So I wake up on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor of the Ghost Hotel this morning, again, to a scream of rage, again. The Philosopher Red was shaking me violently, the gargling, guttural sounds of a gut-shot animal rising in his throat.
“Have you seen this,” he said…way too loud for my throbbing head. He helped me up off the floor and forced me over to my laptop computer. He pointed at the screen. “Read that !”
I read what was on the screen. It was a page with a story I had pulled up the night before, not expecting the Philosopher Red to be searching through my search history, or even be interested in the news of the day. The story was about the ricin-laced letters some nut job from Mississippi had sent President Barack Obama, some senator named Wycker, from somewhere, and a Justice Court judge in Mississippi. A copy of the letters was prominently displayed.
No one wanted to listen to me before.
There are still ‘Missing Pieces’
Maybe I have your attention now
Even if that means someone must die
This must stop.
To see a wrong and not expose it,
Is to become a silent partner to its continuance
I am KC and I approve this message.
“What kind of people are we if we let these kinds of attacks go unanswered?” Red raged. “We got to teach these terrorists a lesson – blow them all to hell,” he said, slamming one fisted hand into the palm of another.
“Like that’s going to scare him,” I said, looking to see if Red had left me any coffee in the pot, “The guy’s from Mississippi.”
“I’d say a couple of drone strikes would do them some good,” Red growled. “And if a couple of surgical strikes don’t straighten them up, we’ll send in the Marines…or the Navy SEALS…then blow them all to hell…hell, I tell you…HELL !”
The Philosopher Red was working himself into a self-righteous rage, which is never very pretty. I tried to calm him. I told him that the letter-sender was a nut job, an Elvis impersonator.
“Another Elvis follower,” Red said. “The last Elvis impersonator I saw looked like Saddam Hussein. We got to start taking these kind of troublemakers out. How do these people spread this crap around,” he nearly screamed, pointing at the computer screen. I told him the suspect, a Kevin Curtis, was a blogger…a frustrated writer.
“A what? A Blogger? Who let’s these people in our country?” Red raged. “We ought to send his ass back to Blogistan where he belongs. Don’t these damn A-rabs get CNN in Blogistan…just what about Shock and Awe don’t they understand? They just don’t get it ’til they’re swinging from the end of a rope.”
His outraged threats echoed through the empty concrete chambers and hallways of the Ghost Hotel.
“You could have left me some coffee,” I said, tossing some grounds into the pot…cowboy coffee again. This was starting to seem like one of those Philosopher Red type of days.