SWEAT

... global warming in a small town

& Other Tales of THE Great American Western Midwest

Stories by Mike Palecek

Art by Monty Borror

http://www.rockyborrorpictureshow.com/
I'm happy to be a kid of the 80's and 90's. I'm happy to have the good fortune of being able to do what I love. I draw comics for independent companies such as Heske Horror and graphic novels for companies the size of Insomnia Publications. I'm lucky. A lot of guys from my background don't get to do that. I'm happy to have met Mike Palecek through a publisher, Mike Annis, and work together on projects we really can believe in instead of chasing paychecks. I get to do this...I don't quite believe it either.

Mike and I agree on a lot. Where we don't is small details. But we both realize one thing: think about it. That's it. Before you regurgitate what you have heard, just give it a second to digest. Stop thinking with your gut, start using your brain. Stop emoting, start reasoning. The newest ideas won't come from the same old crap you and I have been spoon fed our whole lives. It's time for something better. I am, at heart a pessimist. I see most of humanity going in the opposite direction as it should. Maybe being American has something to do with that. Maybe a single cheer for a thinly veiled bigot running for office makes me hate the majority of humanity. I see Americans getting more superstitious, angrier at those who are different and it makes me want to emote back. But...I try to let reason win. I really do try.

One quote I do believe is this: "People get the government they deserve." I don't know of truer words ever spoken. If we have a nation filled with idiots, then our leaders will reflect that. I want to ask, to implore, let's give this reason a chance. Let's try this. But, again, I'm a pessimist. I try not to expect too much. In a very few years, I think this nation will go right back to where it was a few years ago..."lie to me, spy on me, build a fence around me. Keep me safe from the unknown." The biggest evil in this country are those that live in it.

So Mike and I will continue on, hoping to shake a few out of apathy. But I think he may be more of an optimist than me. I think he can change a few minds. Hell, he's at least got a pessimist like me trying. You gotta give him that.

CHAPTER 7

Good morning.

Or, buenos dias, bon jour, gutentag, s’appenin?

As the case may be.

I am seated, watching rush hour traffic, as it were, at the main intersection of our downtown area.

Each of the four corners has a nice, new wooden bench.

Each is dedicated to the spouse of some prominent local person who felt guilty enough to invest money into a gold engraved plaque and who now knows it will never be enough, not one bench or a hundred.

All in all, they are most comfortable. I choose where to sit primarily according to the direction of the wind, according to the radio report.

There is not a shit load of traffic, but some.

There’s Ed and Earl Edwards, the Edwards twins, heading off for their construction summer job.

Here comes, there goes, our UPS route driver, Myrna Meyers.

She’s a little woman, wiry, always moving, always on the go. If she were a Christmas tree it would be most difficult to place a star upon her head. It’s like there’s someone chasing her. She also works at Casey’s, and, and in fact someone is pursuing her. There is usually an attorney or sheriff’s deputy trying to hand her a subpoena to appear in court.

Well, awhile back she went out for cigarettes and skim milk and actually never came back. She’s got nine jobs, literally, this, that, Pizza Farm. She doesn’t live anywhere, changes in the various employee’s rooms. She still sees her husband and goes to all of the children’s activities. This is something she wanted, so the family is trying to be supportive. They are in counseling, not Myrna, but the husband and kids go every week, I guess.

On the bench kitty korner from me are a group of elderly hooligans, a gang of them. Ever since they got the casino you don’t want to mess around with them. People almost don’t come downtown if there’s a bunch of them standing around.

They have been known to shoot steelies, steel marbles, at autos, using wrist rockets.
They put graffiti on the building sides and doors: FDR, I Like Ike, Ben Hur Rocks. The high school kids find it disgusting.

Oh, well, here’s something.

Here comes Michael Sullivan Oh. He farms just east of town.
Must be bringing the tractor in to get some work done. I see he’s wearing his grey sweat pants already, as am I. I’d say it’s about 70-30 by now, but the momentum seems to be in favor of this thing.
Well, Michael is an interesting case.

His mother is Irish. His father Japanese. They met at Berkeley.

Michael went with them to one of Willie Nelson’s Farm Aid concerts and had an epiphany of some sorts is how I understand it. They moved to Iowa and saw all the empty main street stores.

Michael decided to bring back Midwestern agriculture his own self. He and the wife have sixteen children and she’s expecting again. They farm one hundred sixty acres with a little, what I would call a normal tractor.

They have livestock. He wears coveralls. He’s also studying crop dusting at CCC this term. She has chickens, collects the eggs, for egg money.

They milk and use it themselves.
The children walk together to town to school, eschewing any roads, cross country, a la “Little House on the Prairie,” I suppose. Many times all they do all day is walk back and forth.

What they are doing is hoping they can bring back the 1940s and 1950s, is what I think, with busy downtown streets on Thursday nights.
I certainly wish them well.

We might get some notice from the bigger papers in the area. It’s kind of a novelty, the sweat pants promotion.
Who knows, maybe the Today Show will come right down here to the four-way some morning to talk about the brave little town that would not be fooled, that could, that stood tall.

The cold, hard facts. That’s all we want.
All we need.

I kind of wonder how the different folks will come down on all this.

Geez, now there is getting to be more traffic this morning than I ever remember encountering, with the possible exception of the July 5th Parade that one year.

July 4th would not work because of not being able to find the key to the lock on the historical society storage garage where they kept the old stuff they wanted to put in the parade, so it all had to wait a day. Made for a large turnout, all the commotion and stress and such.

There goes Betsy Pomp. Betsy Rose Pomp, our six-feet-nine inch elementary principal. I dare say six-feet-six would have been sufficient. She did play basketball here and at State. She can dunk it. I’ve seen her with her girls in their driveway.

There’s the Schmidts, Rubie Bell and Paulie. They are bikers, ride ten-speeds wherever they go, have parrot tattoos up and down their arms, all that, wear their hair in ponytails, with black kerchiefs around their heads.

He’s got thick blond hair and hers is as black as the nine of clubs. They go to the Unitarian Universalist Church on Water Street, have a couple of adopted children, don’t believe in God, and voted Libertarian in the last election.
I’m not certain how I know that. Maybe it was that waitress.

“Ding-ding.”
You hear that?

It’s the bell.
The ice-cream truck. It used to be the ice cream truck. In the 50s and 60s.
Now William Rodgers drives it to work every morning, right past here.

It used to be William’s grandfather’s little truck. He drove it around to all the neighborhoods, every one, without exception, in the summer, selling or giving away ice cream to the kids.

When ol’ man Rodgers died of an appendicitis attack, while he was on the route — the route and the truck sort of died too.

Well, when William grew older of course he remembered his grandfather, and sometimes those Down’s Syndrome people have a little more on the ball as far as emotions, feelings. They’ve also got displaced big toes, if you’ve ever had occasion to be in attendance at adult night at the pool when a gaggle of them arrives.

In any case, William has his own business, Toon Town. His father and mother helped him get it all up, do the books. He buys and sells used music, CDs, some instruments, also some movies, video games.

He’s also on the city council, has been since he turned twenty-one, three, maybe four years ago.

Well, William, Will, is no dummy. He knows who he is, probably to a greater degree than most, perhaps attributable to his parents. He understands he is disabled, what caused it, what it means, what his future likely holds.
He also knows, being on the city council, that the whole fire department thing just hasn’t been working out for the city.

So he decided he’d turn that old ice cream truck into an emergency response vehicle, get it back into service.
He formed the Jennifer Junction Volunteer Appendectomy Squad.

He’s got his team and his beepers all in place. Everyone is trained to do on the spot major surgery. They carry little pen flashlights, sharp pocket knives, needle nose pliers, what have you, No. 9 wire, alcohol wipes.

Well, I’m tallying pairs of sweat pants, and in this morning commute crowd, I’d count three in the affirmative and ten and more with the anti’s.

Of course, you can’t see below the waist on those who are driving, so this could be a so-not reliable survey.

I have heard talk that a citywide, statewide, national, international search is already underway to try to find sweat pants sufficient in size and number to fit around the simply enormous posteriors of the, well, many of the citizens of the hamlet of Jennifer Junction.

The big sweats.
Oh, well, mine here are large.

They come in XL as well, double, triple and beyond, I suppose to infinity.

I have heard you must journey to a major metropolitan area or go online to procure four, five and six XL.
That paper says that Rick’s Sporting Goods has a full supply of smalls, medium, large and one-X.

There are four double-X and the last XXXL was sold at five minutes to five yesterday afternoon.

The Rossbacher family has an ad running on eBay hoping to procure six pairs of XXXXXXL with elastic waist bands.
The city has put together a team of full-time volunteers searching Craigs List, 24-7.

The editorial page of Bob’s News has opined that Jennifer Junction ambassadors be sent wherever necessary: India, China, Bolivia, Bozeman, in order to find the right sizes.

“It’s that important. If we can’t act on something like this, when will we ever?” they said.

The article went on to say we should “peruse the planet, browse every byway, tilt at every windmill, jousting, battling the global warming dragon — become men and women of La Mancha, seekers of sweats, doers of amazing deeds.

“Go for it.”

CHAPTER 8

I’m sweatin’.

It’s hot.

I’m pounding as fast as I can, trying to keep up with Jesse and Carl in the pumper truck Honda.

I put my head down and stand up and watch my legs to see how hard I’m going and throw the butterfly handle bars side to side.

I can hardly breath.

It’s humid and hot. It’s that darned humidity and it’s that darned heat.

I don’t know where they’re going. I was sitting downtown talking to that one guy who sits there.

Jesse comes flyin’ around the corner right through a red light.
Robert S. Thompson said it was pink.
Anyway, I took off.

It’s mostly downhill or flat around here. That helps.

Whenever Jesse looks in his rearview mirror I look the other way. His side mirror is busted out.
They must be in a hurry from how fast they are going.

Or it’s just because I’m on a bike. I can’t wait until I can get my license. I told Mom that Dad said he’d get me a car. She said we’ll see. She always says that.

We flash past the cop shop and I see ol’ LaVerna looking outside through the bars of her window.
There’s a drive where the cop cars pull in and out that goes right by LaVerna’s cell, like she’s back at her old job.

Just as I suspected.

Jesse pulled into the Foos Foods parking lot. I yanked over behind a rusted mini-van where I could see through the van windows and still be on the other side of the van where ol’ Sherlock and Watson couldn’t see me.
I wondered if they were going to citizen’s arrest The Ol’ Foos.

Maybe it would be official since Jesse’s the fire department and Carl’s the college.
I watched Carl and Jesse until the Mexicans came out and drove away their mini-van.

Then I just put down my kickstand and sat with my arms crossed, watching the scene.
Jesse saw me and then said something to Carl.

They both turned around, then waved me to come up and talk.
“Hey,” said Jesse, ‘cause I was at his window.

“Hey,” I said. “Stakeout?”
Jesse nodded.

Carl kept his eyes on the store.
“We got a report that the Sox couple were on their way to the store,” Jesse said.
I nodded then looked at the store.

You can see practically the whole thing and everyone inside through that giant window.

The Sox’ yellow school bus was parked there all right, taking up the whole east side parking area.
“We just don’t know what might be going down,” said Jesse.

I saw Bobbi and Jim at one of the checkouts.
“You want me to go ask them?” I said.
Carl looked at Jesse.
“That might work,” Carl said.

“Okay,” I said. I pushed off to coast down to the front doors.
“Be careful, kid,” I heard Jesse whisper like he meant it.

The Sox’ were still paying when I got in there. I could see Carl and Jesse out the window.
I waved.

Jesse waved back. Carl put a hand to his brow and looked down at the pavement.
When I came out I got my bike and walked it over to the brown Honda fire engine.

“They kidnapped their own kid, right kid?” said Carl.
“It was The Foos,” said Jesse, still in whisper mode.
“LaVerna’s chirping, huh?” Carl added.
“Spillin’ her guts,” said Jesse, now in a normal voice.

“They needed Huggies,” I said.
“For when they get li’l Sweat back.
“That it?” said Carl. “Nothing else?”

“Huggies … diet Pepsi,” I looked at the clouds to think. “Chips. Nacho chips, big bag."

The Sox bus diesel engine cranked. They pulled slowly toward the exit, showing us plainly the “Go Cows” logo on the side, homemade, but not too bad.

I looked down at Carl. He was still watching the store.
Inside the big front window The Two Foos, Mary Woo and Larry, makes two, smiled and waved.
Carl and Jesse stared.

I stood on my peddles, not moving, trying to balance. I finally had to drop down.
I looked out toward the highway and the ball field, looking for someone I knew.

CHAPTER 9

I could see Ron On The Radio through the big front window of the station.

He was sitting at his big desk with the big microphone, with the big American flag on the wall behind him and a clear jar of assorted candy in front of him.

Tacked over the flag was the biggest pair of grey sweat pants in the world.
I try to hold onto the building and stand on my bike. My front tire is almost flat.

I’ll need to get air at Cenex. It’s free. Some places it costs.
It smells like feed in the air. We’re not that far from the elevator. It still smells even though it’s closed for the casino.

It smells like caramel corn, too. I look around to see where that’s coming from.
I can hear someone walking in high heels.

It’s the lady from the office supply store. She gets dressed up to work there.
Ron On The Radio can see me now.

They have a microphone outside that I don’t know where it is, but I can hear it.
He’s talking about sweat pants and America and baseball and the war and last week’s United Methodist early service and next week’s Apple Pie Day.

People are supposed to put hot pies in their windows and if somebody walks all around instead of driving you’re supposed to be able to smell ‘em.

You can listen to him if you want if you’re downtown.

“Family values, that’s what we’re talking about, people.
“Tradition. A good day’s honest wage for a day’s work. Hot, honest labor. Sweat. Sweat pants.
“Our Founding Fathers and Mothers wore them, though you don’t hear that from the liberal media. They did not worry about warming.

“As American as American can be.
“And if you think for one moment …”

Here comes a bunch of those seniors.
They are really starting to run wild, that’s what some people say. Pretty soon you won’t be able to go downtown without being harassed by them.

Harassed means like pushing or something.
They walk right by me like I’m not here. They wear shorts and sandals. The old guys aren’t wearing shirts.

Wal-Mart’s got a new greeter on the north entrance door.
I already know him, Walter White Man.
He’s rich.

Maybe he’s lucky, I don’t know.
He has the Enchanted Companies.

It’s Enchanted Golf Course, Enchanted Bowling For Less, and the Enchanted Feed Lot.
They weren’t called that when his dad had the company.
Walt says he’s been on an alien space ship, mother ship. He came to talk to my class one time. I’m not sure if Miss Porter still lives in town or not.

Yesterday Carl and Jesse were in there all day, on one of those hard-plastic benches, surveiling him while he greeted.

They think he might know something about li’l Sweat, maybe part of the bunch, the gang.
Carl and Jesse must have all the inside dope.

Or, they could just be lonely, like Walter maybe.

Sittin’ at Wal-Mart is at least better than sittin’ at home.

CHAPTER 10

Pssst!

Djew hear that?

Gutner, in Bogota Booth, he says it was Steve the pizza kid, guy, who took Little Baby Sox.

“He yis owt all de night long, driving aroundt, looking in all de winnows, seeingk who is up and who is fuckingk or sleepingk.

“He looks in all de winnows. He has no wooman, no chilt. He sees one he likes, he takz-it.

“Zooom! Off he goz-again.

“See?”

Gutner works for the city so he has coffee all over town and talks to a lot of people. So he would know.

I think he’s awesome. His starched brown work shirts are always so fresh and pressed every day, and they look nice with his grey sweat pants and shiny black work boots.

This gum is old. I’ve got some more in my purse wansome?

If you don’t like blueberry there’s vanilla.

Yes, I have been made aware.

Steve the pizza kid, guy, dude, wont’ wear the sweat pants.

He’s in the definite minority by now, I dare say.

He has told the local newspapers on record that he does not believe in all this anti-global warming crap, and I quote.

Which must mean he is in favor of global warming, which is thoroughly disagreeable and will not sell him many pizzas.

And something I would think his employer would want to look into.

And cut his dick off.

And poor li’l Sweat Sox, poor, dear, sweet Sweat, what has become of you?

He’s a traitor. That Steve.

A dickless coward.

That’s what ol’ Gutner said about Pizza Steve this morning.

One time a woman did that with her husband, cut off his dick. Then tossed it in the front yard on her way to work. That got in the news.

I’m not sure if a pizza delivery guy has ever had that done to them. That would have been on the news.

Gutner was eating sausage and talking about it.

I don’t know why he’s so serious about the sweat pants. He’s really into the whole thing. He wears sweats all day.

Sometimes he wears two or three pairs at a time.

And when he sees Steve on the road he stares. Sometimes he sticks his head out the pickup window and stares and yells.

And makes that one sign.

There’s a certain hand signal that some of the pro-sweats are using.

Take your two fists out in front of you, put them together and then pull them apart, like you’re pulling the draw string on your sweat pants tight.

It also kind of resembles a garrote being pulled around somebody’s neck if you ever saw The Godfather.

To be continued. ...

SWEAT

— global warming ... in a small town

& other tales of THE Great American Western Midwest

Stories by Mike Palecek

Art by Monty Borror

http://www.rockyborrorpictureshow.com/
I'm happy to be a kid of the 80's and 90's. I'm happy to have the good fortune of being able to do what I love. I draw comics for independent companies such as Heske Horror and graphic novels for companies the size of Insomnia Publications. I'm lucky. A lot of guys from my background don't get to do that. I'm happy to have met Mike Palecek through a publisher, Mike Annis, and work together on projects we really can believe in instead of chasing paychecks. I get to do this...I don't quite believe it either.

Mike and I agree on a lot. Where we don't is small details. But we both realize one thing: think about it. That's it. Before you regurgitate what you have heard, just give it a second to digest. Stop thinking with your gut, start using your brain. Stop emoting, start reasoning. The newest ideas won't come from the same old crap you and I have been spoon fed our whole lives. It's time for something better. I am, at heart a pessimist. I see most of humanity going in the opposite direction as it should. Maybe being American has something to do with that. Maybe a single cheer for a thinly veiled bigot running for office makes me hate the majority of humanity. I see Americans getting more superstitious, angrier at those who are different and it makes me want to emote back. But...I try to let reason win. I really do try.

One quote I do believe is this: "People get the government they deserve." I don't know of truer words ever spoken. If we have a nation filled with idiots, then our leaders will reflect that. I want to ask, to implore, let's give this reason a chance. Let's try this. But, again, I'm a pessimist. I try not to expect too much. In a very few years, I think this nation will go right back to where it was a few years ago..."lie to me, spy on me, build a fence around me. Keep me safe from the unknown." The biggest evil in this country are those that live in it.

So Mike and I will continue on, hoping to shake a few out of apathy. But I think he may be more of an optimist than me. I think he can change a few minds. Hell, he's at least got a pessimist like me trying. You gotta give him that.

CHAPTER FOUR

Hey!
Hi!
It’s me Tommy.

I’m sweatin’ myself to death.
Somebody took Sweat Sox.
The Sox baby.
He’s a boy.

It’s just a baby, that’s too bad. That makes me sad, kind of.
Somebody said it just happened.
“’scuse me, sorry, Hi.”

That’s why I’m flyin’ over to Carl’s. He would know. He knows everything. No, really. He’s got his own college.
I’d say it’s about a week old, the baby. The college is older than that.
I can’t remember when it was born.

I didn’t even know they had a baby, really, until this morning somebody said it was kidnapped.
They think is was The Foos who took it. They’re Korean and they’re probably gettin’ even for all of their babies we’ve got. Lots of people have ‘em. We got X-Box. Mom says that’s enough for now.

The Foos, Mary Woo and Larry.

They don’t speak American and they don’t look at you and they’re always talking to each other, making secret plans maybe.

Bobbi, Mrs. Sox, said, she’s my P.E. teacher, she was, I’m not sure if she will be next year, she said that if it was a girl they were gonna call it Sweet Sox.

“Isn’t that just precious?” she said.
We said, yeah, kind of.

And if it was a boy, Jim, Mr. Sox, was gonna call it Sweat, because it would be a boy and playing sports and always working hard and being a good example to everyone about running wherever you were going and giving 110 percent and hustling and always “working up a lather” is how he said it.

I’m riding around everywhere telling everyone, seein’ if they’ll help look for li’l Sweat.
I saw Nona, she’s working this morning, since it’s Saturday and it’s busy. She just waved at me out the front window. She’s smart. She knew what I was going to tell her. She wanted me to keep going, telling lots of people.

I saw Judy, the Lesbyterian minister. She had on her Army uniform. She has to be the Army recruiter too, since it’s a small town. All the ministers do, I guess.
I waved and she saluted. That’s pretty cool.

Paul, he’s the janitor at the middle school and high school, somebody else does the elementary building. Paul was in his pickup in the parking lot of Foos Foods. He was getting toilet paper and Pine Sol.

I told him maybe he shouldn’t go in there, but he did.
Paul knows everything about every sport or every kid who ever played sports here.
He lets The Swarm play football with a Pepsi cup full of gravel and folded over, out behind the bleachers during football games. He’s not supposed to, but it’s better to have The Swarm on your side.

I know.
The Swarm is about a hundred little kids who run around town doing whatever they want. They surrounded me once on my bike. Lucky for me it started pouring out or I was dead.
I just saw LaVerna. I went flying through the drive-up. I thought she’d wanna know.
I skidded out, then sat there waiting for her to look up and smile. Usually she at least smiles.
A car behind me honked.
I turned around quick.

Not a loud honk, more like a beep-Hi.
“Hey,” I said.
I came around to the passenger side and walked up with them while Christopher’s mom pulled up to talk to LaVerna.
“Hey.”
“Djew-hear?”
“Hear what?” said Robin, his mom. She’s always listening, even when she’s looking the other way.
“Yes, it’s unfortunate,” said Christopher.

Christopher says things like unfortunate and for-too-it-us, depending on whether it’s something good or bad.
He’s in high school, but he’s short so he talks to me.

Anyway, he’s the state representative for Jennifer Junction. I think he’s the only one who wanted to do it. His mom drives him to the state capital when the legislature’s in session. When he’s sixteen he’ll probably drive himself. That’s what my mom said.
The Mexicans walked through, wearing their nice Saturday shirts and jeans, on their way somewhere.
Then Don pulled up in the cruiser and circled the parking lot.

“Seeya,” I told Christopher. I pedaled up to Don. He stopped and rolled his window down to smoke.
“Hey-Tommy.”
“Heard anything new?” he asked me.
Well, I told him who I talked to so far and where I was going, nothing else.
Don sat there with his window down, air-conditioning the bank parking lot, smoking.
I sat on my bike next to his car.
I tried to sit and balance without touching the ground.
There wasn’t much else to say. Don has kind of limited interests.
He’s okay as a cop.
Somebody said he likes it.

“Well, seeya, Tommy. Stay out of trouble.”
He flicked his cigarette. He always says that and flicks his cigarette butt away from me. If he was a jerk he might flick it at me. But then I wouldn’t stop and talk to him, if he did that all that time.

I could see Sherman and I was kind of waiting for ol’ Don to flick his cigarette, so I could go see what ol’ Sherman was doing.
He’s the mailman for this part of town. They give those jobs to service men, my dad told me once.
I asked Sherman about that once and he laughed, not at me, he said he was a draft-dodger in Canada and never got to go to war. He got the job anyway because the rest of the people at this post office are cool, he said.

My mom says they are all a bunch of drug addicts and it’s a wonder anybody gets the right mail in this town.
“Hey, Sherman.”
“Tommy, my man.”
Sherman stops and waits for me.
He’s got a black and grey beard and ponytail, and he wears a Packers cap, with mailman shirt and shorts, long black socks, black Mailman Shoes.
I tell him right away about Sweat Sox the baby.

“LaVerna’s got him,” Sherman says, ducking his head to look over the top of his glasses at the bank drive-through.
“Who else has the motive? Cui bono?” says Sherman.
I didn’t say nothing. I had to sit on my bike and think about it. Sherman kept going. I just sat there for a while.
It was getting even hotter, I could tell.

From where I was I could smell chlorine and popcorn, so I peddled slow, almost falling over, over to the pool.
Some of the lifeguards were there, putting on lotion and whistles. Some were giving lessons to the bankers kids, while the parents in the cars stared holes in the heads of the lifeguards to pay some attention to their stupid kid that they don’t drown during swimming lessons.

Linda is the head lifeguard.
She’s been there for a long time, since I’ve been going. And now that they built the indoor part of the pool to go with the outdoors, she’s got a big job. I wouldn’t want it.

She also has to buy beer for all the teenagers and she gets other stuff for other people. I’ve seen Sherman shoving dollar bills through the fence to her. It’s a lot to keep track of with the pool and everything else, I’ll bet. People are always looking for her, bothering her.

She’s too fat to climb up on the lifeguard tower anymore, so she stands by the fence with her whistle in her mouth and watches.
I guess she used to be pretty. That’s what Don said. I guessed he was talking about Linda. I don’t know who else it would be.
Anyway, she said it was The Foos and LaVerna all right.

She said Don was thinking about going over and arresting LaVerna right now, is what she heard on the scanner in the lifeguard room.
I need to go talk to Carl.

CHAPTER FIVE

I can’t stand that kid.

Looking in the window all the time. I think he does it at the house too, little perv.

I’ve got customers. I can’t worry about whether some bimbolicious bank teller stole some little kid.
Not when I’ve got orders waiting. Call the Red Cross. I’ve got ketchup bottles to fill.
Look at this.

This is what I have to deal with. Missing kidnapped kids. Like who’s got the luxury …
Here.
See?

Each friggin’ napkin is stamped with some business name.
Jack & Jill Plumbing. Fern’s Family Dental Care. Jennifer High School. Jesus Junction.
And guess who gets to stamp each and every one, between wiping runny noses and filling salt shakers and cleaning off syrup bottles?
KJEN Radio, Raul & Saul’s Friendly Hometown Bank, Jane June John Kent Marc & Mary Attorneys at Law.

I’ve worked here at Tony & Tina’s Café for a few years now.
It does not get old, not really, when you think about it. I’m a people person.
I need a smoke. Come outside for a sec.

I hear a lot. People think I’m not listening — and I’m not — but I can’t really help it.
I guess ol’ Ron was home one afternoon, about four.
He and his son and daughter and better half all ended up in the kitchen. This was before school let out for summer.
Yeah, had to be.
“The weather man insists it’s not getting warmer,” Ron says to everybody and no one, stepping in front of his daughter to grab the milk and getting the famous Rachel Waters evil-eye.

“No mention of it.
S’cuuuse me.” He ducks under his son’s arm to reach the cheese.
“They’d tell us, if it was real. Yes they would.”

He sat at the table with his milk and sandwich and chips while the other three kept working on gathering their stuff.
“And yet, the U-U’s keep saying global warming this, the polar monkeys that, those poor glacier guppies there.
“We’ve got to put our feet down. Enough is way more than enough.
“Sweat pants.
“It’s not that warm out. In fact, it’s kind of chilly, especially in the evening lately, after the sun goes down.
“That is the stark reality we are dealing with here.
“Could you reach me the pickles, shweety?
“Thanks.”

There goes Don. Oh-my-God.
He’s got LaVerna in the back seat.
She smiles, waves with her cuffed hands.
This is a big day for her.
That’s so nice.

CHAPTER SIX

There’s CCC.
It’s uphill.
Like Mount Olympus, Carl says.

It’s almost straight up.
Prob’ly not straight up, but it about feels like it.
There’s Carl.
He’s walking around his yard with his head down, arms behind his back, his pipe in his teeth.
He’s heard.

“Hey-Carl.”
“Hello, young man. Well, what’s to be done?”
I pull right up to him, in front of him, to maybe make him stop pacing. There’s no way I can follow him all over his lawn on my bike with all the nightcrawler hills.
He’s actually pinned between me and the peonies.
White, pink, too.
I say I don’t know.

He just wants to talk, I know that.

His questions are not Socratic, rhetorical. He is not interested in what I have to say.
That’s okay with me. I didn’t come here to really say anything.

Carl is wearing a black professor’s graduation gown and he has on an Afghan Pakol Hat. I know ‘cause he told me.
To me he looks like maybe Sherlock Holmes, in his graduation gown, and pipe, out stalking his yard, unconsciously stepping over and around all the dandelions — now that there is a local murder to be solved.
Well, not really a murder, yet, but it could be.
That would be serious.
There would be lots of pacing required.
People would have lots to say. There might be outdoor barbecues to talk it over, maybe a circus, big church festivals, parades, candy.

It is true that Don is on the case and already has the suspect in the back of his car.
But I don’t think it hurts to have Carl out here in his hat, black graduation gown, brown penny loafers and pipe, anyway. Just in case.
Cherry.
The pipe tobacco is cherry.
Mmmm.

He takes it out and taps or rather beats — Carl likes us to use specific language — against his palm, then the side of his shoe. I think he probably saw his grand-dad do that. There’s really no reason. It’ll just fall out if you turn it over.
“The financier is in official custody,” Carl says, not looking at me, but rather over the lawn, in the direction of the fire hydrant, as if it would speak if only someone would listen.

I am a prop, like the pipe and hat and gown, necessary for the play, but I don’t mind.

It is what it is.

Jesse pulls up in the tan ’88 Honda Accord ladder truck.

He’s trying to get a Dalmation.

He still lives at home and his mother says they are a nasty breed.

Jesse says he’s either moving or just keepin’ the dog in the car. I am not sure what that does to the monthly training sessions.

There’s a lot to consider when you enter the public service field. That’s what Carl says in his public administration course.
Jesse parks in the drive, rolls down the window and cocks his head.
He’s chewing gum. I guess he’s trying to quit smoking, something.

As he tilts his head to look up at Carl and somehow keep the sun out of his eyes, his seed corn cap hits the door frame and now sits on kind of an angle on his head, which turns out is just right for the sun.

And I’m thinking, Watson, I presume.

I smile and they don’t see.

“What about The Foos?” says Jesse.

Carl flashes a look that is all about “The Foos? Hmmmm.”
“Foos Foods,” Carl presses those nuggets with his fingertips into the ground.
“The Foos.” Jesse tamps the ground.

“You think The Foos took Sweat Sox?” I run over trying not to trip and spill the watering can.

I was smiling.
It’s a way small town.

Carl narrowed his eyes, struck a match on the back of his shoe and lit his pipe.
I think even he was surprised it worked.

He gazed at the satellite dish on the side of the house and pursed his lips to make smoke rings, settling for what he could get, which was not that great.

“They’re Korean,” says Jesse. “Cambodian, like that.”
Carl nodded, once … twice.

I silently screamed from the bleachers, urging them on.
I looked from Jesse to Carl and back, and back.

“We’ve got lots of theirs. They took back one.”
“That’s what I heard, too,” I said.
“And …” Carl began to drawl now.
“You’re saying this LaRothschild magnate is connected as well?”
I stared.

Jesse squinted even more against the sun.
Carl puffed.
“And that it is a ring, a wide, wide ring.
“Of babies, mere infants, swaddlers. And boxes … noodle boxes, containers, take-home. Ho Chung Noodles.
“Empty coming in, not so empty going out?
“Is that what you’re saying?”

I stared, then sat back on my seat, since my calves were starting to cramp up.

Jesse put up a hand against the sun and looked at Professor Carl through the space between his fingers.

NEXT WEEK, AFTER THE OLYMPICS:

CHAPTERS SEVEN, & BEYOND ...

Sweat

… global warming in a small town

& other tales of The Great American Western Midwest

Stories by Mike Palecek

Art by Monty Borror

http://www.rockyborrorpictureshow.com/

I'm happy to be a kid of the 80's and 90's. I'm happy to have the good fortune of being able to do what I love. I draw comics for independent companies such as Heske Horror and graphic novels for companies the size of Insomnia Publications. I'm lucky. A lot of guys from my background don't get to do that. I'm happy to have met Mike Palecek through a publisher, Mike Annis, and work together on projects we really can believe in instead of chasing paychecks. I get to do this...I don't quite believe it either.

Mike and I agree on a lot. Where we don't is small details. But we both realize one thing: think about it. That's it. Before you regurgitate what you have heard, just give it a second to digest. Stop thinking with your gut, start using your brain. Stop emoting, start reasoning. The newest ideas won't come from the same old crap you and I have been spoon fed our whole lives. It's time for something better. I am, at heart a pessimist. I see most of humanity going in the opposite direction as it should. Maybe being American has something to do with that. Maybe a single cheer for a thinly veiled bigot running for office makes me hate the majority of humanity. I see Americans getting more superstitious, angrier at those who are different and it makes me want to emote back. But...I try to let reason win. I really do try.

One quote I do believe is this: "People get the government they deserve." I don't know of truer words ever spoken. If we have a nation filled with idiots, then our leaders will reflect that. I want to ask, to implore, let's give this reason a chance. Let's try this. But, again, I'm a pessimist. I try not to expect too much. In a very few years, I think this nation will go right back to where it was a few years ago..."lie to me, spy on me, build a fence around me. Keep me safe from the unknown." The biggest evil in this country are those that live in it.

So Mike and I will continue on, hoping to shake a few out of apathy. But I think he may be more of an optimist than me. I think he can change a few minds. Hell, he's at least got a pessimist like me trying. You gotta give him that.

“Can’t ya see the sun settin’ down on our town, on our town, tonight.”

— "Our Town," Iris DeMent

CHAPTER ONE

It’s about a hundred degrees out here.

Hundred and five by the bank.

I’m riding my bike, sweating like a pig. It’s a sting-ray, they used to call ‘em, about a hundred years ago. My mom got it at a garage sale. I said Dad would get me a twenty-speed. She said your dad’s not here.

The bike’s too small. She knows it, and it makes her feel bad I can tell, so I just shut up about it.

Hundred and six.

My shirt is wet. So is my face and my arms. The breeze feels good, so I keep pounding.

I have to mostly stand up to peddle or I’ll knock myself out with my knees. I hit my nose once.

I love summer. I like warm weather. Fall is cool, but it reminds me of school.

I like snow, too, sometimes. The first snow is awesome. It’s like you can’t remember ever seeing snow before.

I don’t think it snowed last year. I’m not one of those who can tell you what the weather was like this time last year.

I can tell you who won the NBA or baseball. Not the snow or rain as much.

I’ve lived in Jennifer Junction my whole entire life. My name is Tommy. Tom. Thomas Michael Moskowitz. I used the whole thing at confirmation. Mom uses it sometimes.

Tommy.

I think I probably know everybody here. Maybe not the Mexicans who just got here, maybe the last three … months. The rest of them I all know. They all know me, too. Ask any of ‘em if they know me.

They’ll prob’ly say, yeah.

I know Jan, Janice, who runs the homeless shelter. There aren’t any homeless people in Jennifer Junction. Everybody’s got a house.

But Jan says it’s her sacred calling. Her mother says she shouldn’t throw her life away, because there are no homeless here, but Jan says get behind me Satan. She’s not going to hide her light under a five-gallon bucket.

Steve’s the pizza dude. He’s about twenty, no, more than that. He’s out of high school. He drove pizzas all through high school, on his bike, then his car.

He likes it, that’s what he told me. He lets me go with him sometimes. It gets pretty crazy when they get busy, three, four pizzas in the back seat.

I might run one up to a house, he goes and does another and then comes back to get me. I think people eat about as much around here in warm weather as cold.

You wouldn’t think so.

Nona’s the waitress babe. That’s what Steve calls her.

Her real name’s Wynona.

But she says parents should not name their children after famous people.

It’s a burden to bear.

She gives me free stuff.

Not always.

I’ve seen her without her shirt on. She doesn’t even know it.

Gutner’s the city guy. There he is.

Not the city guy, like Nona’s not the only waitress, there’s Nina, but the one you see the most in the city truck. Blue pickup. It seems blue. Ford, maybe Chevy. I’m not great at cars.

Gutner’s his real name. His parents came here from somewhere.

There’s more. People. A lot.

You ever see how I can pull wheelies?

Watch.

Watch me.

Watch.

CHAPTER TWO

Well.

Good day.

If you will allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Robert. Robert S. Thompson.

I will not be called Rob or Bobby.

I have lived in this hamlet for nigh on seven decades. I have all manner of relatives, friends, acquaintances, enemies, lovers, up and down these lanes and drives, as well as up and down both the Catholic and Lutheran as well as the Reformed cemeteries.

Ahem.

Well.

Yeah.

It’s not a bad town. As towns go, I guess. I like sitting here.

I suppose I am an anomaly, quite the character.

People who knew me in high school kind of wondered what happened. This is what happened.

I do like to wear a suit, if necessary a wool top coat. And I enjoy observing and talking to whomever happens past.

We have a variety of benches in the town square. It’s not really a square, but the stop light and the four corners surrounding it, that’s a square.

I’m retired, from the food industry.

For thirty-one years and before that I was a security guard at Kriegers.

Then they layed off and I went to work at Lots Of Food, on Seventh Street and Buffton.

I cut meat, stocked shelves, checked, unloaded trucks.

Then The Foos took over. Nice Chinese couple. I have nothing against the Asiatics. It was just my time.

It's Foo in the singularThey say that’s like Smith in China.

I have never actually met a Smith, but they say it’s a common name and I would not be one to disagree. I have met a Foo. The Foo's, plural. Whether that apostrophe is correct I could not say.

They might be Korean, or something. People just say Chinese and that seems to cover it.

Oh, well, if you’re new here, then you don’t know about what’s been going on.

The radio station, KJEN, started this promo. They’re calling it “The Great Global Warming Cover-Up.”

They’re encouraging everyone to buy a pair of those grey sweat pants now filling the front window and racks at Rick’s Sporting Goods.

The morning DJ, the guy who has the farm report, the school lunch report and crossing guard live report, the airport wind direction report, Ron — who is Rick’s brother, older, I believe, apparently does not believe in global warming, and in order to tweak the liberal noses of the UU crowd, would like everyone to adopt sweat pants as the official attire, as it were.

KJEN is quite unique, I would suppose. It’s publicly funded, by nickels dropped into two two-liter Coke bottles at the Cenex station on the highway.

It’s a sort of cooperative they might call it. They decide as a group by consensus when to poop and to piss.

I do not believe Rick to be one of the inner circle.

They have your Marimba Moment every Sunday night at eight. Eight-ten sometimes by the time they get it going.

As well as Africa Hour, Pacific Rim Saturday Morning, Cuba Libre Hour, LGBT Hour.

It’s all quite leading edge stuff, is one way to look at it, I would imagine. Since one hundred percent of the listeners live within fifteen miles of town.

Though I’ve heard you can get the LGBT show on the western edge of Justin Junction. That’s Friday noon, and that would include Jake’s Grill, so that would be about twenty more, but still.

I have been reading in the paper that The People’s Committee For Community Radio wants to find room in the schedule for North of the Border Hour and South of the Border Hour, to feature music from the North and South Poles, which I’m certain the cooks in the school cafeteria and the construction crew putting in the sidewalks on Seventh Street will find a breath of fresh air.

Jesse, our minister of fire, the lone member of the volunteer department, was the second to leap onto the sweat bandwagon, is what I have learned. Gutner was the first. Those two compete quite viciously at most things, quite the joiners, for one thing.

There are no fires in Jennifer Junction.

Not historically. That’s just the way it is. Some towns have bowling alleys, some don’t. Some have summer band concerts … in others those band shells sit empty forever. That’s just the way it is, different towns, different things, ways, mores.

The truck had to be turned over to the library for the bookmobile. That was quite hard on Jesse.

He now runs the whole operation out of his ’86 brown Honda Accord. He owns attachable magnetic signs that he slaps on the doors to haul the school children around in October during Fire Month. It’s a difficult time for him, you can tell. He takes it quite stoically.

Jesse’s forever searching for talent, mining the church bulletins for new couples in town. They start out all excited and eager, but then they all quit when they find out there are no fires, no equipment, no uniforms, and all they get to do is sit in Jesse’s car, in his mom’s driveway, once a month, with the heater on and the windows up, signifying “hot,” practicing holding their breath for if there was a lot of smoke.

Well, this Ron … actually, I’ve known him most of his life, ever since his family moved here from Jason Junction so that his father could escape the Immigrant Mongol Horde is how he termed it. I have been meaning to ask him how that is working out.

Ron Waters In The Morning, Clear Waters, Muddy, Deep, Shallow, you get it, depending on his mood, a gimmick, a strategy to get seventeen hundred people to tune in who would tune in if the only thing on was static, so accustomed are they to being team players.

All the women played volleyball for Mrs. Sox.

All the men played basketball for Mr. Sox.

And all the children are playing for the Sox’ as well, as will their children and their childrens’ children, no doubt.

Well, Ron, he and Rick. They are not twins, not that I recall, but they look incredibly alike, with their thick, black hair. It’s quite full.

Ron graduated from JJHS, he was a starting guard for Mr. Sox and the Fighting Angus.

He chose to attend Carl’s Community College, as do a goodly number of local young people, to get some credits taken care of, save some money, while deciding what to do with their lives.

Something they and their parents might have considered in the previous eighteen years, but I do also understand that all those television shows are not just going to watch themselves, either.

CCC operates out of Carl Radish’s home at the end of the cul de sac on Northwoods Document Drive. Carl was the principal of the middle school for years and years until tragedy struck.

He was run over by the local Schwann’s route driver.

Both feet, actually. He was home for lunch, actually had a clandestine appointment with the Schwann’s truck for frozen apple pies, pocket sized.

The driver was sitting in the truck, doing logs I guess, orders, what have you, the usual. Carl walked up, reached up, stepped up to the side window, one foot on the running board.

He slipped.

The driver heard something, backed up to see if there was something by the truck and ran over Carl’s foot, then the other one.

Carl was sitting on the curb, both feet under the fully-loaded Schwann’s truck, in pure agony from what I have heard.

The driver can’t hear because he’s got all that necessary refrigeration stuff running. He doesn’t see Carl around so he decides to settle in and take lunch to wait.

So, Carl had a long time at home to sit with his feet up, bloated to the size of two Toyotas.

He decided he was not going to spend the next ten months watching The Price Is Right, so he sends the wife downstairs with the set. Shutting it off would not have been sufficient, I guess.

So, she sweated and bled and ruined her knee getting that thing down the narrow wooden steps.

He had her run down to the library with one of the kids’ old toy wagons and her crutches to haul back loads of books so he could make use of this opportunity for growth.

She he became a para-expert on many subjects and began teaching, offering courses in his basement, sectioned off into cubicles.

He reasoned that he knew more than most in town, especially with the daily discourse commonly centering upon American’s Funniest Home Videos and grass. That’s a rather pedestrian, pessimistic way to look at it, but actually, I think it motivated him to really putting himself into his college.

The school’s motto, “Soon To Be Accredited,” is on all the stationary and Carl’s coffee cup. His personal license plate is STBA098, for what it’s worth.

I went there myself, to study Renaissance Architecture. I never tried to transfer the hours, but I have never felt the time in Carl’s basement was wasted.

In fact, I feel it broadened my worldview and gave me confidence and perception that my associates without post-secondary experience seem to lack.

In any case, I’m proceeding to Rick’s myself after I complete my lunch here, to get my sweat pantalones. Global warming is a famous fraud, promoted by wackos for whom knows what reason, in my opinion.

Ron says we can still wear whatever upper torso garments we wish, T-shirt, pullover, cardigan, suit, jacket, what have you.

The idea is conveyed quite adequately with the sweat grey bottoms, with the script Fighting Angus neatly portrayed on the hip.

I fully agree.

Good day to you.

Please, stop by again.

I am here most days.

CHAPTER THREE

This gum is good.

Makes my jaws strong.

Larry likes that I have strong jaws.

I try to chew each stick a hunnerd times on one side, then a hunnerd on the other and back and forth.

You know?

A’kshly.

Actually.

I don’t like gum, especially watermelon, and I do not know anyone named Larry. Anything that tastes of watermelon, especially watermelon.

But I think it helps me get inside my character, my Nona the waitress persona.

It’s not that hard. I love listening to coffee chatter. I think it’s the most subtle, intelligent discourse invented by man since Hammurabi’s Code, the Socratic Method, since third base coach signals.

I just enjoy being around it, in its midst, within the penumbra, the glow of the embers of the cozy fire of discovery of each table and booth that are to me like a dark, welcoming road house at the end of a long, winding, dusty, road.

I want to be an actress.

My mother and father say it’s not dignified work, why don’t I just stick to being a waitress, if I’m not going to go to school. They would really rah-ther I use my scholarship to NYU, Stanford, Cambridge.

If you’ve ever seen Gilligan’s Island on TV? The Howells, that’s my folks.

I’ll go to Stanford when you pry these self-duplicate order pads from my cold, dead hands.

Mrs. and Mrs. Sox were in the other morning, sitting in Bluebird Booth. I’ve got names. I read where the cottages of this one resort in Minnesota had names.

Well, they were eating, with LaVerna. She had the pancakes. They ordered sausage, eggs, toast, the Hairdressers Hardy Breakfast. Coffee, juice, full-bodied creamer.

Jim Sox was talking. When is he not. He was telling LaVerna and Bobbi what he thought of the new radio promotion with the sweat pants.

Well, Jim and Bobbi were wearing sweat pants already, along with hooded sweatshirt, tennis shoes, you know, stop watch, whistle, ball cap.

It’s what they wear every day anyway. For church it’s leave the ballcaps in the bus. For funerals, black, weddings, white.

They like sports.

I could tell Bobbi and LaVerna weren’t listening.

Jim’s talking and it’s like wallpaper. After a while you don’t hear him anymore. He’s screaming with a red face, spitting bits of eggs, and you look around wondering who’s here, and it sure is quiet for a Saturday morning.

Jim thinks Ron talks too much.

LaVerna says if he didn’t, that would be weird radio.

Bobbi wants to get her volleyball players on a strict steroid diet. She’s sure that’s what’s going on over at Justin Junction.

“I don’t care what it does to the girls in later life,” she says. “I just don’t. I want to beat the crap of Trudy Wells, no matter what I have to do, who gets hurt, and what it costs.”

She took a long drink of juice.

“Excuse me for caring. That’s why they keep score.”

At the same time that Bobbi was talking to LaVerna, Jim was telling LaVerna that he had Rick and Ron Waters on his regional quarterfinals basketball squad how many years ago.

“And they were trying to run things then.

“Little pukes. They’ll be rich some day.

“I’m not dressing a certain way just because they tell me to.

“Little puke-face little shits. Excellent hair.”

LaVerna was listening to both of them at the same time. Or trying to. Or not.

She’s got a lot on her mind herself.

Murder. Robbery. Larceny, she calls it. I’m not sure, maybe there’s a legal difference. She would know.

Bad checks, that’s another of her interests.

LaVerna used to be on the line at Krieger’s, but she quit when this opening at the bank drive-through came up.

She took it to be in the middle of the action, where the money is.

That’s what everyone thinks about all day, having enough money to do exactly what they want to do.

LaVerna is no different. She just has a more direct approach. Maybe a little more honest than most.

She told me she wants an adventure. The kids are almost out of the house and so is Bill.

She asked me if I would go out window peeking some night. She wanted to kidnap some of the high school football players and take them out to the dirt road.

I told her we’d go to prison for that and her eyes just lit up so nice.

“What would that be like I wonder?” she said. I don’t think she’s been many places.

She just smiled so wide, God love her.

After work today I’ve got to go to my other job, at the Senior Center.

I deal black jack. It’s a nice break from this place after eight hours. I have to be busy or I go nuts.

When the Union Pacific shut down this spur it sent everything over to Jason Junction, which closed our elevator.

It sat empty for a few years, collecting pigeons, rats, and Meyers brothers, then the city got corralled into this statewide improvement project, handed some money that they had to use or lose their liquor license. They had to raise matching funds, which was a huge problem.

But finally, they decided to turn the elevator into a new senior citizens center.

They formed a committee, the council, Kiwanis, church ladies, and some of the old people.

The old people told the rest of ‘em what they wanted to do with the center.

“We don’t want another big, cold room with a few old magazines and card tables,” Mimi said.

So what they did was open a casino type thing.

Two hundred feet of vertical thrust, geriatric decadence, they’re calling it.

On the ground level you have your cards. The second is for darts.

“Elderly perversion, what’s your limit?” is the official advertising jingle, I guess.

On the third floor they have whist.

On fourth, dice.

Then it’s topless.

And the top is bottomless.

That’s kind of cute.

NEXT WEEK:

Who the eff took Sweat Sox?

GUESTS OF THE NATION

SIXTEEN

“The hijackers were U.S. undercover agents. They were double agents, paid by
the FBI and the CIA to spy on Arab groups in this country. They were controlled. Their
landlord was an FBI informant in San Diego and other places. And this was a direct,
covert operation ordered, personally ordered by George W. Bush. Personally
ordered. We have incriminating evidence, documents as well as witnesses, to this
effect. It's not just incompetence — in spite of the fact that he is incompetent. The
fact is he personally ordered this, knew about it. He, at one point, there were
rehearsals of this. The reason why he appeared to be uninterested and nonchalant
on September 11th — when those videos showed that Andrew Card whispered in his
ear the words about this as he listened to kids reading the pet goat story, is that he
thought this was another rehearsal.”

—Stanley Hilton, former chief of staff for Sen. Bob Dole [R-Kansas]

“Jump!”
We’ll help.
She jumped, or let herself fall, through the 94thfloor to the 93rdor 92nd maybe.

They held up arms and tried to catch, cushion maybe, something, but still they all crashed and
rolled, and it felt like they would fall off the earth.
How high up were they?
And we are going to fall from this high?
What will thatbe like.
Oh God.

But they were together, arms around each other for a moment. They took that split-second, less,
to hug and almost smile.

And in the next moment ... for to waste moments was sinful, there were only so many moments
in a life, left in a life, save your breaths, conserve, breath fast, get the most out of each split-moment.
So the next instant was used up scrambling, helping each other up, lurching toward a door,
maybe, over there, the stairs?
Head down, down.
They needed to get down.
Now.
Yesterday.
Last moment.
Boom.
Boom-boom-boom.

Art by Michael Paul Miller

Bam!
The pops above became thuds.
The ceiling and remaining beams above exploded, down, out, up, every-fucking-where.
Then their floor exploded.
The world erupted.
They were shot out of a cannon that was a volcano.
The whole world roared, and time would now stop, be over.
We had had our chance.

God says he’s had enough of our shit.
The young girl in her first job was blown apart, neck, ears, fingers, toes, heart, lungs, whatever you
can make yourself imagine, is how it was.
The parts which once had comprised the whole, the brain and lungs and eyes and being, shot out,
in all directions.
How would they ever find each other again for eternity?
Becoming dust, joining the dust of all the others.
Boom-boom-boom.

SEVENTEEN

“It’s hard for us to come to any other conclusion than that the 9/11 Commission
was a political cover-up from the word go.”

— Patty Casazza, wife of John F. Casazza, a government bond trader at
Cantor Fitzgerald, WTC North Tower, 104th floor. One of the four Jersey Girls, New
Jersey residents who were widowed by 9/11. Member of the Family Steering
Committee for the 9/11 Commission. Board member of September 11th Advocates.
Instrumental in the eventual creation of the 9/11 Commission. Selected as one of
Ms. Magazine’s2004 Women of the Year.

• It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on
his not understanding. —Upton Sinclair

Did you know that Mohamed Atta received money from a fellow from Pakistan who was meeting
with Karl Rove on September 11 in Washington?
“George Bush.”

“He was meeting with the President’s father.”
That’s right.
And all that stuff about seeing pictures of Atta and another guy coming through customs in
Portland.

Art by Michael Paul Miller

“Portland?”
“Maine.”
But … there aren’t any surveillance camera shots of them getting on in Boston. Or any photos of
any of the hijackers getting on the airplanes. And their names do not appear on the passenger lists.
They were paid, or at least Atta was.
They take flight lessons in Florida to create a story.
Oswald went to Russia, handed out flyers supporting Cuba.
They do business on military bases. Oswald had FBI and CIA contacts.
Some have told us they are alive.
The magic photo I.D. found on the street.
Atta’s fucking last will and testament found in his car in the airport parking lot, with a list of hijack-
ers, a Koran, a terrorist manual.

You believe that shit?
Remember that Colonel Prouty was in New Fucking Zealand when Kennedy was killed?
And he sees a photo of Oswald in the newspaper box as the guy who did it? On November 23,
1963 a newspaper in New Zealand, which is eighteen hours ahead of Texas time, printed facts about
the assassination before they were known in the United States.
And on American TV with 9/11, within a half an hour of the first plane hitting, the newscasters,
they know who did it and why and what our response should be.
And the British TV journalist tells us on camera that WTC 7 has come down, when in the back-
ground of the shot you can see the building is still standing.
Ooops.

Ever hear of Operation Mockingbird? Coo-coo.
Anyway, they’ve got it all figured out. Got it going on.
It’s Ahab ... Bin Fucking ... Laden ... Al Queda.
We need to invade Afghanistan and put in a new pipeline, and then invade Iraq.
Simple as that.
Anyone who isn’t with us is a dumb fucker.
It was the same with Oswald.
But we didn’t have the Internet then. People weren’t able to talk to each other. They just sat in
their isolated living rooms and watched the military and CIA tell us what to believe, with sports and
weight loss dreams and Coco Puffs, and sexual fantasies, to take our mind off it as quickly as possi-
ble.

Oswald was the one within minutes, hours at the most.
George Bush Sr. was there, too.
It wasn’t that long ago.
On the timeline of world history it’s still today.
George says he wasn’t there, that he didn’t work for the CIA then, but he was and he did. He was
photographed standing outside the school book building after it happened.
On nine-one-one. Catchy isn’t it? He stays at the White House the night before and meets with Bin
Laden’s brother and the guy who sent money to Atta the next morning, as well as the Carlyle group,
investors in the new American century.
The hijackers got on board with the Bin Ladens, the only plane in the sky, plenty of room, all
aboard.
Drinks all around.
Allah rocks.
God is great.
He takes care of those who … take care of themselves.

You believe that?

EIGHTEEN

“George W. Bush's grandfather had his assets seized by Congress on Oct. 20,
1942 due to his decade of money laundering for Hitler. ... There were actually a num-
ber of American ruling familes who outright admired the Master Race idea and corpo-
rate control of society, and they frankly hoped this elitist-traitorous agenda would take
hold in America. ...

“They actually attempted a coup, a takeover of FDR and the White House, in the
early 1930s. Most of their names, these American ruling families, were kept out of the
media in exchange for their agreement to stop obstructing legislation for programs
such as Social Security for the elderly, the poor, and the sick.
“Copious evidence further indicates these evil ones and their 'proud descendants'
have given shadow support for, and have experienced benefits from, the assassina-
tions of key anti-war figures — JFK, MLK, RFK, John Lennon, and others.
“And the general public's failure to grasp the nature of evil further explains why
most of the American population still cannot, and will not, comprehend the copious
and obvious evidence of September 11th — that the attacks were planned and carried
out by traitors high in our government — that they did this.”

— Connie Cook Smith, Speculations On The Nature of Evil, May 14, 2008

Well, at that point, Bill called for a little break.
We did the team bathroom thing.
Laura went by herself. She’s used to it I would imagine.
She came back with a tray of coffees, sodas, vegetarian burrito, hamburgers, fries.
I guess the burrito was for me.

Bill ended up eating it.
He said it wasn’t so bad.
Not in so many words.
Ron sat on the floor by the door to eat.
The rest of us scattered our junk on the table.
Afterward we all smoked.
In silence like soldiers in the field.
“Oooh!” I jumped at a buzz of Bee Gees bolting from the corner speakers.
“Anybody play cards?” I asked, only half kidding.

“Nobody plays cards anymore, do they?” Ron asked as if he really wondered.
“Nursing homes, prison,” said Bill.
Firehouse, I blurted, proud of myself.
“My folks used to have card night,” said Laura.
She smiled and then took almost a whole hamburger into her mouth.
I looked away, at the lovely concrete block wall, to chase naughty thoughts.
“Where you from?” Bill asked.
I turned and saw that he was asking Laura.
I thought he knew.

She smiled with a full mouth and stuck a pointer finger into the air, hunched her shoulders.
We waited until she swallowed.
“Boulder.”
She smiled again.
“Boulder?” said Ron.
She nodded with her whole body while she wiped her mouth with both hands with a napkin.
“Yupper.”
“Interesting,” said Bill.
“I’m from Ohio,” I said. “But I guess you all already knew that.”
Bill took the hint.
“The city,” he said. “New York. Brooklyn.”
“Ronald?” I said.
He stared at me as if he might be about to charge.

First he would have to stand up though, and nobody could move very fast from that position. And he looked tired for some reason.

I thought Boulder was this liberal mecca, I said.
“It might be. It’s a great place. I love it,” said Laura.
The FBI? I said.
“Nothing wrong with the bureau,” she said, brushing crumbs from her pants.
She spoke without irony, sarcasm, defensiveness, or onomatopoeia.
You have a big family, Ron? I asked.
He stared.
“I have four sisters,” Laura smiled.
“I’ve got six boys,” smiled Bill.
“My brother is in Afghanistan,” said Ron.

My parents still have the farm, I offered. No livestock anymore. Several cats.
Just as we were about to bond and group hug and hum Halloween songs and shit, this veil of
silence descended, like we all discovered we didn’t really want to get to know each other. Did not want
to expend the energy.
Which was fine by me.

“What’s the matter, John?” said Laura.
I’m under arrest, locked in seclusion, by the FBI, and you wonder, what’s the matter?
Nothing.
“No, really, I want to know,” she said.
I looked up from the floor and into her eyes, to the fourth grade playground, the volleyball team,
the homecoming court, Quantico, and hanging in there day in day out in a man’s world with looks like
that.

Wow, I said out loud.
Nothing.
She pushed back in her shitty chair, crossed her arms, then her legs, and looked at me like I had
wet the bed and she honestly wondered why.
“How about Bert?” said Bill.
I must have looked puzzledbecause Ron added, “and Ernie.”
What about them? I said.

… Well, they were joined by a white, unmarked fighter plane.
Pretty clever, actually.
We saw a white plane.
It was big.
It was small.
Well, which was it?

Art by Michael Paul Miller

But, it was also functional.
The cruise missile that hit the Pentagon was launched from the little white plane at about the time
that an airliner was landing at Reagan — more confusion, deniability.
It doesn’t take that much.
A little goes a long ways, like peppermint raspberry ice cream.
The little white plane was fast — whoosh!
And busy — boom!
Boom.

It also made the little hole in the soft dirt in Pennsylvania.
“What about the scattered debris?” said Bill. “Some of it was human remains.”
“We shot that aircraft down. It was headed for the White House,” Ron said.
Perhaps, or WTC 7. Maybe Camp David, right?
But where are the bodies if it was shot down?
I actually think that Bert & Ernie dumped bogus debris, remains, to make it seem like a hit. A hit
to save the White House is one hell of a lot easier to swallow than what really happened.

“You think?” said Ron.
“You think?” said Bill.
“I thought you knew,” said Laura, dusting herself again, then wiping her hands with a crushed
napkin, as Bill began to gather up the trash like we were getting ready to be done here.
Laura, I thought at least you understood.
Well, I said, trying to scramble without appearing to stall ... extend the moment.
Who would really know … besides someone on the inside, right?
I leaned over to unzip my bag. I shoved both hands inside and felt all over.
I sat up and saw three big faces: Ol’ Laura, Ol’ Bill, Ol’ Ron.
All with their hands on the table, waiting to find out what I had found in my bag.
I held my hands up to say nothing.

NINETEEN

“John O’Neil was a friend of mine,” said Bill.
Bill recounted portions of O’Neil’s career as it intersected with his own and Bin Laden, Al Queda,
all that jazz.
He became increasingly angry, standing up even, at one point and pacing.
I covered a yawn with a fist.
Ron did an amazing thing.

He hopped up from an almost-supine position, from his ass to his feet, without using his hands.
Laura knew all about John O’Neil. You could just tell.
S.S. agent, I said, right in the middle, or maybe it was toward the end of Bill’s monologue. I guess
we’ll never know.
Secret Service.
WTC 7.
One guy died.
“O’Neil was in the towers,” scowled Bill.
I know, I said. I’m talking about something else now.
“This building is going down!”
“You need to exit immediately.”
Don’t you suppose that probably was how it went?

___________________

“Ever since that day, I believed the official story for all about two minutes. I always
had my questions. My family had their questions.
“The government sent us the 9/11 Commission or I should say omissions, really.
They sent us that. I read the whole thing. As I’m reading the whole thing; it was just
incredible; the lies in this book. ... It hurt me to read this book.
“I researched it on the Internet and I seen — I noticed the little squibs coming out
of the building as they’re coming down, ‘cause I seen it a million times, as every-
body else did. And I said, “Gee what’s that?” I’m wondering what’s going on.
“A friend of mine actually gave me Loose Change. And I seen that and I was
amazed. I was so amazed. When I seen it, seriously I broke down. I didn’t sleep that
night. I was just insanely distraught about it. So I joined this group; 9/11 Truth. ...
“The truth: to actually be out there knowing that I’m fighting for something that’s
right and something that’s American. That’s the American way. ... My father was a
true patriot and I will follow in his footsteps. I’m gonna try so hard. I’m gonna try to
the death of me to get him justice. Not only him, but the three thousand others that
died, too. ...
“My father was a patriot. I’m a patriot and everybody in this room that believes in
truth and wants to find justice is a patriot. Because this is America. It is of the peo-
ple; for the people; and by the people. And that’s the America I know and that’s the
America that I’m gonna defend, no matter what.”

— Daniel Wallace, son of Lt. Robert Wallace, Engine 205, Ladder 118, FDNY
[Died Jan. 29. 2007, age 23]

__________________

He had all fucking day to get out of that building, yet he died in there.
Why?
Why. Why.
Why you suppose he died in there?
He knew.
You see the headline of the front page of the Postafter 9/11?
Bush Knew.
Well this guy, he knew too.

He knew there was a command center in there, too.
You ask why don’t more people talk, come forward, do the right thing.
This guy did.
He knew Giuliani's command center in WTC 7 was talking to Cheney in the resort lake home
bunker and Bert & Ernie, guiding those planes in, with Silverstein and Pataki and the chief of police,
can’t think of his name.

“There were only a couple of small fires,” said Laura. She adjusted her light blue blouse and I saw
the gun in its holster under her arm.
Yupper.
I think this is where things don’t go exactly according to plan, even with Osama’s photo on the
Amalgam Virgo logo way back in June — before Bush gets the nomination — Cheney and Rumsfeld with
Reagan and Shultz and Casey — all that time.

Still, we’ve got a mixup over Pennsylvania.
I’m not sure what. Maybe it’s supposed to hit WTC 7 after all the President’s men are out.
But they still have that building wired, prepped, primed, and all that incriminating shit in there:
emails, notes, computers — that need to not be there at the end of the day, as they say.
And so this one guy — well, John O’Neil’s already dead — but then he didn’t really know what hit
him.

So we’ve still got our one guy, one good cop.
Serpico.
Matt Dillon saying you boys are not going to lynch my prisoner, not while I’m sheriff of this town,
you’re not.
And they shot him.
First they tied him up, to a chair, hands behind his back, like mine here, not that I’m tied up, the
chair I mean.

And they beat him, maybe his friends, maybe they were from another agency.
They beat the holy shit out of him and there was no going back. He wasn’t going home for supper
once they laid hands on him.

They put a white bag or paper bag or shirt or jacket, over his head.
And pretty quick there was a hole in that hood with deep, dark stains.
Boom-boom-boom.

They untied him and let him drop to the floor.
This sorry son of a bitch, this snitch.
They took back their hood and left him in there as they blew up that building, and it came down,
and he felt the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
Giuliani, as he had been told, made certain the rubble and remains were scooped up and hauled
to Fresh Kills.
Fresh Kills.

And the victors write the history books.
Fighter jets, white ones, fly over the Super Bowl.
What’s for lunch? For supper?
What’s on? What’re you doin’ tonight.
Not much.

That’s how it works.

Art by Michael Paul Miller

TWENTY

“I never could make out what duty was myself … but I think you're all good
lads, if that's what you mean. I'm not complaining.”

—Belcher, Guests of the Nation, Frank O'Connor, 1931

• “We were there to record the event.” — one of the Dancing Israeli Mossad
members from the white van seen filming the crashes into the WTC, being
interviewed on an Israeli talk show.

He never got the call.

Never got the appointment to the White House.
He graduated in May, same as our young lady of the north tower.
Spent the summer waiting, emailing, writing letters, trying to remind Karl Rove about their little
tryst, get him to return a call.

He takes a job in August as a fucking bank teller.
That day he’s watching TV in the break room, listening on the radio at his station, just like every-
one else.
And he begins to think.
He starts to connect the dots.
He doesn’t say a word to nobody.
He’s still got the Audi. Dad signed it over without being asked.
He goes home.
He lives alone.
Nice neighborhood, apartment. Trees, kids and shit.
He parks on the curb, goes inside, opens a beer, bottle, pops some fat-free popcorn, kicks off his
shoes against the kitchen wall, walks into the living room, clicks on the TV, leans way back to put the
footrest up.

And shoots himself.
You believe that?
“The demo team, WTC,” said Bill.
Yes, actually, I was getting to them.
Darnell, I believe it was, well, he went to Iraq, got blown up almost right away by a roadside what-
ever.
Jose had a car accident.
The other guy we, I don’t know what happened to.
“Fender-bender?” asked Bill. “You know, car accident, c’mon.”
Oh, no, I explained.

He’s dead.

TWENTY-ONE

“I just embrace people that understand that four airplanes an hour and half
between the first impact and the second impact with zero military response in the
United States. It didn’t happen that way. It couldn’t have happened that way. You’re
talking about the most intelligent agencies that we have on the face of the earth.
State of the art agencies ... And there was zero military response? ...
“It’s very transparent that our own president did not want to investigate this
tragedy. And I’m standing before you today for one reason. The only thing that I can
give my brother is the truth. That’s it.”

— Barry Zelman, brother of Kenneth Zelman, Oracle Corp., on assignment at
Marsh & McLennan, WTC North Tower, 99th floor

“You are a liar, and un-American. I served so fucks like you could protest.”
Thanks, I thought.

He must have seen something in the smirk on my face that he didn’t like.
Ol’ Ron reached back and slapped at me with an open hand.
I lurched back.
He missed me, but he threw dots of ketchup across my cheek and into my mouth.
I tipped over in my chair, flat on my back, feet in the air.
Well, I wiped the ketchup across my nose and looked at it on my hand and maybe I wasn’t think-
ing clearly.
I jumped up, tasting, and I should know that blood is not sweet, but I went into a tizzy.
And I smiled.

I winked at Laura and fucking jumped over that grey table with the hamburger bags mostly picked
up by now.
With both arms out I literally flew.
I dived over and we smacked shoulder to shoulder.
I knocked him onto his back.

I wrapped my legs around his legs, and pressed his head to the floor with a little well-placed direct
pressure on his throat with my forearm.
Pressing down with my whole body, and my nose almost touching him Eskimo-style, I looked deep
into Ron’s eyes and he discovered fear I believe.
Ol’ Ron ceased struggling.

I stood. I did not hop. More that I got to my knees then used the wall with both hands to drag
myself up.
Laura and Bill were standing right there.
They silently advised me to go back to my chair, please, and Ol’ Ron to lie there or stand, or what-
ever.
With my back to them I squeezed around the table, tucking here and straightening there.
I sat.

The two remained standing.
Ron sat up and pushed back against the door, as he was wont to do.
Laura and Bill did not appear to want to sit and talk any longer.
What happens now, I asked, thinking maybe I did not want to know. Maybe I do ask too many ques-
tions.

You now know everything I know, I reminded them of our previous agreement.
Ron got to one knee to begin to stand.
Laura came forward, leaving Bill in the middle of the room. Again he began to pick up here and
there. The man is amazing.

She placed ten fingertips, clear polish, sort of a clam shell color, maybe, I dunno.
She looked me straight in the eyes.
She had really blue eyes. Maybe contacts.
“We believe you.
“At least, I do,” she looked around to Bill.
Bill now looked me straight in the eyes and nodded, sending a tingle down my spine in a way only
Bill Cosby could.
I stood.
Laura looked at the bulge in my pants. I put a hand down to cover.
“I believe we need to …”
“Hey!” shouted Ron.

He hopped up the way he does and started patting like he was on fire but not sure where.
“My gun,” he said.
Chopin began to play in the speakers up in the corners.
I winked at Laura and stuck my hand down my pants.
I’m just so glad to be able to tell someone.
I pulled out Ron’s black Glock 22.
Is this what you’re looking for?
I held it up.

Fondlng the piece with both hands, I spread my feet to the recommended shoulder width, point-
ed at Bill and Laura to remove their hands from their weapons.
“Over there,” I commanded Ron.
“Por favor.”
They shuffled over, together.
They kind of looked like calves in the corner of the corral for the first time, wondering what was
expected of them.

“Now, you know,” I said.
The music reached a crescendo, I think that’s what they call it.
This is my favorite part, I said.
And we waited.
I’m not sure who was playing the piece, what band or group or whatever they call it.
But they were pretty good.
Orchestra.

There was a rhythm, and I felt a part of the whole, and it was all kind of unreal because of the
music and I kind of wondered if it was really happening.

But there were these three frightened people, real folks, standing in this corner of this forgotten
room of this American airport.
And here I was with this gun, in my own hands, pointed at them.
Wait.
And it really is such a beautiful country, just a gorgeous time of year. We love where we are, great
town, nice people.
Except somebody. Some gi-normous asshole Goober!
Keeps running his power saw at night and stacking bodies next to my garage.
All night long.

And just before light he takes them away.
I’m just glad to have a job, something interesting to do. My wife loves me and my kids go to a good
school.
As long as I go to work every day, everything stays on track.
Do … Do-Do-Do-Do-Do-DO-DO!

We’ve got nice neighbors and this weekend should be fun, with the ball game and well, I’ve got a
fix-up project in the upstairs bathroom that I’m actually looking forward to.
Here it comes.
And I have my part to play.
The show must go on.
Boom!
Boom-boom.
Oh, Ron.

Boom.

___________________

Art by Russell Brutsche

Artists & Author

RUSSELL BRUTSCHE

Cover Artist

Art is said to be where the values of a culture are held. In these times of increasing commodification,

art is often relegated to the role of sophisticated decoration, but it can do more: it can witness, it can

inform. I try to do that with my paintings.

I observe that when world trade systems result in extreme imbalances, of power, wealth, and for some

even the basic needs of life, all levels eventually become vulnerable to attack, whether from within orwithout.

Russell has been painting since early childhood. He attended San Jose State University, studying

under Eric Oback, Robert Freimark (student of Henri Matisse) and Sam Richardson, graduating with

scholarship honors in 1968. Since then he has been in numerous one-person and group shows

throughout the San Francisco Bay Area, and in Colorado, Arizona and Japan. In 2001 he had a one-

person exhibit at the Museum of Northeast Nevada, as featured in VIA magazine. Russell currently

participates each October in Santa Cruz Open Studios, and other shows throughout the year. His work

can be seen at www.russellbrutsche.com.

MICHAEL PAUL MILLER
Story Illustrations

We are visually guided through Mike’s book from the descriptions of tragic events given by the char-
acter known only by his first name, “John”. Interested by John’s words and the obscurity of smoke and
fire associated with the destruction of 9/11, I sought a pictorial space that not only combined both of
these elements, but that also kept an enigmatic quality to ensure room for open interpretation and
independent resolution of the visual narrative. The paintings are oil on canvas and are layered both
by direct and indirect painting methods. I believe oil paint on canvas was the necessary medium to
use in order to capture visual depth as well as the narrative depths that are also often multi-layered.
Through means of glazing and transparent washes of paint, smoke has obscured truth, the atmos-
phere has become dirty and distressed, and the loss of life is foreshadowed. In some instances a
painting has become so dark that the only light is revealed by deceit. The deceived are depicted in a
state of doubt, sadness, or fear while the others remain calm, confident, and emotionless. At times
bright cadmium colors exist to heed caution and add a sense of aesthetic beauty.
Other symbolism may be found in military presence (that is either hidden or in full command), in key
political figure portraits, and in the recurrence of linear patterns that offer a nostalgic point of refer-
ence to the glass and aluminum facade of the twin towers. In regards to those who have lost or sac-
rificed for the good with relation to the events of 9/11, please keep in mind that it is not my intention
to exploit the sorrows or hardships of this tragedy. These images are meant to evoke thought, emo-
tion, and visually support the alternative perspective presented in Mike’s book.
Michael is an emerging artist and art instructor from central Wisconsin. In 2003, He received a B.F.A.
degree in Painting and Graphic Communications from the University of WI - Oshkosh. In 2006 and
2007, he received a M.A. and M.F.A. degree in Painting from the University of WI - Madison. Since
then his paintings have been selected for solo exhibitions at The Museum of Wisconsin Art, The
University of Northern Iowa, The Port Angeles Fine Arts Center in Port Angeles, WA, and a group exhi-
bition at Denise Bibro Fine Art Gallery in Manhattan, NY. To view his art and find a current exhibition
schedule visit www.mpmart.net.

ALLISON M. HEALY
Story Illustrations

One should take every opportunity to speak out against the injustices of the world. With my art, I am
always trying to look at things in a new way and hopefully, I will encourage others to think about some-
thing they hadn’t thought about before. In the pursuit of truth, there are still many unanswered ques-
tions, and art has the ability to ask that which is difficult to ask.
Allison was born in St. Claire, Michigan and raised in the Northwoods of Minnesota. She studied illus-
tration at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design and University of Brighton, England. Currently,
she is living in Boston, Massachusetts. To see more of Allison’s work visit www.ah-creative.com.

MIKE PALECEK
Author
I would normally say don’t explain too much. That ruins everything. But in the case of Guests of the
Nation, we thought it might be all right to try to spell out our vision.
I wrote GOTN because I wanted to “show” what happened on that day, behind the scenes, scenes
we’ve only imagined. I wanted to borrow Frank O’Connor’s title, from his famous short story about
Irish soldiers and British prisoners who become friends before the heartbreaking ending.
Who are the guests? Who is the nation? You tell me.
Well, I guess I’m not going to say as much as I thought I was. I think trusting the reader is a sacred vow of the writer.
It is a collaboration.
I trust you.

Mike is a writer living in northwest Iowa. He has written several novels. He is a former federal pris-
oner for peace, small-town newspaper reporter, and Iowa congressional candidate. Visit
www.mikepalecek.com to learn more about Mike and his books.