Copyright, C, Steve Erdmann, 2019
“In spite of all the danger, in spite of all that may be, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to be….” In Spite Of All the Danger, the Beatles, 1958.
“People are eliminated. Honey, you don’t know how many people are just eliminated, just on the operating table alone. They just need to be disposed of. And don’t ever believe what you read in the papers. It’s all made up.” (Joe Shimon, a professional assassin and deep cover operative, speaking belatedly in life to his daughter.)
The Boxenwolf (also known as the Buxenwolf) was from Germanic lore of the Schaumberg region where a pact had been made with the Devil himself. The victim can be transmuted into a wolf with the help of a magic girdle. The girdle was said to be a device from Hell. When he takes the form of a wolf, he enjoyed persecuting people. Even though he looked like a regular wolf, he is still able to think like a human but gained “wolf powers” as well. His senses were magnified, such as smell, sight, and he was able to run incredibly fast.
Stories and legends continued as old and resilient as evil, and the questioning of Power itself.
The Nazi Reich of the mid-century was an assimilation of Black Magic and these occult beliefs.
In 1923, a man known as Fritz Kappe created a terrorist group called Organization Werewolf. Their official banner looked a lot like a pirates’ old Jolly Roger – a black flag with white skull and crossbones (not to mention the semblance to Yale University’s Skull and Bones). At first, the group’s movement spread very quickly throughout Germany. Due to arrests by the Weimar government, the Werewolves never grew into an agency that caused any real threat: or so the popular conception went.
It is likely that Organization Werewolf was created in response to Adolf Hitler’s desire for Germany’s youth to be like werewolves – cruel and harsh, people that wanted to destroy humankind (history books say that Hitler was obsessed with wolves and werewolves and wanted his men to be more like them).
The name was chosen after the title of Hermann Löns’ novel, Der Wehrwolf (1910). Set in the Celle region, Lower Saxony, during the Thirty Years’ War (1618–48), the novel concerned a peasant, Harm Wulf, who, after his family is killed by marauding soldiers, organised his neighbors into a militia who hunted the soldiers mercilessly and executed any they captured, referring to themselves as Wehrwölfe. While not himself a Nazi (he died in 1914) Löns’ work was also popular with the German far right, and the Nazis reveled his work.
Werner Naumann, Goebbels’s top aide at the end of the war, sent out a noteworthy message by teletype to the Nazi Party’s regional propaganda offices in early April 1945. It called on the residual propagandists throughout Germany to devote their full efforts to building an underground resistance movement that would make Allied occupation insufferably costly. The Allies were in fact worried about the possibility of the Werewolf movement, but in the end, Germans were more than ready to have the war over and not much came of this final effort. (Werner Naumann, “Jetzt scheiden sich die Geister!” National Archives Microfilm Series T-311, roll 169, frames 1071-1074.)
Later, many historians came to believe that the German-American Bund supposedly went out of existence and that there really were no cogent groups such as Odessa after the war. There was mention of U-boats U-530 and U-977 and the 54 German U-boats that “disappeared” in a connection with a mythical Neuschwabenland. These tales were regulated to rumor and history’s junk pile. We are told that tales about the Nazi “time machine” technology – The Bell – wunderwaffe – was only a flagrant science-fiction-story.
Ironically, despite the myth’s historical actuality, mainline historians agreed to dismiss the legend and continue the disbelief down through the ages.
Somebody Here That I Cannot See
March 21, the celebration of the goddess Ostara, the evening of the kill shot.
The thud of a closed side entrance way to the Boxenwolf mansion denotes the young heiress’ exit. As she makes her way into the accompanying landscape of the property, a sudden hush comes over the territory, all wildlife becomes still and the wind stops as if upon command. Window light from the enormous manse intrudes upon the night while sharing the jet black darkness of many darkened rooms. The golden sheen of her long hair punctuates her passage towards the gradually rising mound several thousand feet into the property. Her swagger causes the strands to bounce sensuously from one side of her neck to the other. The nineteen-year-old’s erotic and unctuous rhythmic unveiling of her calf and leg through the slit of her gown is constant, disturbed every few seconds by her dodge over a hidden intruder-detection device. Her image recedes. As she gets closer to the mound, the sounds of night-time wildlife revive and quickly rise into a crescendo of sound. She opens a door at her destination that briefly reveals a yellow interior.
Suddenly, several feet away, a rectangular hangar door begins to slide upward. Just beyond it, posed bravely and daringly in the soft yellow-white light of the immense hangar, is a shining and suave Mercedes-Benz black limousine. It looks stark in the hygienically immaculate expanse of multiple pneumatic-operated floor platform/elevators. Their only accompaniment is the laboratory bays running around the inside periphery of the armory. The critters of the forest now sing in full force. For a brief moment, the girl stands in the breeze that is rippling her gown, exposing her youthful flesh and the sensuous curve of a pink calf of one leg. The unnaturally warm night air holds the unusual smell of mulch covering the budding flora growing beneath the earth that even these unseasonable events are also responding to her supernatural presence. Her sparkling blue eyes stare into and challenge the night. Gripped in her right hand is a mass of metal and wood. She swings the driver side door open, thrusts a rifle across the seat, and follows into the sleek interior.
“What music would fit the occasion, my beauty?” she asks the automobile. She says nothing for a minute as she starts the atomic miracle built into the interior of the black beast. “Ah yes, how about my favorite, good ole’ Ronnie Milsap, so appropriate.” She swings her hand over her head and the melody begins. The glowing dials and lights of the control panel accentuate her picturesque posture, pug nose, slanted eyebrows, small ears, and a small square chin. There is a stranger in my house; Ronnie Milsap (who is blind) is ironically singing that there is somebody here that he could not see! The automobile’s power source, a blend of Bugatti and graviton-quantum physics begins a graduated whine. Quickly, the structure of the vehicle commences evaporating into invisibility. A shimmering transformation moves along the automobile from rear to front, and in something akin to a large ‘pop’ the limousine vaporizes into the night, leaving only a few moments of the melody in the air…the singer can’t seem to find love in her ‘eyes’ anymore…the hangar door to the auxiliary research facility gradually slides shut.
They Brought Forth the Heiress’s “Armored, Technologically Seasoned Vehicle, Saturated with Sophisticated, Superior Weaponry…”
Her omniscience having performed expertly, the teenager is soon perched high above St. Louis in a selected sniper’s nest. No Rules of Engagement for her: she ‘is’ the Judge Advocate General (she must control herself from going out on these vicious safaris). What a combination, she thinks to herself, a specially designed sniper scope and her marvelous brain to dial-up the shooter solution. The target had left his office and is making his way south on Broadway Boulevard. The target stops to swiftly dispose of a paper bag containing the pulverized remains of a stealth “transient material” spy device into a curb-sewer as trash. The shooter assembles the barrel suppressor and braces her weapon with the help of an armature. Both eyes open on the scope in a mystical deer’s gaze. The jeweled and sparkling city about and below her seems to freeze in a mosaic of multi-colored design and scintillation. She zeroes in on the target’s center of mass and then adjusts the dial for the head. As she settles into her final Engagement Position, the girl begins to hum more of the Milsap tune, but this time in German: There are suspicions that lead to questions, then alibis, and then to lies. Her silky hair slides along her cheek enmeshing with the tantalizing smell, not only of the wolf pheromones of her perfumed shampoo but the unusually embedded aura of rifle lubricant and the sweet smell of her leather sniper gloves. The humming ceases. A deadly moment of dreadful silence dominates. She stops breathing for a second. She jerks the trigger to the right, adjusting for the wind, maybe even a shift in gravity.
The victim’s head becomes a gruesome mass of the bullet’s shock waves causing brain, skull bone, cerebral cortex, subcutaneous tissue and various dermis to expand forward and upward in a red-white halo amid streamers in a mangled mess of hurt. The body lurches inches upward and forward in the direction of the blast, then drops like a wet rag.
All the technical data in sniper school, about distance, moving targets, running targets, she says to herself, becomes embedded, not just in your brain, but also in one’s arms, hands, and fingers.
However, it is nothing like the dexterity of the Magic she is about to do now in hiding her tracks; life can be stranger than old wives’ folklore tales.
Somebody here, says Milsap, which we cannot see.
March 21, late afternoon, one year later, in the current year.
Axtilgeenix: An ancient Gitxsan name meaning “he who walks leaving no tracks.”
Detective Lieutenant Wayne Harrington is afraid to answer the phone, even though he is a brave soldier of the Special Operations Unit. Every time it rings, it brings more dead-end information about a murder case in mid-St. Louis one year ago to-date. It had been hundreds of interviews, and multiple tests that had caused the case to languish in a pile of police paperwork that now confronted the detective. He is once again to review the facts and updates. Updates? The term Cold Case File didn’t do this case justice. He thought of another expression: Dead End Waste Land.
Such exasperation is not unlike the inhospitably callous city of St. Louis: To the north and east of the metropolis are the beige and chalk-white spires that race to the heavens on steel and concrete diagrid-skeletons and escalating terraces filled with heartless, arrogant, and cowering souls. The streets appear to be bare and unfriendly. Tiny black UAV micro-spy drones circle indomitably, gnat-like to and from the launch pad atop the nearby Police Department headquarters.
An expanded sky-walk from police headquarters, over Spruce Avenue to the Robert A. Young Federal Building, allows transport of homicide case files, easily moved to the recently purchased property by the Police Department: a heavily guarded conference room called the War Room. Special FBI Agent Jerold Schultz stands frozen aside the scenery, an office equipped with two desktop and several laptop computers, several telephones, a large meeting table in the center and one huge picture window from which the railroad yard below and the building line to the south could be readily viewed. Around the perimeter of the room, and on the table, are file boxes. Some of the manila folder contents are stacked haphazardly and spread across the table and several adjoining desks. The black silk suit and tie attiring the FBI detective appear to come alive when he suddenly breaks his stare to the rail-yard below.
“Okay Wayne, let’s see if I can put this all in perspective before I sign off on this review.” His silver-blonde hair and a silver-lined mustache denote his age, now a 20-year-veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He speaks with authority as a Chief Agent of the Critical Incident Response Tactical-Ops Investigator Specialist Group. He turns to look out the window again. He jiggles the coins in his front pocket. His fingers nervously tap the leather of his gun holster hidden on his belt. He abruptly slaps his gun and holster and gets back to the dreary business at hand in a final recitation of the chain of events.
“Our victim was shot on the evening of March 21 a year ago by a high-velocity-what-appeared- to-be ‘smart frangible projectile’ – possibly a hand-made bullet – that left absolutely no trace residue or hybrid materials – nothing – by a sniper several blocks away from an upper-level office in the 593-foot Metropolitan Square building, of that we are absolutely sure?”
Detective Herrington quietly flips another manila folder onto a stack on the table. He sits in a chair towards the end. He has dressed casually: no tie, dress slacks, but an extra-large plaid shirt that barely covers his stomach. Bags under his eyes denote lack of sleep and a possible kidney problem. His round and pudgy face, as his co-workers conjectured, seem to portray his kindness and his integrity.
Detective Wyne Herrington Contemplates.
“That’s correct: no copper, no zinc, no nickel, aluminum, antimony, no Teflon…you name it. We cooperated with several laboratories, not just the Medical Examiner’s Office here. Legal medical investigation of all tissue, blood and blood splatter, at Quantico, other laboratories for backup. Neutron-activation analysis, energy-dispersive x-ray spectrometer….it’s all there…..” Herrington waves his palm over the table.
The FBI agent continues, “And we know the shot came from a certain office in the Metro Square building because of the algorithm Quantico used on the beveling and tissue dispersal direction – not to mention what was caught on neighboring security cameras?”
“Plus acoustic evidence – Boomerang equipment and hidden street-audio-recordings – blood splatter analysis – the angle of impact – all seemed to pinpoint the Metro Square building in a cone of trajectory.” (A high-end computer-aided design and model that was established.) Herrington continues, “But there was no direct evidence that anyone was in the office at the time: no pertinent fingerprints, no aerosol evidence, the forensic crews went over that office with a fine microscopic-comb. No gunfire traces, no witnesses, no security violations…we hit hard on that.” Herrington hands a manila envelope to the FBI agent. He sits again. “My back is killing me,” the detective says in a grimace of pain.
Agent Schultz turns back to face Herrington, casually reading the contents: “A clear violation of Locard’s rule: ‘Any action of an individual, and obviously the violent action constituting a crime, cannot occur without leaving a trace’.” He stares blankly at Herrington for a good minute: “But also the laws of physics.”
Special FBI Agent Jerold Schultz Analyzes the Crime Situation
He is correct, Herrington muses to himself; a killer always takes something away from a crime scene and always adds something to it, but here the use of the word ‘always’ seemed incongruous. Oh yes, we live in an increasingly new, modern, technological age, he ponders to himself.
“Yeah, we brought in sophisticated, mobile equipment, mass spectral odor analysis, gas chromatograph-mass spectrometers, and so forth,” as part of the latest police equipment used on site. “We checked not just the one office, but all the adjoining offices, the outside ledges, and the window panes; we were practically camped out there for a week,” Herrington stands and arches his back and stretches. “We logged and interrogated every sentient being. Nothing on cameras…” Herrington stops and gives the FBI man a serious stare, as if he had just stepped out in front of a moving vehicle, his eyebrows rose for emphasis, “And how do you fire a rifle from within a closed office without damaging the window glass?”
“The shooter obviously owned the night!”
“To say the least,” Herrington agrees.
Beads of sweat creep over his forehead ridges.
Because of the increasingly bizarre nature of the crime, the Chief of the Homicide Division requested and received special funds. A massive dragnet and manhunt were instituted that very week and the downtown area was practically quarantined with a flood of special officers formed into a Task Force. Other agencies assisted on an emergency basis: The Bureau of Justice Assistance, The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, and other alphabet insignia. All persons with special rifle skills were located and questioned. It was continuous. A massive job that entailed multiple grids, ground, and dog-sniffing searches, along with countless interrogations. Because Metro Square is home to many attorney suites (commonly referred to as the Lawyer Building; St. Louis had a ratio of five lawyers per 1000 citizens), the Police Department consistently received threats by attorneys for harassment and invasion of privacy. The sniper couldn’t have picked a better spot for gumming the wheels of justice.
Other agencies assisted on an emergency basis
They utilized several criminal databases: The Criminal Justice Commission Statistical Analysis Center, the United Nations on Drugs and Crime Statistics, and others. None of the data had a direct solution to the crime; only vague suggestibility. After a briefing by the Task Force, The National Security Agency reported that surveillance satellites would not add to a solution. Spy satellites were called into use. Carnivore, Echelon, Prism, and Mainway satellites detected nothing useful. The NROL-75 spy satellite was in use over St. Louis that day: it recorded not a soul or machine that would give them a clue. The Police Department utilized micro aerial drones in St. Louis and surrounding areas, but no pertinent information as to mystery vehicles or persons. The paper bag that the security videos recorded the victim throwing into the sewer: its contents were located, at least, nothing in the Periodic Table of elements that would lead back to him – its self-destruction denoted a high level of technology.
As far as the victim’s background, police had nothing the Task Force could hang their hat on. A young, career-climbing attorney, he had made a prior arrangement to meet his girlfriend farther south of Broadway Avenue at a local grill and pub several blocks away. He was in good health. He left the office early in the evening. The Task Force traced all of his telephone and cell phone calls. All apparently were legitimate. Did he have any enemies? Well, you know, he ‘was’ a ‘lawyer.’
“We looked into his history. He was a Military Policeman in Afghanistan. It gets a little fuzzy at that point. Upon coming out of the Marines, he quickly went about supporting his career as an attorney. There was no response from the CIA as far as any intelligence connections. I’ll work on that,” says Schultz. The agent went back to observing the inbound and outbound railroad below. Shultz is shifting his glances from the outside scenery to his partner now and then, but his features in no way betray his successfully hidden, evil thoughts. Occasionally, there is the shrill frequency zing of a passing high-speed train. Mild snowflakes begin to intermingle with the smoke coming from railroad engines.
Herrington lumbers erect, arches his back and tightens his lips, “I tell ya, a few more cases like this one and I ‘will’ retire.” He runs his hand through his thinning hair, scratching his scalp for relief.
“Haven’t been well?” queries Schultz, glancing over to the detective. Beneath the silk of Schultz’s clothing are the hard, muscular swirls of a Spartan and athletic body. Herrington’s switching of his head side to side was his only reply. “Well, get me that summary – we’ll sign off on it – move the files back into storage for now, and let some other policemen use this office. Have the files shipped to my storage area in Virginia. We’ll keep an eye on it down at Quantico.” Schultz eyes the detective wryly. “You said there were some scratches on the victim’s back or some injury. Do you have the autopsy photos handy?”
“Sure, nothing’s changed on that; it was no injury, except one the victim’s nervous system created. The coroner and the examiners said it was a psychosomatic reaction…” Harrington locates and hands the folder containing the photos to the FBI man. “There it is, ‘psycho-physiological-mind-body-somatic reaction…’ caused at the time and from the trauma of the rifle shot, eh, like a pronounced rash or blushing…hydro-static shock….” (Herrington is having difficulty describing psychosomatic medicine.)
“No animal attributions? Someone says….”
“Nah, we had an expert in here looking at the photos. The marks only lasted a few hours and then went away. The expert was a carnivore biologist and behavioral ecologist, a forensic anthropologist,” Herrington tries to create a smile as his lips were contorted by his back pain, “someone joked about a wolf’s bite-marks. A joke? Someone had misspoken. It was nothing.”
The FBI man was acquainted with the photographic evidence from his previous visits, but he couldn’t resist looking at them one more time. Schultz’s gaze at the photos grew into a barely subdued look of astonishment. He recognized the vague outlines of an emblem he knew all too well. He tried not to allow his look of incredulity to betray his feelings to the other police officer. He recognized what he was looking at because he had such an emblem tattooed on his ankle in his youth. Because of his tender age at the time, all that remained was a rough vaccination-like circle from surgery that was barely visible. This evidence, however, was all too clear to Schultz, if only to him alone: it was the parallel strikes of the double sig rune – the SS bolts – the runic insignia of the schutzstaffel!
Later, Herrington braces himself inside his wool over-coat as he leaves the building and heads into the increasing snowflakes and wind that lash against the downturned brim of his fedora hat. He rehearses a mental mantra to himself: “I only have a few more years to my retirement.” He sees how the unkind and inclement weather ensconces itself as compared to this time last year. He recalls that last March was rather warm and ‘quiet’- the ‘quiet before the storm.’ He muses reflectively how a battle is taking place, not just of technology, but also, of the supremacy of power itself. The rules of the ‘game’ are increasingly complex and byzantine. Herrington is thinking of scientist David Bohm’s comments in a book he is reading about the “widespread feeling of helplessness and despair.”
“He muses reflectively how a battle is taking place, not just of technology, but also, of the supremacy of power itself.”
How sad and prophetic.
In the following weeks, almost spasmodically, investigators of various types and ranks in the case – die. Lieutenant Wayne Herrington dies in his bed from a heart attack. The Chief of Police is killed in a car crash. The Missouri Attorney General dies in an airline crash. Myriad technicians and news reporters alike also demise. An electrical fire destroys Schultz’s files on this case along with killing two visiting detectives; other unbeknownst but related deaths dance with questions of synchronicity, obscurity, and fate. Schultz, however, seems imperious to misfortune. Individually, each death had a certain amount of rectitude that leaves the deceased with a mindset of normality, but, like a slithering blood slick that trails all the way down to Quantico, the macabre body count is disconcerting but always becomes somehow unquestioned.
The Horrid Eternal Lair:
Wolfsschlucht (Wolf’s Ravine)
“Once we have the power we will never give it up!” Heinrich Himmler, Nazi SS Leader; later, “It is our duty to take these children if we have to rob or steal them. It is our duty to take their German blood or destroy it.”
March 21, the morning of the ‘kill shot.’
Amidst the forlorn late morning fog in the cold March climate in the hills and ravines of Saint Albans, jutted on cliffs of the Missouri River, behind the mangled branches of towering oak, maple and the suffocating bulks of uncultivated evergreen trees, stands a 40-million-dollar-plus 20-room-mansion. The structure lies one mile from a massive estate-gate laced with the latest reconnaissance and voice recognition technology. The 15-acre estate is shorn of the springtime horticulture that long-ago laced and decorated the citadel. The domain smothers beneath woodlands hiding the cruel, Gothic face that was once a healthy and happy Manor. The House of Boxenwolf rejected the name of Watson in the 70s and took on the coat of arms and family crest of Boxenwolf on the same property. The Boxenwolf emblem hangs menacingly above the substantial 3-inch thick mahogany front door with its stiles and panels bulleted by a 19th-century snarling wolf-head door knocker.
Springtime view of the Watson Manor.
Along the forest tree line, the shining eyes of wolves glimmer from lowered heads in fear and unwitting respect for the proprietors. Despite its horrid surroundings, the true value of the property is hidden beneath an unfathomable mountain of scientific and technical espionage labyrinths concealed beyond door chimes that herald Lao Arnaud’s The Buglers’ Dream.
(A history of the realm, buried in the muck and bustle of human activity, is one of the thousands of such asylums disguised about the planet. Many are shrouded with thousands of spy, DNA Reconnoiter, Black Hat and Black Ops devices typical of the Boxenwolf Empire. The regime often chooses special names, titles, and codes of hidden mystical significance.)
The dim, barely audible voice of the late horror-actor Boris Karloff is but a creeping whisper floating in the lonesome corridors, hidden somewhere within and emitted from a classic B-movie-murder-film playing on a television in the bowels of its inner sanctum. The building’s innards are bathed in the aroma of cigar smoke from many tycoon meetings and overlaid throughout with the scent of basil and underpinnings of cannabis, myrrh and frankincense transfused all over the stony citadel. The movie is interrupted for a commercial break on drastically reduced automobile sale prices. The ad is themed by the barely-heard distant sounds coming from a boy’s television of a classic Beatles song of 1958, In Spite of All the Danger……“In spite of all that may be, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to be…..”
A telephone is ringing. A very elderly women trudges towards the incessant sound, one foot sliding ahead of the other in effortful, somewhat painful, movements encrypted with many years of haunted memento. Her haggard features portray profound life-worn expressions of fatigue, fear, dignity, regret, concupiscence, and, yes, horror and revenge that drips from grayed wrinkled flesh. In the shadowy and ghoulishly lit house, she somehow reaches the phone. As a Great Dame, she surrounds her world with rare and extravagantly exotic archetype materials as signs of her immense and boundless authority. Her left hand, almost transparent with age, grips the pure diamond and gold wolf-head knob of an exquisite hand carved stiletto-cane resembling flowing wolf fur. With each step, the staff clangs and echoes as it hits the marble floor. Slowly picking up the receiver in quivering hands, she raises it to her aged ear. A very trembling, low, but audible, juddering woman’s voice speaks into the jeweled, computerized antique-celebrity-decorator phone that is totally secured and completely severed of contact with any normal landline system:
“Yes?’ She speaks sternly with as much authority as she can muster.
The caller resides in an attorney’s office in downtown St. Louis, one of the larger buildings occupied by so many attorneys it has become known as “The Lawyer’s Building,” a citadel of power. A strong, rather youthful and confident male voice responds:
“I’ve just spent 15 minutes dickering with your security receptionist! Hello? Is Justus Watson there?”
The old woman is momentarily stunned by the scolding; it is apparent the conversation had gotten off on the wrong foot and that this rapscallion thinks he has somehow connived his way [rather, was knowingly permitted] through her security apparatus. The centenarian slowly glances back to her servant partially hidden in the darkness of the hallway. The servant nods his head as his statuesque features rise and lowers in acknowledgment.
“No. No, he is not,” she lies. Do you mean ‘Boxenwolf’? Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“It’s Bob Felding; I’m an attorney in the Office of the Chief Actuary Staff at the Social Security Administration,” he lies. “An application has been passed down to me for more intimate handling. It was only a cursory examination at the Inspector General’s Office. Ah, it seems…..Justus filled out a form improperly, we just wanted to get with him and help him correct a few things.” (Bob Felding looks astute with professionally trimmed blonde hair, wearing a classic fit pinpoint dress shirt with black oxford shoes. Bob Felding also works on occasion as a CIA Block and Chain Cutout. His Intelligence privileges allow him to use disposable and destructible special CIA voice-to-skull transmitting equipment.)
“He’s not here now; is there something I can help you with? He’s my grandson.” The word ‘grandson’ is pronounced in aristocratic slowness.
“Oh, well, he’s not supposed to write any extra comments on the form; he’s written some messages at the top…”
“Oh, oh, well, what was that?”
“He must have misunderstood some of the questions….”
“Well, he seemed confused, I guess he got off track, he wrote, among other things, that he was born on 21st of July…”
“Well?” interrupts the Baroness, her cheeks sinking inward as blood flowed away from her face in the rise of anger beginning to rise and ripple through her body. She begins to fidget, crossing her arm over her breasts and tucking her hand beneath the drooping fat of her bent arm. She frequently glances over the shoulder to see if her servant would soon be in pursuit to her side. Nevertheless, she really did not need information as to why this call existed. She twirls her lavishly jeweled ring around her thin finger. She can hear Felding’s breath signaling his exasperation.
There is an interruption and a long pause along with an elderly cough for courage. She recollects the past, where in happier times, she would have spanked Justus’s mischievous butt. Now, she knows Justus was not being particularly malicious in this matter. Her brother, Ignacious Boxenwolf, is somehow aware of this special clandestine governmental project. The Boxenwolf Intelligence corps knows the telephone call was coming well before it arrived. There was, in fact, no application sent to this man. She will play along with this suspicious person. It is not the first time ‘spies’ have hounded her. She will throw him a curve, and give her staff time to investigate…this so-called ‘stranger’ in her house.
“Oh? Really? I….I….I…don’t recall this at all. You know, you know, I don’t believe he did!”
“No, no. We get misapplications all the time. However, everything seems to be wrong here…we couldn’t find a thing, a thing at all, in our databases. It was like he didn’t exist.” (Felding releases a small giggle.)
Scuffling her feet awkwardly to show a stance of indignation and to muster a sense of protest, she grips the ivory-diamond phone, all color escaped from her hand under the pressure of her grip. Maybe she can throw the attorney off track.
“No. No. I hope not….I don’t think so….I know my grandson….there’s no indication that he contacted you… know all his friends…..”
“Ma’ am, he ‘is’ an applicant…”
She is jabbing the phone closer to her ear in anger, causing the earlobes to redden.
“I don’t think so, sir! I tell you! He’s been living here for years….don’t you think his grandmother would know?”
“Well, yeah, I would think so…” The great scarcity in official records of any mention of the Boxenwolf family had previously crossed Felding’s mind, but he had no way to know that its universal eradication was due to hyperactive technology and memory dissolution. This matter will be forever seen by everyone as only a preliminary investigation. The complete history was not even revealed to him. Felding is relentless, however, as he fiddles with the settings on his hyper-technical detection device: an outgrowth of global science and DARPA experimentation.
“When would this ‘be’? How could this ‘happen’?” Her feet move back and forth in nervous little movements, barely staying in her loose but expensive slippers.
“It happens all the time.”
“In other families, maybe, sir, but I tell you, you have no applicants from our family!”
Felding continues weak, exasperated laughs. “Mistakes happen to all of us, everyone, lady; you, me, every single, breathing person!”
She gasps in shock at Felding’s brash attitude. “Are you crazy? Maybe you, young man, but I’ve handled major matters in dire situations for all my life…..this has nothing to do with us, and that is that!”
(Life’s magic had often come in evil ways. For Lauren Watson – soon to be Boxenwolf – evil came as she had stood in the 1970 soil of Kenya, Africa. A youthful statue of picturesque female beauty, anchored in the best aristocratic heritage and education, muscularly sensuous with rose-ivory cheeks, exquisite ruby lips filled from healthy blood within. Her demanding blue eyes portrayed her majesty in her female safari skirt, hunting vest, tag boots and slouch hat that covered locks of brilliantly golden hair. Feet planted firmly and boldly braced for her shot, the 8 x 57 MM Mauser raised delicately, scope cradling her eye; she aimed steely at the swirling, lashing bushes. The native boy had come charging to her side, yelling frantically and pointing his finger in fear at the burly, bouncing mass of fur that became known as a shape-shifting monster of the Steytlerville region. It suddenly lurched from the thicket; “Wesens! Wesens! Bawokozi! Save us!” Without flinching, undistracted, undeterred she squeezed the trigger and a powerful, explosive crack riveted the air…the epitome of good warring against evil was suddenly lodged at the end of a rifle barrel.)
Felding pauses. He suddenly finds himself confused and at a loss for words. “I am afraid you misunderstand me, I am speaking about ‘human’ beings, lady.”
“And what do you think ‘I’ am; a courtesan from Mars? You, young people, are going to hell in a handbasket, you think we all are part of your den of iniquity, calling here, looking for your kind, thinking no one can unravel your mischief…”
Felding leans back in his adjustable leather seat, trying to regain some casual composure.
“He sent us an application, I didn’t ask him to.”
She realizes some technological expertise had to be obtained to call in on such a hidden telephone line; an impossibility. However, Felding connotes much more to her. She knows the type: four to six years of law school and practice gives them the illusion that they deserved salaries greater than the President of the United States. They even feel they outdistance the subterfuge displayed in the Dirty Tricks Division of the Central Intelligence Agency. The legal industry is rife with them. As they speak—unfortunately for Felding—the Boxenwolf security apparatus is functioning expertly: something that even the machinery of the U.S. Special Activities Division Directorate of Science and Technology could not compare with.
“Do you know what you are doing, young man? Do you know with whom you are dealing?”
“Ma’am, I’ve dealt with all kinds of people in my profession. I’ve been a Chief Audit Executive in Senior Management of the Internal Revenue Service. I’ve had FPTE, IE, ETS, CAS work under me. I’ve organized and trained thousands in the IRS Large Business and International Division…..”
“Nonsense…!” There is again an interruption to her scolding.
“…..we’ve audited a 22,000 square metric factory in Saudi Arabia, and I am presently joining the Affordable Care Act – the Audit Team on the National Health Care…..,” lying, he continues to probe; hoping little bits of information would come out revealing the true nature of the person he is dealing with.
The old woman’s face deflates into an ashen disgust. She knows the conversation has to take a different direction.
“Shut up, you pimple! You ant! We ‘own’ you…” Her voice holds a special quiver on the word ‘own.’
“I am highly educated, lady. I am no dummy. I’ve graduated from Yale and Harvard….” Felding has deliberately left behind all semblances to professional politeness and truth as part of his disguise.
A carnivorous smile comes upon her face. “You don’t ‘understand’, you impudent guttersnipe! We ‘own’ Yale; we ‘own’ all of them, all of them! I’ve been educated beneath countless tenured professors in our secret bases around the world. Are you a Sharpshooter? I am! I’ve traveled in time and trained in the traditions of snipers: Simo Hayha, Lieutenant Lyudmila Pavlyuchenko,” and the list of historically renown snipers and sharp-shooters begins to unravel at length, and in rapid fashion, “And I’ve personally trained with U.S. Marine sniper Carlos Hathcock on the M-25 White Feather. I am more than an Ojibwa Warrior, trained by many governments. We destroy ‘governments!”
Felding continues to gourd the old lady, despite the fantastic comments he was hearing; it was all vital information. “…not ‘the’ government, not ‘this’ government (caustic chuckle.)…it has too much ‘power.’” He continues assuasive chuckles; maybe, Felding says to himself, he could flush the story out of this old hag.
“Power?” Her voice races to a sudden peak of irresolute anger; she pauses only briefly to muster a little strength and determination in her voice. “I’ll tell you about ‘power’! (Her voice strings out the sound of that last word slowly as if punctuating it. She takes a deep breath and her causerie continues amidst a newfound strength and energy.) I have stood on many a catwalk looking down into the golden glare and searing heat of pristine melted gold poured from ladles in thousands of our gold foundries around the world. We have hundreds of Lutetium, Rhodium, and rare earth factories thousands of feet below the earth. I have sat before the scintillating canopy of hundreds of video screens in one of our Cyber Centers; tabulated visuals portraying the millions of RFID and bioresorbable spy-implant chips in our universal enterprise: charting the lives of billions of public human lives. Power? (Her face is rubescent with anger) I do not believe I ‘can’ die, but if that fate surrounds me, I have the best cryogenic laboratory and scientists standing ready to resurrect me. That’s ‘power’! I have talked with CEO’s and CFO’s in over thousands of companies and Presidents of countries. Unbeknownst to them, we own Maharashtra, Uttar Pradesh, Gujarat Energy Development, L.G. Group, Barrack Gold, Bankers Petroleum, Halliburton, SPDR Gold, Teva Pharmaceutical…,” her anger is punctuated from small blood trails as she scratches the ridges of her staff. She names companies ranging from Saudi Aramco to the Rand Corporation…
“You’re joking?” Beads of sweat are forming on Felding’s face. Seldom had he had to back down as an attorney in the courtroom, but he knows he is up against much more now than a courtroom-witness.
“I thought you were an ‘expert’ at the Internal Revenue Service? Why don’t you know?” The old woman takes advantage of a silent moment.
“There is a lot you don’t ‘know’!” (She pauses to regain her breath as a token of control.) “Justus is just not in your league, he is working to be a member of a society that you couldn’t even comprehend, and you….you….you….hiding under the disguise of ‘social security’ – there will be nothing ‘secure’ about you, sir…..”
The heiress’ attention moves to the pulsating and flashing rainbow of lights on the security alert panel above the telephone podium; each color denoting a stage of security endangerment. To the far left, a button is a steady red: a denotation that a security matter must be attended to privately and personally. She has been waiting for the signal.
“Well, can you have him call me…?” Felding’s face has become a lineless mask of astonishment; a creeping assessment of the situation as critical: perhaps he did and perhaps he didn’t get the information he wanted, but he will make a safe exit now.
“He won’t be calling you, sir. The secret will be kept! Coute Que Coute!”
Lauren Boxenwolf instinctively knows that this meandering chitchat has to be ended. Once again, the Power that stalks those who challenge and threaten ‘Its’ divulgence will protect its history. She ‘could’ completely disintegrate and wipe out his identity and history with a flick of the finger. This problem, however, will be a personal ‘visit,’ and for pure sensual pleasure, a direct hunt.
She presses a buzzer in the mega-gigabyte-memory telephone console-pad. It summons her security concierge, the Boxenwolf Enterprise Guard, and Maintenance Cadre. They will bring forth from the subterranean conclave an armored, technologically seasoned vehicle, saturated with sophisticated superior weaponry, her current-model-Mercedes-Benz-Classic-Black-Bison limousine.
“I’ve always felt there was something fishy about our misappropriations for the ‘social security’… (She deliberately emphasizes the pronunciation of the words.)…So many so-called powerful organizations think they are solely in control, I’ve been watching, truly watching...and now you have come to break my boredom, to milk my revenge…”
Her blood pressure rapidly rises–her brain is firing millions of synapse connections in passion. Visions of her past memories cascade into her mind, flooding her body with a sense of overwhelming revulsion. Throwing the wolf-head staff aside into the air, she drops the expensive silk robe off her body. Standing naked, she reaches for a young women’s elaborate and expensive slit-gown draped over the corner of her expensive leather Arm Chair.
“I’m going to hang up now.” The muscles in Felding’s stomach begin twisting and hardening.
“I know all about you! I have your number: you are ‘mine!’ Do not try to come here. I’m over 120-years-old; doesn’t mean I cannot defend myself. I have a long-range, multi-shot, sniper weapon with specially equipped Crisp, Creep-free Trigger Pull …”
A sovereign voice, some ghost off to the side and upward, is whispering. Her eyes jolt into a haunted gaze. Stunned, she slowly arches her head to look up to the invisible phantom speaking to her. Lips quivering, she moans to herself; her body beginning to shiver in an unexpected passion. She unexpectedly releases a small yellow rivulet of urine that runs down her leg; it laces onto her emerald, ruby, and diamond Javier Barrera slippers. It pools on the floor. Dazed, she looks at a rifle silhouetted from the hearth flames; it hangs with an armada of other expensive weapons near the cavernous fireplace mantle–the phone, slightly away from her mouth, she begins to barely whisper to herself in lustful sensuous tones of sexual arousal. Erotic muscles tighten and twinge as little known sexual zones release into an orgasm that suddenly racks her body…
“Remington M24 long-range, multiple-shot, extended…heavy-hammer-forged stainless-steel-Rem-tough-powder-coated-barrel…5-R-rifling…reduced-bullet- deformation-and-metallic–fouling–pressure-curves…high-bullet-velocity…long-barrel accuracy life…aluminum bedding block…highly sophisticated Boxenwolf tactile sighting options…bolt-action…H-S precision Aramid firing…specially created, hybrid frangible ammunition…crisp, creep-free trigger pull…”
Now dispossessed from her unseen lover, her attention is reclaimed fully to an evil task…
“…and I ‘know’ how to use it, yes, yes I do…” She has somehow glided into the dress and tightened the belt.
“Bye now. Bye…” Felding’s voice, laced with signs of fright and apprehension, becomes somewhat weak and trailing.
“You weasel, scum, sneaking around…” She looks at the Collegiate Gothic style front door with an expression that encompasses every bit of dark, malevolent energy she can muster. All her facial and body features are consumed in a voice that is a low, groveling witch’s moan…
“…a stranger, no more!”
As if a wisp of smoke creeping unpredictably through the palace, the muffled, distressing monotone of an announcer to a slash-horror movie trailer can almost be heard from the distant television program in one of the far dens: “Run, if you must. Hide, if you are able. Scream, if you can….but whatever you do, don’t answer the phone.”
Disconnect; telephone hum.
C, Copyright, Steve Erdmann, 2019
“Life’s magic had often come in evil ways. For Lauren Watson – soon to be Boxenwolf – evil came as she had stood in the 1970 soil of Kenya, Africa. A youthful statue of picturesque female beauty, anchored in the best aristocratic heritage and education.”
“Ah yes, how about my favorite, good ole’ Ronnie Milsap, so appropriate.”
The centenarian in the story.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ho3zVZe8Ksc. There’s A Stranger in My House song by Ronnie Milsap. Copyright, 1983 by Universal-MGB Songs, Universal Music Publishing.
Michael Barry Reid (born May 24, 1947) is an American country music artist, composer, and former American football player, born and raised in Altoona, Pennsylvania, Reid attended college at and graduated from the Pennsylvania State University, where he played defensive lineman the Penn State Nittany Lions football team. He then spent five seasons with the Cincinnati Bengals in the National Football League, earning trips to the Pro Bowl after the 1972 and 1973 seasons, before retiring after the 1974 season. He subsequently focused on his musical career, co-writing several hit singles for country music artists, including Ronnie Milsap‘s “Stranger in My House“, which won a Grammy Award for Best Country Song in 1984. Reid later began a solo recording career, releasing two studio albums for Columbia Records. He charted seven singles on the Billboard Hot Country Singles & Tracks (now Hot Country Songs) chart as a singer, including the Number One hit “Walk on Faith“.
“Milsap didn’t write his own songs, but he was a master at choosing them. He said that he and a friend, iconic producer Rob Galbraith, started their own publishing company. One of their favorite writers was Mike Reid, a former professional football player who would go on to have his own successful solo career.
“I’d sit and talk with Mike,” Milsap said. “He’d ask me, what kind of song do you want? I told him, I’m out on the road and the truckers always want to know when am I going to sing something about them.
“About a year later, he came back to me with ‘Prisoner of the Highway.’ When he played me ‘Stranger in My House,’ I told him, ‘You know I’m going to record that one.’”
This article produced here with the gracious cooperation of Watcherstalk.com
And Omar IAmone
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