I loaded up the trashed skimmer boat and stashed it in my garage at Cathead. I’d changed out my ‘boat rescue’ outfit and was just sitting in front of the fire counting my bones and putting some heat to my pains and aches. It was a rainy summer Friday night. It was cocktail hour and being a recon type of guy who naturally keeps his ear to the ground searching his operational contexts for available means of persuasion/influence I thought the prudent and professional thing to do was to motor toward the tavern in the village. Just to keep my finger on the pulse of the village body. An ounce of recon many times saves you the initial paranoia and eventual emotional load of having to kill the entire village, you know?

So on a rainy summer Friday night, with a cruise ship full of Germans anchored off the marina I entered the village. I knew I’d have to remain bi-pedal in the tavern. No seats. I’d have to mingle.

One who lives a recon lifestyle must open the self to information as communicated from the perspective of the informant. This (among other things) requires listening and in a town like this where all are self confident and no one exhibits the paranoia level to warrant a recon lifestyle, listeners are at a premium. There’s a giant bulls eye on my chest. I’m a target acquired for these village people. They talk to me, tell me their history; in short, they become familiar. Familiarity breeds contempt. They do shit to me that they would never do to a stranger. All because I listen….

My talk, as I listen effects what many consider to be the behavioral covariates comprehensive listening. I’ll overlay their information stream with a peppering of utterances like: `Whoa!’ which gives them the impression I’m comprehending all they say. Hey I’m a multi-tasker! I’m processing multiple information streams. Excuse me if I don’t comprehend everything! They’re smart you know.

Many times I appear slow to conceptually grasp the entire breadth of their words and intent, so they mock me! Even in polite greeting it’s never: `Hello Slag.’ It’s often: `Whoa!’ followed by laughter. It’s Mockery I tell you! Shit, sometimes they even get physical….

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I enter the tavern. Members of the crowd spot me. A chain reaction follows: "Whoa!...Whoa?...Whoa….”

Two thugs, Napalm the Burnt and Tattooed Biker Trash appear out of the crowd and in what appears to be a premeditated/coordinated effort latch on to each of my arms. I provide no active resistance, just dead weight. They begin a drag through the dining room. I can see cell phones coming out of their holsters. I can see fingers poised over the 911 buttons as the diners witness a mild mannered professorial type being aggressively dragged by two horrid thugs through the dining room. The situation could only be made worse by the presence of a law enforcement officer so I decided to straighten up, smile, and arm-and-arm it all the while assuring the diners that all is okay. "No need to dial 911. They’re friends…”

Outside the door and on the sidewalk they release me and begin to cackle like ducklings. I take what looks like a deescalatory step back and with left foot grounded launch an angling upward right foot kick that stops an inch or two from Napalm’s head and then quickly return to a grounded strike-ready position.

“What the fuck was that?” says Napalm.

“What was what? I didn’t see anything.” Says TBT.

“He kicked me! Right in the head!”

“Do it again Slag. I missed it.”

I launch another angling upward strike. Napalm falls back and the TBT goes: "Whoa!”

I regroup, turn toward TBT and say: "I figure I need to jump-kick you,” and in the time space between the words ‘jump…’ and ‘kick…’, I step forward on my right foot, leap upward with my left leg tucked high and tight to my upper body, and rotate my torso toward the target, all while in the air. My right foot, now 90 degrees opposed to the target (TBT’s head) follows. I abort the strike an inch or two from the target and return to a strike-ready ground position.

Both men fell back and were momentarily speechless. They quickly recovered and arm-in-armed me back into the tavern, pushed me into the crowd and announced: "Keep him close. Don’t give him room to kick!” The crowd was clueless…

I spot and begin to make way through the crowd toward Tiara Babe the Hottie and Steelcase her pair-bond partner who own and summer on their 31 foot Tiara parked in the marina. They sit at the end of the bar and beckon.

“Are you really a professor at the College, Slag?”

“Ya.”

“Like a real prof or just a part-time teacher?”

“No, I’m a full timer.”

“What rank do you hold? Assistant Professor?”

“Nope.”

“Associate?”

“No I’m a Full Bird. I’ve been at the College for twenty two years.”

“Wow!’ she smiles.

I can see I’m gaining some ‘cred’ with her so I step closer. Just so I can hear her better….

“So what’s your area of study Dr. Slag?” says Steelcase.

“Communication and consciousness, the sacred and the profane, sex, death and resurrection, that sort of stuff, you know?”

“And how long have you been into sex and death?”

“Oh, since I’m a puberty teenager….” I can see I’m beginning to lose them. They’re beginning to think I’m just a buffoon. I had to do something fast. "Think, think, think,” I thought. "I need sex and death material that’s both scholarly, significant and of personal relevance to them. Their boat’s name is Isis. That’s a start. I began to verbalize:

“Seriously though, sex, death and resurrection lie as root metaphors for many of the masks of God, for many of the world’s great religions”

“Is that so Slag? Give me an example.”

“Well, um…er…Are you familiar with any B.C. Egyptian myths?”

“Yes I am as a matter of fact.”

So I start indexing my sex and death blather to the whole Isis/Osiris story. I’m talking about the evil bro Set who chopped Osiris into pieces, threw him in the Nile and fed his dink to a big fish. Isis finds the body parts, everything but his dink anyway. She fashions a new dink or Djed Pillar out of a sacred cedar tree, assembles the parts, gets nekkid, mounts her assembled sarcophagus and presto/chango, an alchemical miracle occurs and the fucker resurrects. Our children’s May Pole celebrations in the spring all harken back to the ancient Djed Pillar springtime Nile River fertility rituals of the Egyptians.

I turn my head to do a little threat analytic scanning of the tavern while I let my banter sink in.

As I turn back toward them I can see the Tiara Babe is ever so slightly fluttering her eyes and reaching to touch herself about the neck and throat. My mirror neurons are firing off wildly and just as I reach to touch myself, Captain Ron, the Papa Sierra intervenes.

“High Captain Ron,” she says. "Do you know Dr. Slag? He’s so interesting.”

“Liber, Liber Lingus…” I say.

“What bullshit is he giving you all now?” he says. "Did he tell you about his doctoral degree?” I can tell he’s going to start raving on about the University of Juarez and my $500 honorary Psycho Doctorate. I just can’t take that so I speak to the little Irishman:

“You know there’s Irish mythology that parallels just what we have been talking about.” Then I start blathering about the evil English thugs and what they did to the Irish: "Give Ireland back to the Irish!”

I uttered on like that for a paragraph, maybe two but all he got out of it was: `Little fight drunk Irish sailor thug.’

Through narrowed eyes he glares at me and says: "What did you just say to me Slag? Little fight drunk Irish sailor thug? Is that it Slag?!”

“No! No!” I turn toward Steelcase and the Tiara Babe for confirmation. The little Irish thug grabs me high on the back of my shirt and slams my face toward the bar. My hands cover my face just before impact. I remain limp as he growls.

Tiara Babe is atwitter. "Captain Ron, Stop! Stop!”

“This doesn’t concern you Tiara Babe.”

She screams at Steelcase: "Help Slag! Help him!”

Steelcase surveys the situation at the bar and says: "If he starts in on you, I’ll intervene. Slag probably got himself into this anyway. The hell if I’m gonna give the little fight drunk sailor any shit!

My hand cushioned face hits the bar again. "Fight Drunk!” he exclaims. My head comes up in another impact cycle and he screams: "Sailor Thug!” as my face returns to the bar surface.

The Little Lulus, who are in the dining room with their parents, arrive on the scene. "Papa…Papa Ron…” they sooth. "Don’t hurt poor Slag.”

“Go back to your table, girls.” He says politely. The girls say: "Slag, should we get our dads?”

“No, no. He’s right. Go back.”

“Dr. Mengele is right over there at the pool table. Should we get him?”

“No girls. I’ve got him right where I want him. Go back.”

The Papa Sierra calms from his episode, releases grip and says: "I’m tired. I’m going home.” As he walks away I say: "See you later, Liber.”

“Stop calling me Liber Lingus, you asshole!” He leaves.

I had yet to finish a beer. The one I had tipped over in the ruckus. I motioned to the barkeep for another. As he toweled up my spilled beer he leaned across the bar and said: "I’m from Edenic Garden Farm in Omena.”

“Edenic? Eden like? Like the Garden of Eden farm?’ I say.

“Yes, we’re a Christian animal rights cooperative and we know what you’ve been up to on the island. We’re not happy and we’re not afraid to take action. In fact, my first action tonight is to cut you off. You’re done.”

I thought about taking a rational forensic argumentative approach with him. I thought about dragging his little ass across the bar and spanking him silly but I settled on just cutting my losses for the night. I straightened myself up, stood tall, said my farewells and went home.

The Ghost had been playing pool in the tavern for some time. His empty bottle was positioned on the bar so as to signal the need for a refill. The barkeep seemed cold and non-responsive so the Ghost decides to engage:

“Hello there young fella. What’s your name?”

“You may call me First Man. I’m from the Edenic Garden Farm.”

“Oh the Garden of Eden Christian commune down to Omena. First Man is your name you say?”

“It’s not a commune. It’s a cooperative and we’re Christian animal rights activists.”

“Christian animal rights activists?” says the Ghost.

“Yes, and we know what you’ve been up to on the island. Your actions both abuse animals and offend our Christian sensibilities. We know about your association with Kenny La Roche and your plans to clear the island to make way for the placement of your Satanic symbols of Apocatastasis!”

The Ghost reviews his Catholic doctrine about apocatastasis—the teaching that says a time will come when all, including the Devil, will share in the grace of salvation. There are some who believe the Devil can be redeemed.

“Deus erit omnia in omnibus,” he says. If God is All in All then there’s no longer any place for evil and at some point Satan comes home. God is Love, man.”

“God holds no love for Satan!” First Man declares. "Edenic Garden is God’s servant and God sometimes authorizes his servants to take action as a rebuke to blasphemy! Word has it your boat was destroyed last night….”

“How do you know that!? Who told you that?”

“We were informed by a higher power. Oh, and by the way, you’re cut off!”

The Ghost is livid. "These freaks wrecked La Chiquita.” He’s right on the edge….a breath away from a cross bar strike on the little shithead but he decides discretion is the better part of valor and says: "I am humbled by your words, oh First Man. I shall be known to you as the ‘Humbled One’ henceforth.” He stands, turns and strides out of the tavern all the while thinking: "His mother probably named him Adam and it went to the little shit’s head…”

The Ghost walks through the village to his truck parked facing the bay, toward his mooring where La Chiquita lies no more. He opens the truck cap, grabs a Miller and slides in to the cab next to his trusty dog Cisco. Cisco turns in greeting, says: “Ruff” and resumes his controlled pant as he faces the bay.

“We’ve been wronged Cisco…by them Garden of Eden communists down in Omena.”

“Been wronged….been wronged,” ruffs Cisco.

“Them Christian animal rights assholes sunk La Chiquita!”

“Christians….grrrrrrrr,” says Cisco.

“When a man’s been wronged like this sometimes the best thing to do is go right out and kill an eagle or two. Right there on the Edenic Garden Farm. I think that power line runs right through their compound.”

“Yeah…yeah…kill some eagles…ruff!”

“We’ll need a dead puppy to stake down though.”

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr….,” growls Cisco. He twitches a bit as he wrinkles up his jowl to show teeth which glisten white as salival juices leak.

“Don’t you growl at me you soulless bastard! You would be in the abyss, the void right now were it not for me!”

“Grrrrrrrrrrrrr….”

“Christ Cisco! Learn to take a joke. Hey, try this: How do you make a puppy sound like a kitty? You throw him in the freezer for a week then run him down a table saw and he goes: "Meeeeow!”

A snarling muscled mass of fanged Cisco dog launches a Cujo style strike against the Ghost who slams hard against the window glass barely avoiding a hit. The Ghost puts up his hands and says: "I’m sorry. I’m sorry, alright already. No dead puppies! We’ll go to the meat market tomorrow and see if we can get some unborn baby lamb to stake down under them power lines….”

“Unborn baby lamb…tasty! Tasty!” barks Cisco.

“Yeah, that’s it. A sacrificial Lamb of God. An Agnus Dei for the Edenic Garden.”

“Lamb of God…Lamb of God…tasty, tasty Lamb of God, Whoof!”