reynosa on a work Visa six months before. He was living with his nephew, Juan Castaneda and his wife Daniela. He was home alone after returning from work and a young black man opened his door and walked in screaming and yelling looking for his nephew. Arturo told the man he was not home and he needed to get out. An altercation arose in the family’s living room with Arturo and the intruder pushing and shoving. With his size advantage, Arturo was able to push the man out into the street telling him he would kick his ass if he returned. The man pulled a knife and Arturo ran back into the house and called 911.

Matt asked him if he knew where the intruder was now and he said he disappeared right after he called 911.

“Mr. Villeneuve, where did you get the gun?”

“My nephew, it’s my nephew’s gun.”

“Where is Juan right now, Mr. Villeneuve?”

“Don’t know,” he answered.

“Arturo, is there anyone else in the house?”

“No.”

Matt reached down and grabbed Arturo by the arm.

“Stand up for me sir.”

He stood and Matt patted him down finding only his wallet. He opened it and removed his identification card. “Mr. Villeneuve, I’m taking your identification card out of your wallet and I’m going to go back to my car and call my dispatch. Do you understand?”

He nodded his head as Matt lowered him back down and had him sit.

“You sit right here and I will be right back.”

Matt walked back to his car and sat down in the driver’s seat watching Arturo through the windshield.

“9261.”

“9261 go ahead.”

“I need to run check on a Mexican national. Name Arturo Villeneuve, date of birth, October 23, 1950, Work Visa Control Number, 73247,Lima, Lima, Hotel, 734710001.”

“9261 that’s clear stand by.”

Matt watched Arturo as he waited for dispatch. His heart was still in his throat from the gun being crammed into his face when the door opened. Arturo was scared.  He had obviously been drinking and probably thought the intruder had returned when he stepped up to the door. Wild with adrenaline he probably never noticed the uniform or that he wasn’t the black kid that had threatened him earlier. Matt was six foot tall with red hair and fair complexion. He watch him through the windshield as he weaved back and forth he slumped forward slowly and Matt thought he was going to throw up. Then before dispatch returned the man began to fall over to his left. Matt jump up from the car and ran to his prisoner. Arturo lay still on the ground. Matt grabbed at his throat attempting to feel for a heartbeat. There was no pulse. He quickly undid the restraints from his hands and laid him on his back across the ground. He listened to his chest and heard no heartbeat. He placed his left hand on Arturo’s chest across his breastbone and placed his right on top of his left hand and began chest compressions just like the department had taught him. He looked across the street at the crowd that had gathered.

“I need someone to call 911,” he yelled.

He leaned down to Arturo, lifted his chin and placed his mouth over Arturo’s mouth and gave him two rescue breaths.

“Is someone calling 911?” he yelled again.

“My wife is calling now.” A young back man yelled back from the street.

“You come here,” Matt cried.

The man ran over and knelt down next to Arturo’s body. “I’m gonna need someone to take over for me here in a few minutes. Do you know how to do this?”

“No”

“Go find me someone who does.” Matt leaned down and gave Arturo two more rescue breaths and jumped up to start compressions again. “Go find me someone!” He yelled.

The man jumped up and took off running across the street yelling, asking if anyone knew how to do CPR. Matt heard someone yell back “Yeah, I do.”

Matt looked up to see another young black man run from the crowd in his direction. As he dropped to one knee beside Arturo Matt looked up and asked, “You know how this is done?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m gonna get tired here in a minute and you and I need to trade off.”

“No problem, I can do it. I work at Methodist hospital. We all get trained in this kind of thing.”

Matt looked at the kid. He was about 25 years old and wore a blue hooded jacket and baggy jeans.

“What’s your name kid?”

“Michael Williams,” he answered.

“Do you know this man?”

“No sir”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir, I’m sure.”

Matt continued his CPR and was reluctant to turn it over to the kid. What if he was the black male that threatened Arturo and he really didn’t know how to do CPR. He could finish the man off right there and Matt would have helped him do it. Because Matt was unsure he decided he would have to keep giving Arturo the life saving CPR himself until the ambulance showed.

“Officer, you look tired, let me take over.”

Matt didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to tell the kid to forget it. If he was the intruder that Arturo spoke of and he did have a knife, Matt was in no position to deal with him.

“I’m okay right now kid, hang in there, you’ll get your turn.”

Matt continued the compressions and the rescue breaths. After twelve minutes he began to hear the sirens. He was tired. His arms ached from the constant compressions to Arturo’s chest. The young man continued to sit there and was counting for Matt as he bounced up and down.

“You sure you don’t want me to take over?” Michael asked.

“It’s okay, I hear the ambulance, they’ll be here any minute now. I got it,” Matt replied through his labored breathing.

Sweat was pouring from Matts face and his uniform was soaked. The kid stopped counting and stood up. Matt watched and his hands began to fidget and his face had a look of anger.

“What’s the matter Michael? Calm down.”

The kid looked over his shoulder and began to walk across the street just as the ambulance pulled up and the paramedic ran to relieve Matt. A young kid in a Houston Fire Department Paramedic uniform run up, dropped to his knees and said, I got this officer back up and take a breath. Matt stopped the CPR. He was exhausted. He couldn’t stop though. He had to go find the kid. He lifted his exhausted frame fro the pavement and started across the street. He stopped at his car and reached in to grab his portable radio. As he began to jog toward where Michael was headed he keyed the microphone on the portable radio and said, “9261 requesting backup. 8300 Sands Point Dr. Officer in pursuit on foot of a black male, 20 to 30 years of age wearing a blue hooded jacket and baggy jeans last seen walking eastbound on Sands Point.”

“9261 clear.” The dispatcher replied. “Anyone in the vicinity of South Gessner and Sands Point Drive. Officer requesting backup.”

Matt heard when a fellow officer returned the call “7754, show me out at that Sands Point address.”

Matt was swiftly walking eastbound on Sands point with his Sig Sauer drawn and checking everywhere in search of Michael Williams.

“9261, this 7754. What’s your location?”

Sargent, I’m eastbound, on foot, 300 yard from Allday Dr.”

Just then Matt saw movement behind a dumpster in the parking lot next to one of the apartment buildings across the street. He ran across the street and positioned himself where he could cover the area just in front of the dumpster.

“Michael Williams?”

No reply. Matt moved closer. “Williams if that’s you need to come on out son.”

There was still no reply. Matt began to walk toward the dumpster and moving to his left to keep his view clear. Just then a shot rang out and a bullet hit Matt in the back stopped on by his vest. It knocked the breath from his lungs and the shock caused him to drop his pistol. He heard footsteps running up behind him as he rolled over to see who was coming toward him. He had just enough time to see the shooter before another shot rang out and Michael Williams’s head exploded into a huge splash of blood and tissue. He dropped to the ground and Matt rolled to left to see where the shot came from. Standing in the street 30 yards away was Sargent Johnson. He was still standing with his 45 pointed toward where Williams had fallen. It had been one hour since Matt was comfortably sitting in his car watching a baseball game and trying to make the day pass. In that time he had had a gun shoved in his face by a frightened old man. That same old man had had a heart attach that he was forced to perform CPR for over 15 minutes and while doing so a killer sat watching him only three feet away. If that wasn’t enough the kid then shot him and was the killed as he stood to finish the job.

What’s next? What’s next is he goes back on patrol and it starts all over again. Every day, every week, every year, that’s the life of a policeman.

A Man And His Dog

Ol’ Beaux, has to be the best dog I ever had. In my mind, the best dog there ever was. I owned his mom, a mutt named Screaming Meme. I think she was mostly Labrador and maybe Rottweiler or Pitt Bull. A more hard-headed dog, there never was and noisy as hell. I still own his old daddy. A Border Collie named Clyde who’s now 14 years old and spry as he can be. The second best dog ever too. Beaux was born in April of 2005. One of 12 puppies that we really didn’t want but made sure we found homes for them all. Beaux was the only black and tan out of the bunch. I thought he was a really cute puppy and wanted one that would be just mine.

As soon as he was weaned I started taking him with me everywhere I went. Every day he went to work with me. At the time I worked in the field spending every day with a road crew and Beaux stayed in the truck all day. I made sure he had regular bathroom breaks and kept water in the truck for him. The Texas summer is very hot so if I had to leave him anywhere, I made sure the truck was running and the A/C was on. We spent every day together 24 hours a day for his first year. He slept next to me on a pallet on the floor every night. He stayed with me all day at work and when we got home he lived in the house and always stayed at my side.

Eight years later and Beaux still sleeps, on that pallet, on the floor right next to my bed. He doesn’t go to work with me anymore but he meets me at the door when I come home every day and stays at my side the rest of the day. He has been house broken since the first day I started working with him. He never makes a mistake unless someone in the house screws up and gives him something that makes him sick and then leaves him in the house alone (It’s happened twice in eight years). Beaux is the smartest dog I’ve ever seen. I attest that to Clyde being his dad. I wish that years ago I would have worked with him like I did Beaux. I can only hope that Beaux lives as long as Clyde has. He is now eight years old come April. He’s 80 lbs and absolute beautiful animal.

So what do you say about a man and his dog? My wife says “You love that damn dog more than you love me.” Of course that’s not true but I do love my dog. It doesn’t matter what mood I’m in how much of a bad day I’ve had or how sad I am, Beaux always make me smile. A man should have a dog like Beaux. He’s good for my health. He makes me smile when nothing else does. Someday I will lose my Ol’ Beaux and I’m not sure what I will do.

 

What Does A Father Do?

Cover of Drugs (Talk About)

What does a father do when he has a child who chooses to destroy herself? What does a father do when he loves her so much that what she’s doing to herself begins to affect his health? What does a father do when all trust is gone and anything she does looks like something else to him?

The times we live in are so different from the times he grew up in. Children today are presented with a society that is so much more decadent than what it was only thirty years ago. The family unit is gone and these kids have no respect for themselves or anyone else around them. Drugs have become an epidemic in today’s American neighborhoods and this is the problem this dad has with his daughter. Fighting has become an every night thing and it’s starting to affect the family as a whole. He only wants the best for her. He wants her to be safe. He wants her to become who he knows she can become. She doesn’t know it but he is her biggest fan. He doesn’t understand her world. He doesn’t see it as anything short of being stupid and irresponsible. So many times they have sat down and talked and tried to reason with her but they always ended up back at the fighting. What does a father do?

Tonight again she is found acting very strange. Once again he believes she has taken something. He tries to talk to her and reason with her but she wont talk. She wont act right. She wants to move out but he can’t support it knowing that she would just slip off the deep end and complete the job he is working so hard to stop. What does a father do?

I would love comments on this. Give me some feedback. Share your experience.

The First Book, The Volunteer

Things are going great with the book. I’ve been working to get ready for promoting through Facebook and Youtube. Today I created a Video Book Trailer and it turned out awesome. I’m waiting to get my permissions back from the photographers to allow me to use the images. After hat I will post it to get some feedback.

I spent yesterday with the photographer working on the images for the book cover. His first rough image was exactly what I had in mind. We were able to use my dad’s memorabilia from when he was a Houston Police Officer to create the images.I sent him the blurb for the back of the cover today and I expect to see something completed from him by the end of the week.

The book is finished and back from editing. I have two more test readers and then it will be ready to send to the publisher. I’m getting excited. this has been ongoing for a little over a year now.

Ebony and Ivory

So my friend Phillip and I were having a conversation today about politics. Phillip is an African American man who has been in and around our family for the better part of the last ten years. He is a professional Care Giver who takes care of our handicapped son and who has proven to be an extremely trustworthy dependable employee and friend for all of these years.

During our conversation, the subject of equality came up. I asked the question, “Why, if minority’s want equality so bad, do they set themselves up to be so different?” He asked me what I meant by that. So I explained. “If the black community wants to be treated equal to all other ethnic groups, then why is it OK for them to have organizations like United Negro College fund, or have a television channel call Black Entertainment Television? It’s not OK for the white community to do the same and if we tried, then the black community would be in an uproar. Why would you do that?”

So after a thirty minute discussion and him giving me his opinion of how we got where we are, which by the way I agreed with almost everything he said, Phillip and I decided we wanted to share with you the differences in our points of view on this subject. Monday Phillip will bring me his written opinion and I will post it here as well as my opinion. Also if we can get some feedback we may continue to address some of these difficult questions and see what everyone thinks about it.