– 1 –
The Writer
I am in my morning place: sitting on the deck of my sailboat—feet dangling over the edge. Sunrise in Key West: five minutes ago; no screams so far, but it has only been… five minutes. The mourning starts early these days.
My four-footed boat mate stirs. A soft stroke to furry dog ears does nothing to lighten my dark shroud of emotion. I hear the sad-dog sigh. BH misses her. We all miss her.
September 7th—five months ago, today—my little sister died. I held her hand as she strangled in her last breath. The doctors—heads lowered; the nurses—eyes weeping: they could do nothing to save her. Now, the tears flow from me.
—such a hard death for one so sweet and young.
The headline of Key West’s newspaper beacons the dark news:
Narco-Attack!
82,000 Americans died in thirteen days!
Chicago won the top honors in “decimated populations of the beautiful and wealthy”. New York City came in a close second; they are always competitive—those bright-light, big-city places.
The kiddies got hit hard in Houston; their parents, harder. In Los Angeles, attendance at drug addiction meetings is down. Way down. Maybe the addicts’ prayers for serenity were finally answered in by death.
The power elite of Washington, D.C.?
It is in the nature of adults to deny their vices just as children avoid their responsibilities. The politicians set the truly professional standard in this regard.
But, this time, they—we—have only ourselves to blame.
The newspaper’s story tells of what is not yet known. My mind shares the unhappy wonder. Tens of thousands of Americans have been executed by an Anthrax attack. Who did this?
Those who died rarely speak about the matter. My sister hasn’t said much for five months—well, nothing at all, as her sad silence speaks.
I reach for my writer’s journal: a simple notebook—it is but a paper defense against the hardness of my reality. Perhaps thought and pen will strengthen my refuge. My hand readies for the defense.
“Words share feelings…”
Oh, good God, I think. Even the dog writes better than that. The journal returns to its resting place on the deck of my boat. BH—sixty pounds of furry, snoring Keeshond—is in his usual position to my left. I laugh with dark pleasure. A thump to his fuzzy ear brings him back into semi-consciousness.
“Hey—you. Wake up.” His brown eyes open and regard me with a soft intensity. “Perhaps I should write something today. Do you have any suggestions?”
BH remains quiet. His interest in conversation usually requires the mention of doggie treats.
“How about Screwed Up Situations In The World I Didn’t Cause? I can think of several, you know.”
Still no response from my dog-friend; the only screwed up situation he feels compelled to address is that of an empty food dish.
A gust of wind flips the journal’s pages by in a blank fan of neglect. My work as a professional ghostwriter lags behind schedule. Two months have passed—not one word written.
Rare, are the times when my pen lays still. So easy to find; so many in number—the ill-famed, inflamed people who wish to tell the world of their disjointed lives. A book that divulges all! The crown jewel of self-disclosure! They are words written for show ponies who wish to place themselves on parade.
I dislike most of my ghostwriting clients within hours of meeting them. Yet, such does not matter. They pay money for my words and grant me anonymity. Hidden, on a two-by-six-mile island—the Key West ghostwriter—
Now, the ghost.
The sun clears the lowest depths of the horizon. ‘Must be around 7:30am. The phone call from my agent will come soon—if such is to come. I look at BH, curious about his opinion on the matter.
“Hey—do you think she will call us again, today?”
His answer is returned by an enthusiastic dog-yawn. That’s probably a “yes”. He always plays the odds, and she has called six times in as many days. Each time, she asks the same question:
“Talked with anyone interesting lately?’
Irony answers so my screams can stay private. “No. I live on a boat by myself, and the dog is interesting but doesn’t say much.”
“Well, you’ll be contacted soon.”
Six times in response: “I hope not.”
Maybe I’ll get to extend my streak to seven today.
I push my writer’s journal farther away then sigh. My little sister is dead. The Narco-Attack remains a mystery, and the world provides no answers. It is just another day to…
Then—and, I would like to tell you there was harp music from Heaven or a roar from Hell; there was not—my cell phone’s signal announced an incoming text:
Text message received
Writer, the time has come for you to create a book. We will begin now!
The message was from a number I did not recognize. I keyed in my response:
Text message sent
Wow. Awesome. ‘Been expecting your call. Thanks for the heads-up on my new writing assignment. Now, go away. I am busy being miserable.
A demon-dark reply was returned:
Text message received
I will place a call to you in one minute. Answer, or forever wonder why your sister was executed. Communication concluded.
I looked in shock at the message. My little sister? Executed?
A minute passed, and a second later the cell phone rang.
I pressed the green button then heard the voice.
Now, I wish I hadn’t answered that call.
Truth was spoken, and the Strategist revealed himself.
– 2 –
The Strategist
Well, I didn’t answer the call right away. Making people endure repeated rings is one of my petty hobbies.
As the third ring passed, I tried to remember my all-time record: was it eleven or twelve? I considered going for a new mark of antagonism with this strategist-guy but then thought twice. There was some potential for conversational joy: crackpots can often entertain me with their words. Given his cavalier reference to my sister’s demise, I was motivated to inflict intellectual pain upon this person who had so rudely interrupted my Key West mourning.
At two rings past the fourth, I pushed the [Talk] button. An unaccented male voice spoke its introductions through a clear connection. The words were meticulously pronounced; there was no hint of charm or pandering to popularity—the voice of a powerful intellect presented itself without claiming the same.
Within four sentences, my dislike of this person had grown complete. “Listen, guy, you don’t know me, and I don’t like you. Now, go away so I can—”
“Writer, you are sitting on the deck of your boat. Your dog is in his usual position to your left.”
I shoved the phone in BH’s direction. “This jackass is pissing me off. Do you want to talk with him?”
The dog is brighter than I am. He declined.
I responded in his stead. “Yes—I’m on the damn boat. The dog is next to me; the clouds are above; the water is below; and our breakfast is delayed—by you. Now, say what you must. BH is hungry, and an empty stomach makes him flatulent.”
The voice sharpened. “I cannot predict the progress of your dog’s imminent fartings, but I am sure a writing journal, sitting nearby, accompanies your dislike of me.”
My mind fluttered. Ten seconds of silence passed between us. I was determined not to ask of how this knowledge was gained.
“The dog is curious how the hell you know so much about us? Care to clue him in so he can fart and get back to sleep?”
The voice continued on, emotionless, yet not in monotone. “Writer, you are an individual governed by the force of habit. We all are. I have observed you, and what I speak of is part of your morning routine. Hence—where you are and what you are doing is not so much a guess.”
I looked again at my boat mate. “He says we are all governed by habit. I’m not. Are you?”
As I said this, the lights of a nearby yacht flipped on—someone foraging for breakfast, no doubt. BH stood up, looked at me with hopeful intent, and then decided it was in good dog-form to bark. The furry fool does this every morning there is but a hint of food within a quarter-mile of the boat. I frowned at him. “Yeah, right. Maybe you are controlled by habit. I, however, am not and never will—”
An amused, dark laugh stopped my words. “Are you done arguing with your dog, yet?”
Now, this voice was really pissing me off. It was time for the deeply meaningful repartee to begin.
“Screw you and the phone call you rode in on. And, what is this observing-me thing you have going on? Are you one of those weirdo stalkers or voyeurs?”
The Strategist laughed harder. “No, I am not of the stalking nature nor voyeuristic pleasure. I simply wished to observe your habits.”
This conversation was headed from bad to worse. “So—you know where I am? How do you even know about me?”
“The path to finding you was an indirect one, Writer. I first became aware of you through the newspaper article you wrote last year. Quite the story—the death of your sister. Your essay was well-penned albeit for misjudgments in the purpose and cause of the events you recounted.”
“Hence the tracking? A desire to correct my literary facts?”
“No. The reason was far more practical: writers are of good use when a story must be written and even more so when they are a part of it. This connection was compelling; hence—the tracking.”
“But, that article was published last September.”
“Yes, five months ago, as of today. September 7th—the day of your sister’s death. The timing of this phone call is not random.”
“Even so, how did you find me? That piece made no mention of my residence by city, state, or body of water.”
An impatient sigh prefaced the answer. “I Googled your name, Writer. From this, I found references to a book you recently authored: the one you wrote for the secretly-gay husband who first displayed his odd life-choices on national television. Fascinating, his preference to demonstrate such dysfunction to millions of people instead of the usual small groupings of neighbors, business cohorts, and the occasional delivery man.”
I winced. “Oh, hell—that’s the only time I allowed my name to be listed in the authorship credits. That was his idea, not mine; I think he had a crush on me.”
“Yes, well, that particular romance produced a popular book. And, so polite of you to acknowledge the contributions of your agent! You, I could not easily find. Your agent, I could.”
“She knows I dislike talking to bothersome people and keeps my affairs private.”
“She also knows ghostwriters need clients. Currently, you have none.”
“So, you told her what? Make him answer your call or wonder forever—”
“No, Writer. I cordially asked her for your phone number and location of residence. Then, I wired her a noticeable amount of cash as your advance to write a book. You might ask her about this in your next conversation. It sounds as if she has not mentioned the payment.”
“She hasn’t. My agent handles the cash. I handle the not-being-found.”
“Apparently, not very well. I found you in Key West—living on a sailboat with a lazy dog and an unused writing journal as your constant companions—to be observationally specific.”
“So I am being stalked by a Google savant who has a GPS and binoculars.”
“As I said, Writer, I am not a stalker. You asked how I found you. I have explained this with coherent detail. Now, enough of this useless banter and whining. It is time to discuss the matters of importance to me.”
“Okay, fine—whatever. Who are you, and why are you bothering me?”
The voice darkened. “I am the intellect that unleashed the Narco-Attack upon America. I am the mind that created the deaths you so often ponder. My actions have culled the weakest of the herd and tested the resolve of the strongest within the pack. I am… the Strategist.
“The Strategist? That is your name?”
“That is what I am.”
“Well, then—it’s un-nice to meet you. Now, what makes you think I will ghostwrite so much as a sentence for you?”
Ice cold tones pierced me by reply. “You will not ghostwrite so much as a word for me. What you will do is write a book from your own perspective.”
“My own perspective on what?”
“The Narco-Attack. Through your writings, you will tell the world of the plot and purpose behind a death-count that now stretches well beyond 80,000 American lives.”
“Sure! Let’s make it a short story and celebrate brevity!” My attempt to deliver disrespect kindled no sparks of emotion within the dark coldness of the Strategist’s voice.
“Writer, you have pursued ignorance with great enthusiasm. This must change. Soon, you will receive the information necessary to create your work-of-words. Hidden facts; secret dealings; almost-forgotten conversations—combine these with your personal experiences. Then, you will write By Force of Habit: The Story of America’s Narco-Attack.”
I laughed and shook my head. This guy was serious. Seriously crazy!
“So, I am to write a book about one of the most savage parts of American history? For the insane person who thought it was a good idea to make it happen? This cannot possibly go well. Genocidists are rarely invited to their publishers’ cocktail parties, and I don’t see a pleasant book signing tour shaping up on my end—by any measure.”
An unnatural growl entered the Strategist’s voice. “Writer, the brutal truths of the Narco-Attack must be known, and you will write the story—now.”
My anger departed. The desire for fight filled its place. “The brutal truths must now be known? Damn, man. The people who run things are still trying to figure out who planned the attack and how tens of thousands fell victim to it. They have torn this country apart looking for the answers. Now, you want me to provide them? No way. They might think I know you or, worse yet, be involved.”
“Yes, those are the risks you will face; they are real and palpable. In balance, I present the following as your due compensation: write By Force of Habit, and you will learn the details of how your sister’s life came to such a pitiful end. Is this something of interest for you to know, Writer?”
A volcano of hateful emotion erupted within me. “You disgusting ghoul—how dare you! The need to understand such things is a basic human instinct.”
“Then, there is no choice in the matter. Write the book, and you will find the answers you seek.”
“No! I will not! You cannot control me!”
“I don’t have to. You will control yourself for me.”
Moments of silence passed into a minute. I heard the Strategist’s breaths deepening and slowing; something beyond the human mind—an intellect of unmanageable nature—was about to release itself without mercy.
“In a few moments, files will arrive in your email box. The information I am sending will explain a series of events that occurred in Houston, Texas—on the night of August 26th.”
My words were contested by tears. “Yes, of course. The last night my sister worked as a stripper. A few days later—”
“Her forthcoming death was not an accident. She was purposefully killed. Your sister was the first casualty of the Narco-Attack, and you will now tell the story of her execution. My information; your memories—”
“Stop right there! You executed my sister?” Tears began to choke me. The memory of our last conversation and her hacking, horrid death replayed their macabre scenes within my mind.
I heard another deep breath then a slow release; the Strategist’s voice pulsed with sheer intellect.
“I did not kill her. Nor, did I kill the tens of thousands who followed in her fate. They executed themselves by their own force of habit. Now, you will explain this to an unknowing world.”
“Executed?” My tears now flowed in streams. “Why would you do such a thing?” The dog sensed my grief. He moved closer to lick the salty anguish from my face. I pushed him away. “Tell me the reason!” I screamed
“The emails will explain all that is necessary for you to know at this time. Communication concluded.”
No further words came from the Strategist. The phone connection terminated. Only an empty silence remained.
I retrieved my laptop from the boat cabin. Five minutes later, my email inbox began to fill with messages. Each had attachments: documents; pictures; scans of newspaper clippings; transcripts of verbal conversations; and references to published articles—the amount of information was massive.
With complete disbelief of what was happening, I clicked on the first email message:
Subject: Attack, By Force of Habit
To: GoAwaySayI@yahoo.com
From: TheStrategistWins@gmail.com
Writer, radicalized Jihadists, not drug dealers, released my Narco-Attack strategy upon America. To comprehend why I chose them to levy such suffering and death upon your country, you must first understand the nature of true weakness within a society.
Consider these words carefully:
“It is not to the strengths of their enemies the greatest civilizations fall; they fall to the vices of their own. What, then, is the true weapon of war?”
America has waged her ‘war on drugs’. What she was not prepared for was a war waged—with drugs. Vice was the Jihadist’s weapon of war, and your sister was the first to fall.
Communication concluded.
The Narco-Attack was an action of Jihadists? Everyone thinks the Cubans are to blame!
My mind was shocked by this unwanted revelation. I looked away from the message; my eyes—still bleary from their tears. I was too upset to open another email. I simply sat—frozen, unthinking—with the memories of my sister’s death delivering their emotional torments.
Ten minutes later, the cabin lights of another boat flicked on. BH stood to bark. “I am going to throw your furry ass overboard if you make a sound.” He barked anyway. Damn that force of habit. “Okay, buddy—time for a swim.”
First, however, I had to deal with my agent. I called her phone. She answered with her usual glow.
“I just spoke with someone interesting.”
“And?”
“Keep the damn advance.”
I have a book to write—and this one is going to be personal.
Leave a Reply