Creative Works by Dr. David Walls-Kaufman, DC

Author: David Page 1 of 2

A UNIFIED THEORY on LEFT and RIGHT

Covid, and the Viciousness of Contemporary Politics in the Run-Up to Utopia

Why does our best life come unfailingly from inside-out in exchange merely for honoring ourselves and one another for the gift of life, and all that this entails. If life is so perfectly packaged and self-explanatory so that everyone benefits the most in their life by following this path, a path that every detail of our co-existence is scientifically proven to circle back to—then we stand on the precipice of something more wonderful than human eyes have ever seen. If true, how can there be a more fitting, rational and scientific proof of God’s existence, and the love for us all?

david

by David Walls-Kaufman



Edmund O. Wilson, John Haidt, Jeremy Benthem, William Whewell, Galileo, Copernicus, Francis Bacon and too many others to list shared some version of the idea that an underlying innate compass of meaning and morality existed to the point some of them even threw concepts at it to see what stuck. Many believed that science was the language with which man would finally write out the exact prescription of God, or life, or how we should live, or what we should live for. Wilson has written at length about his certainty that the “consilience” of all that is known in the sciences and humanities could find a single concept to define how we behave and what is the meaning of life. Even Einstein hoped to locate a formula beyond E=MC2 that explained everything. The parallel tracks of science for the last one hundred plus years make it understandable that perhaps all of these great minds have overshot the mark and missed the simple center around which human life frames itself, including the mutually destructive Left-Right war that defines our age. Quite possibly, if the search for the meaning of life was an Easter egg hunt, the great minds would look back at the orb in the grass behind them and agree that of course this was the egg we sought. Perhaps they would agree because the rugged internal template for reason that we all share for the very purpose of making this discovery would say so: The single most potent driver in human existence is the overarching fact that health and thriving are the only perfect things we know. They are, essentially, the manifestation of God and humanity on earth, and science and reason exist only to prove it, & all the good things in life that come along with it.

            It is daily shown to us that health and thriving are the only perfect things we are provably capable of achieving, or at least of emulating. We put certain simple things like food, water and air into the black box of the human body, mind and spirit and perfection comes out, at least for a time. For that brief time, they remain the only functional perfection we really see. We have already learned that, if we live right, then that perfection lasts longer. Our only dilemma is how to extend it across our entire life, and over the complete sphere of our existence, even politics and government, relationships. Health and thriving alone solve all problems for any living thing. Our perpetual quest for something “better” is merely the pursuit of the subconscious ideal they make plain. Our entire subconscious model of enlightenment is what they are. They are what make us a rational being; our reason only exists to find them, and all facts in the universe pertinent to us orient only to them. In fact, our subconscious dream for all humankind is to make one Family of Man like our body, a huge society of cells united in a single purpose of thriving, to make the overall constantly better, in which each individual cell remains sovereign while at the same time being enlightened in the value of serving themselves by serving the whole, and vice versa. This “unified whole” is captured only in the concept of thriving.

            Enlightenment maximizes the power of the collective to repel like oil and water the influences of entropy and chaos that life always seeks to avoid, resist and cure, like Yin and Yang. This means that Health in its entirety also confers or necessitates an ideal compass of morals, values or behaviors embedded in the same objective reality of Health, because it is obvious that not all paths lead to Health; in fact, most don’t—like all of the gazillion bad health choices possible for us to make. Ironically, regrettably, a pattern exists in history where the powerful, the elite, our very own leaders, tempt us with disinformation about all of this in order to make us less dependent on ourselves, and so that we may even see enemies where none truly exist, so that we are dependent on the elite, or we buy from them things and ideas that we don’t really need. This unfortunate relationship with any elite exists so long as any elite suffer the delusion that they are so much better than the rest of us that they are separate from this larger, single body of The Family of Man. In seeking to make others dependent upon them the elite fight enlightenment where no one is dependent on anyone else. Only four choices for the black box mimic the perfection in thriving and make perfection come out of our body for the longest period to make that ideal self-reliance possible. Politics and government throw their hat into this ring, as does everything else that is important to us.

            It could even be argued that Health is the manifestation of God’s perfection on earth that alone can be measured by science in every uncorrupted study ever performed. We might even have access to a credible shorthand of immediately analyzing the worth of any scientific study by reading the conclusion and seeing if it concluded that a person was indeed a sovereign individual in control of their own destiny, or not. It would seem that the only credible excuse for a person not controlling their own destiny would be un-enlightened interference from people who hoped to make a profit off that person’s ignorance and fear. This begs the question—why would anyone interfere with another person’s finding an enlightened life? Would this help define Good and Evil? So, what are thriving and enlightenment? Can this analysis help de-fang the Left-Right divide? But then, do un-enlightened people want to keep the world un-enlightened for their own profit and gain? If so—why would anyone do such a thing? Can’t you still make a profit and let the world thrive at the same time? At least, a more scientific work-up of better holistic social welfare programs and tax schedules might strip away some of the ugly sociopathic flavor ever-present in the current putsch. This will be done by science in the future—because Health and thriving appear to have one way of working, since God, Nature, Life or Existence seems to have made only one perfect operating system. We see this pattern emerging in our scientific knowledge around diet, for example. There is only one perfect diet for all no matter their race, religion, disease, politics or any other circumstances about them: the higher the ratio of vegetables, fruits and antioxidants put into our black box the more we thrive. There is no more scientific debate over this topic. It is even used for serious cancer cases at NIH. The “science” has become “settled.” The fact owns a certain gravitas, common sense and inevitability that unfolds as obvious to us now that “It’s all over but the shouting,” and the data confirms it [k]. The entire constellation of human physiological responses and biochemistry tied into our body, mind, spirit affirm this elegantly reductionist evidence. We know now that anyone who tells us differently about the amazingly simple requirements of our diet and health is trying to complicate the picture probably in order to sell us something less perfect than the way something made us. This revelation on perfect diet is an integral part of the philosophical discussion that lies at the heart of the sovereign individual of Western civilization. It also bears equally on the meaning of a Marxist enlightened society.

            Good diet makes life that much more linear and predictable because Health is improved. It is proposed in this booklet that there are four other things that reflect the singular perfection in thriving that are equally essential to round out the sovereign individual and the enlightened society. Modern medicine says, which is really just what drug companies want us to hear, is that the only way to make life and health more predictable is to eat right, exercise and mind our weight. But precise weight management comes out of the black box just by eating right, and maybe a touch of exercise, without us even having to think about it. And exercise is critical because movement is essential for all living things. Will research and logic find another equally simple answer in the field of exercise? In fact, science and anecdotal evidence have both confirmed there is one perfect exercise that stimulates the black box just as in the case of diet. The same unusually positive, open-ended results come from the inclusion of meditation into exercise as in the case of seated meditation, Yoga, I Chuan, Hsing I Chuan, Ba Gua Chuan and Tai Chi Chuan. You can do any of these practices all day long, every day and they are only better for you. Research has shown that serious students of T’ai Chi have “beautiful brains.”[k] Alzheimer’s and dementia are all but unheard of in these populations, and their aging profile is unlike any other [k]. The West has no corresponding exercise, and the only thing that approaches meditation is prayer. Indeed, meditation and prayer can be quite similar, both can be essentially clearing the mind, opening to everything at once and placing one’s cheek next to God’s. It really could not be simpler. The benefits of all of these forms of exercise are arranged in ascending order of their health benefits, with the least beneficial being seated meditation, while the starring role goes to Tai Chi according to many sources, including The Harvard Medical School Book of Tai Chi, seemingly because the most physical demand is being placed on the body-mind while not breaking the meditation thread. With the addition of the ideal exercise to the right diet, life becomes that much more linear and predictable.

            But what about the question of the philosophers: does the human black box require an innate universal template for human behavior and psychology just like there is for biochemistry and movement? Do we each carry around a quantum template for how we need to be treated by friends, spouses, law, business, government and the elite for which our physiological responses in body, mind, spirit stand in pure harmony as for the right movement stimulation on the brain? And if this grid or template of what was Good and Bad for us behaviorally existed, then would it be fair to simply label these as Stress and Benefit—where the Bad for us would be stresses, and the Good would be benefits, around which our entire picture of life and thriving orbit? After all, stress was identified by Hans Selye in 1935 as the cause of disease in his Nobel Prize winning work. And no one today yet really talks about benefits as the antidote to stress for some reason, but vegetables, fruits and antioxidants obviously top the list in the category of biochemistry, and meditative movement tops the list in the category of exercise and the brain. All we are saying is that behavior and psychology also fall into the category of Stress and Benefit, and that human neural- physiological responses, however bewilderingly complex, settle down around the patterns of health and thriving, as does all else, at least to any extent that we should concern ourselves. This is an excellent grid by which to deduce the specifics of human ethics, if history, politics and conflict don’t already tell us enough, including especially the Left-Right divide. 

            Looking at the world mechanically like an MD or the drug companies, or anyone else in our culture due to centuries of influence from engineering and industrial chemistry, gives mechanistic answers on who we are that are not very in-depth. But looking at the human dilemma through the vitalist lens peculiar to health always seems to give a more holistic and optimistic answer. The vitalist answer to why contradictions to reason, peace and health exist in our world is, again, simple: our reason, peace and health are attacked by selfishness, sociopathology and tribalism where certain individuals and tribes get carried away with their own ego and desires that they see themselves out of proportion with the rest of us. But vitalism also tells us that God, Nature, Life of Existence—whatever we want to believe put us here—always implants into living systems antagonists in a mosaic of dynamic tension. Vitalism is a whole look at human existence that also tells us that everything is part of a grander lesson on health, enlightenment and morality. This antagonistic dynamism is intended to disturb creatures from their rest, and move them toward the realization that only health fulfills the needs of all parties so that they live in a symbiosis of thriving. Only health provides such complete answers that all sides have no rational reason to complain or ask for anything more. And when any living collective falls out of health it is only the result of Stress in the absence of antidotes, like proper diet and exercise, or the morals required for social symbiosis. The more balance fails so that there is too much Stress in the absence of Benefits, then health fails in the system and those same in-built antagonists, like germs, “wake up” to begin deconstructing that living thing for the recycling into constituent parts that we call death. For example, germs and viruses are essential to life on all levels. The more we are healthy, the more they are good for us like exercise, and they help us keep healthy. But the more we stress ourselves by not living the way we should, the more our health fails, the more we are “dead” and our body and immune system are teaching us a basic lesson about life: “You are not sufficiently alive—you must do more Good things for you that will go in the black box and make you more alive!” Together, Stress and Benefit play ping-pong to outline our greater design. Pain, disease, dysfunction, crime, economic depression, mental illness, social upheaval, fear, poverty, national debt, personal debt, the Left-Right war, all exist as canaries in the coal mine to warn us that we are not healthy in the larger sense of what Health is. We are not living the way we should, we have missed what our Benefits are that would solve all of these problems, because no living system or creature is born adult. They are born framed around the perfection of Health, but they must learn by trial and error, instinct and education what Health is. Our quest is to find the Benefits of Life, the things that really make a difference, from which we can then pick and choose how much of each we want, even as the requirements for thriving are innate, and will not be patient with our personal opinion or our experimentation. The more we lack the Benefits, the more all of the entropy and chaos in the world enter in to stress us and give us an object lesson in real time on how we do not yet appreciate who and what we are, and what we mean to each other. Health and thriving in their greater meaning are the only things that repel all the bad stuff. The line between Stress and Benefit, life and disease, never deviates because it has been hard enough to find without it moving all over the place. It appears that God, Nature, Life or Existence are impatient for us to learn the wonder of one another as much as they do, for in this lies the solution to so many problems.

            In dose-dependent fashion, just as is the case in any patient’s or customer’s life—the more we miss the ingredients of thriving the more we are made dissatisfied and intent on making improvements. If the stresses are sufficient, then we have a miserable painful life and die early, and the permanent cycle of life grants the next generation who witnessed the misery of that poor soul or society the chance to see the horrors brought on by ignorance of the right way to be. Whether the next generation uses common sense, gut instinct, or strict scientific methodology, the facts and results always orient to the same findings. The next generation will either deduce from the negative space the perfection in the gift of thriving, or miss it and suffer the dark side of life in exact proportion to how much they missed filling their lives with Benefits—and likewise be motivated by the pain and suffering to find the place where life becomes more linear and predictable. For this reason, Health and thriving are the eternal baseline for human reason and logical constructs. All evidence, facts and logical constructs orient directly toward what we care most about—how we live best. How we help others live better for the holistic reciprocity of strength in numbers, more friends inside and fewer enemies outside, and greater chances to mutually inspire the great jazz riff of human genius. 

            Acute selfishness, sociopathology, and our tribalism exist as catalysts, agitants, accelerants to force us toward rather obvious, common sense conclusions that all of biological, behavioral and even engineering sciences will find the evidence to corroborate either directly or indirectly. There is no deviation from the single operating system. Indeed, if we indulge ourselves to anthropomorphize the cosmos, it is conceivable that human beings live so contentedly in a state of sustaining that without these ugly catalysts like awful political conflict and even genocide (if we need that much of a push), we could conceivably “sustain” ourselves forever in a mediocre middle ground of sustaining and never move towards thriving. This is, after all, how we have lived for five thousand years. The journey began with Judaism at Sinai, then with Christianity, and the Greek Miracle, which then grew into Western civilization. The closest we have ever come to perfection is the American Miracle, at least in pursuit of human genius. But we were not spot on. There was slavery—one of the last great examples of tribalism, while Marxism is another. Is disease cured? Is poverty cured? Why is Marxism growing to ruin our advances in pursuit of prosperity and genius? Why does Marxism seek to destroy prosperity and genius today in order to defer to prosperity and genius tomorrow? Even with tribalism—genius and prosperity still equal genius and prosperity. We are better with them than without them, just as the patient is never better off without health and enlightenment than with. No patient is made better by cutting off their arm. Health and thriving are the only zero sum game. We are never better off by contradicting them—except in the temporary case of hormetic effect, where all toxins, poisons and stresses give us a strong initial surge in our wellbeing. As if whatever made us did not want us to believe that we were fragile and should be afraid of our own shadow. All symptoms and warning signs are meant to right the ship, or else. The ship will either right itself, or the perfect operating system of Life begins anew, completely without sentiment, oriented only towards perfection, investing complete moral lessons in every iota of what is.

            This booklet proposes that, since Selye has proven that stress is the cause of disease, we should expand on this to say that Stress is also the cause of all human problems, and that the four Benefits go into the black box to make life linear and predictable. Again, our five thousand year lack of clarity on thriving and Benefit has made human existence a condition of sustaining rather than thriving. Only today is the historical data and the scientific sophistication at hand to put both things together to identify bona fide Benefits that are so strong they unequivocally rise above the noise of sustaining. The research seems to point out only four of these magical ingredients that are completely safe and thoroughly holistically intwined so that they heal collateral problems rather than cause side effects, like most of our drugs, vaccines and surgery do. These four Benefits line up with common sense, instinct and scientific evidence to show that they alone in all the world defy the old axiom “All things in moderation.” Odds are, they, like perfect exercise and diet, will wind up at the same location as will the West’s sovereign individual and the Marxist enlightened society—since there is only one operating system and, in the end, all sane people want the same thing whether they realize it or not. We have lacked this perspective before because never in history have we had the information to sufficiently fill out a vitalist perspective, which is not the Eastern perspective either. The vitalist perspective is something entirely new that only comes into focus when we are informed by modern biological research findings and clinical data on health outcomes involving the brain.

            The four categories of Benefit beyond exercise and diet are the satisfaction of our innate ethics, and the precise care for the structure of the body as if it was a musical instrument, which opens us up to the next chapter in human healing, brain-first healthcare and brain-first social welfare. What we are saying essentially is that healthcraft equals statecraft. We are rational creatures because all facts and evidence are designed to show us the door to thriving that is reciprocal across the whole of any society, just as it is across every cell in our own body. We can find these links with instinct and common sense—for science often lags (or is intentionally held back) behind them—but the skeptical can always take solace from the way the data will never steer us away from thriving. These perfect logical constructs are what make sense of our lives, and give us the opportunity for lasting, fruitful peace, if we choose it, no matter if the quantum world is a world strapped into roller skates. At some point, there is an inflection point where the quantum world consolidates into the Newtonian world that orients life only around health and thriving, and any other consideration is purely academic. The ethics component outlines the social system on which all human society and interaction is based, at least inside what Tajfel calls the “in-group.”[k] But if we want to end tribalism to grow the largest Family of Man possible—then we, people of any tribe, and the elite, must extend these guarantees to everyone, as if they were cells in the same body, and make these holistic or quantum ethics the only contract we live by. In such a holistic society, different organs and systems perform like corporations or local governments organized to perform specific sophisticated functions at a much more efficient level than diffuse cells or unorganized people. If we want all the answers on helping the poor the most, without side-effects, if we want to trust government, if we want the most “responsible” corporations—we must “love” each other in the exact way science and reason can analyze our holistic morals. The more these “healthy” logical constructs show up in politics, law, leadership, business or romance—the more our inner yearning for thriving responds positively, and the more the physiology of each person answers in kind, and the more the psychology of the body politic responds in a way that looks like nothing else. Imposing the opposite of what is in this quantum moral grid creates psychological stresses that, we know, will kill us just as dead as any physical stress, as proven by Selye’s mice. The closer we get to thriving the more we want to keep it. Living systems are inevitably cyclical and dynamic, but the “holistic” life settles stress and uncertainty to the lowest levels possible, where the least force and coercion are necessary for human beings to live in harmony with one another, because no one has any “rational” right to complain, because the natural meritocracy is that of raising human quality of life, and every person knows they are honestly rewarded for how much, or how little, they contribute to this end. They may object because they are trying to get something for nothing, i.e. gain a reward without raising the quality of life of their brother and sister—but they know in their heart and mind they really have no one to blame but themselves, as is exactly the case with all the rest of their health. 

            Our list here of the 11 innate ethics may not be complete. Others may find another one or two that fit just as well. The list is offered here and briefly explained why some constructs miss the cut, like Love. Any good doctor knows, the best place to begin bringing the patient back (or society) from the brink of illness is to educate them on the unfailing needs inside the black box of health. It is completely self-defeating to fight them. But being the stubborn creature we are we still often do. We will do so less as the evidence deepens saying that this is self-defeating. What makes for rich exploration in ethics is doping out why Marxism cannot build a lasting empire on a tax-heavy welfare state, and why Marxism cannot force down our throats their militant take on what enlightenment is. Their failure means that what they are imposing is stressful to human beings. This means there must be a template on enlightenment superior to their’s already in place that will not give ground for one reason or another. But what could be “superior” to the Marxist intention to give people a better life? How could anything trump this good intention, unless something, for some reason, makes it so that the best things in life must be earned? Who is right, the Marxist trying to give stuff away for political loyalty, versus whatever the inborn, deeper “natural” system is? Both sides, Marxist and the inborn one, presumably are trying to make the world better. We know what the Marxist motive is—they are trying to “enlighten” the world and eradicate disease and poverty. Is the “motive” the same in the naturally occurring enlightenment? How does each side go about their task? The Marxist wages war on everything that is not itself, convinced that none of it has ever been right since the dawn of society, and only they are right and enlightened. They are so right that, if you oppose them, you self-identify as an enemy not only of them, but of all humankind, forever. As such, you are of a tribe that deserves no decency, Charity Principle, respect, benefit of the doubt, Jesus’s Golden Rule or Confucius’s Golden Mean. Marxism wraps Innocence and Guilt solely around an Old Testament loyalty to tribe. In the end, does a more universal, tribeless definition of Innocence and Guilt lie locked in our morals? Why are criminals guilty and why were Jews during the Holocaust innocent? What do we mean when we say they were “innocent”? And why is killing innocent people a bad idea anyway? Which is better, 10% tax, 0% tax, 90%, and why? What is wrong with the Utopian government owning everything and doling out resources on an as-needed basis? Why doesn’t this work? 

            It is proposed here that we must be missing something if our innate ethics wrap around Health and thriving with the same ultimately self-evident advantages that answer all questions for all sides, as long as those needs are rational, i.e. related to the health of the entire person. Isn’t this what makes one policy or behavior more Rational for us than not? This booklet proposes that the following 11 ethics are universal requirements for any human to let down their guard and accept reciprocal membership in any group or society. These 11 ethics signal a “healthy” environment where the person can possibly earn thriving, since health and thriving are clearly not something given, but something earned. Insiders always grant these morals to other insiders to avoid trouble. The more we violate these ethics with insiders the more we make trouble, because victims always assess their losses, and always know they are being hurt, by violations of this list. The morals are: Freedom, Balance, Form or Structure, Independence, Self-Responsibility, Reason/Objectivity/Logic, Work, Earning or Property Rights, Truth, Efficiency and Compassion, and a Meritocracy that incorporates all of these logical constructs at once. While Marxists may want to laugh at several of these morals such as property rights, truth, earning, self-responsibility and work, it should be noted that Marxists themselves (as victims) would use all of these morals in their own service  while, for example, deciding on the guilt of a traitor in their midst, or while defending their own property, or rationalizing what they feel they earned by their enlightened guidance of the state. Marxists would fall back on all of these logical constructs to identify and make an example of a saboteur to ensure the housecleaning was done effectively to ensure the safety of the cause. Again, because this entire framework of constructs are used universally by all victims for damage and prevention assessment, they form the groundwork for an innate, populist meritocracy for any social bond, from rock bands, marriages, corporations, even to Marxist revolutions. John Haidt’s innate morals of Loyalty/Betrayal, Care/Harm, Authority/Subversion, and —— are no help because in-group/out-group status determines each couplet. Benthem’s pain and pleasure are not on the list because they are too vague. And pleasure is not a negative motivator that makes us get out of the way of something, as we said earlier when we said happiness is less a motivator than quality of life. In fact, pleasure, love, passion, for addicts, obsessed people and the insane can motivate them to do no end of harm to any number of innocent victims, even themselves. On the positive end people will do all kinds of things for all kinds of reasons. But on the negative side, these are the 11 categories where behaviors and psychology become stressful, and may grow so out of bounds that they can kill. And on the other end from any stress, lies a benefit as its antidote. This is the grid for a populist meritocracy, rather than an elitist meritocracy, where we accept that we are stronger and more creative in numbers, and that we are all indirect beneficiaries of genius no matter who invents something. More freedom and equality (and any combination of the other morals), and any commonality of purpose, always leads naturally to human beings organizing themselves in this grid of meritocracy, as long as they are in the same peer group or in-group. Our survival instincts use these values as a grid or a searchlight or a checklist looking for signs that anything is rotten, unhealthy or trending in a direction that might harm us. However, if we are addicted, obsessed or insane enough then we will have blinders on for the consequences of our actions, and if we are selfish, sociopathological or tribal enough, we will cheat others of protection under these morals. But the more we cheat others of these morals and social protections for irrational reasons, then the more we cheat ourselves. These morals define rational human action, along with two human instincts for life. For this reason, bad actors always have to work with lies, misinformation, emotion and propaganda in order to stress us, damage us, in mind, body, spirit, enough to make us cross the line into an irrational self-destructive pattern that evidence will show us. That fateful “switch” to an irrational model then proportionately limits both our ability to create the largest possible Family of Man, with more enemies outside than otherwise, and therefore we also leave out any number of possible fellow contributors to the great jazz riff of genius, as well as diminish the pool of resources for chasing genius. Looking at us from this perspective, any such departure from enlightenment progressively becomes an either-or situation for health or not, in its fullest definition. In light of all this, the invisible structural forces in our world that control our access to thriving have already created a world as if we are cells in the same body, sharing total organic reciprocity, we just don’t know it yet.

            Some people might ask why Love, or Loyalty, aren’t on the list. The reason is that 80% of Hitler’s fan mail came from women who were crazy about him—partly because he was hurting innocent people. Parents often love their dreadful criminal sons. Or out of Love they deny or hide their son’s despicable crimes. Love can even be a part of the obsession or addiction that blinds a victim for a time, convincing them that they are not being harmed in the face of all facts and evidence. Love and loyalty do not in of themselves determine if something is Rational or not, only the morals and our life instincts do. In the sane, our love tends to go away the more the evidence strikes us that we are being wronged and our health (and the health of all) is suffering. Naturally, we ask “why would anyone do this to us?“ Oftentimes, our reason miscalculates the morality of a situation, or gives too much weight to one moral dilemma than another, so that we make the wrong decision. But our personal opinions, our willpower, our grit, only go so far in their confrontation with Health, as in the case of us being stubborn about thinking the Big Mac Diet or a diet of pebbles and motor oil will be good for us. In the end, opinions don’t matter. Everything is objectively calculable in an overarching summation of our physiological responses to our environment. That shows the most rational decision. So, Love, Pleasure, Loyalty and Wisdom aren’t on the list. No one is exhibiting rational love, pleasure, loyalty, wisdom or goodness when they violate these morals of thriving. Any such bliss response emotions, like the adoration of Hitler, Stalin, Mao or Che Guevara, are only rational when they align in congruence with what is healthy. All of these men murdered people who fit the universal, holistic description of Innocent.

            Using Occam’s Razor, it appears we have only two life instincts, 1) to live, and to keep alive all people nearest and dearest to us in descending order from ourselves (our tribe), and 2) to get more for less. These two drives are not morals, they are the fuel for the moral engine; they are the motive of the person sitting at the control panel of the moral radar geared toward the holistic environment. Our morals show us the most self-evident, holistic way to live and actualize these two drives. Enlightenment and the most holistic environment are one in the same thing: They grasp the total “health” of everyone, that then plays into a larger field of geniuses, a larger pool of resources to chase the impossible whimsy and cover the potential dead ends of genius, that directly and indirectly benefits us all, except when our own “genius” invention or investment proves obsolete. Out of self-interest, driven by the two instincts, we don’t want to suffer the loss of our invention or investment, but at some point we must decide how much energy we are going to put into sabotaging the better answers others have come up with, as the elite do. This command of the self to stay out of the way of the progress of all others is virtue. There are only two paths that the opposite of virtue, depravity, can block: either the vitalist path to Health, or the mechanist path to genius raising standard of living. Historically, the depraved elite have shown they will do both. Where they have done it the least is in Western civilization, and much of the world has taken note of the worth of this self-control. At least until the arrival of Marxism with its completely out of bounds self-conceit that sees no virtue in anything but itself and its blind return to elitist meritocracy.

            While not all morals apply to every situation, at least Balance and Form will apply to every situation. Strictly speaking, there are only two ethics, Balance and Form, and all the rest are sub-categories of human Form, or Life, or Health. Our innate Meritocracy is therefore never completely fulfilled until this optimum equilibrium for human life is met. Until that threshold is met, then anyone has a rational argument for asking for improvement. But once that threshold is met, all facts and evidence align with logical constructs that inform us that “we have arrived,” and all that can be done is being done in our widest interest, the widest interest of all of us, which we are uniquely willing to make personal sacrifices with for our own sake. 

            Each of the morals is a logical construct that is invested in the quantum structural forces that make life and existence what they are, and anything what it is. The violation of any ethic, like Balance, can be a deal breaker that makes us move on to greener (healthier) pastures in a personal, business or political relationship. If the judge gives the victim of a $100 robbery $3 in compensation the victim doesn’t like it. He has less problem with $90, but really if he thinks about it, or is properly informed of what is Right, he sees the logic of getting back all $100 and compensation for the time he did not have his $100. His logical construct on Form informs him of all the other variables in the equation—money, time, robbery, him, the thief, the court, the judge, social bonds, social interaction, etc. Fidelity in a marriage or relationship can boil down to just Balance and Form. How the married couple perceive infidelity depends if the Form of their marriage or relationship includes fidelity or not. Being treated fairly at the office involves the added dimension that the boss is not in the same in-group as the employees, and has more latitude therefore in pushing the envelope of the morals. As was stated earlier, moral dynamics become most complicated in situations where Marxists force goodness on society in welfare and the effort does not “take.” The clash comes in the finer points of Health, such as Independence, Self-Responsibility, Reason, Earning, Work, all of which are being violated even though the Marxist is attempting to show Compassion. The Compassion component does not work, and is irrational, because the Marxist is ignoring all of the deeper parameters of thriving that demand individual’s earn their own, that it will never come from outside-in like an injection. Take for example the encounter between the welfare queen and the working mother in the grocery aisle. How does Liberty or equality account for the justifiable reaction of the working mom when the welfare queen is buying more expensive groceries than she can afford? The welfare queen is not “free” to do anything she likes with her welfare money—the more she does unhealthy things with it, the more this will strike the working mom as an irrational, wasteful (inefficient) use of hard-earned funds. The welfare queen’s problem is that the working mom’s rational life is being infringed by the cost to her of the other’s welfare, and the injury to society in body, mind, spirit by the welfare mother not being a whole person, living a whole life by making her contribution to the quality of life of society. All of this non-holistic kickback erodes social bonds. The reaction of anyone looking in on this predicament will be influenced by the tribalism of whether or not they are Democrat or Republican. Tribal influence being what it may, welfare that is not holistic is irrational and unhealthy, and addictive. Only the irrationality of tribalism (and tribalism does not have to be irrational), stands in the way of admitting this truth. “Help” for people must actually conform to holistic demands.

            Another complicating factor in all tribalism is that the members of all tribes assume their tribe is trying to do the best for humankind. This optimistic faith in one’s own stems from our enlightened self-interest in growing the largest tribe possible. Once this “acceptance” of the superior humanism in one’s own tribe occurs, the individual can become quite lazy in closing off any more evaluation on a matter they have already “settled” in their own mind. It is easier for us not to have to change. Hence, members of tribes can become notably stubborn in refusing to read information from opposing tribes, and being open-minded about additional evidence that might inform them that their own tribe’s assumptions about the inferiority of others are mistaken. We see this when Democrats assume quite enthusiastically that Republicans are inferior, and deserving of “enlightened” bigotry, in the very name of fighting bigotry. Any tribe is vulnerable to this assumption of goodness, we are only picking on Leftism because it is the most militant in its assumptions of supremacy. The only parameters that actually tell us what is “inferior” or “inferior” in terms of societies or morals, laws or anything else is however well the subject at hand conforms to the measures of health and thriving, and how much that individual, society or anything else has contributed in inventions and efforts that holistically raise quality of life. No individual or society is the “same” in this measure. Many individuals and societies have contributed very little in the modern era to our advancement. But this is the fair gauge of the populist meritocracy. What other meritocracy should we use? There is only one other—the elitist meritocracy. Any anger about our acceptance of the populist meritocracy, or our truthful and honest look at how not everyone has contributed equally ignores two basic facts: 1) the only real crime is not that one isn’t a genius, it is that one should not be a criminal who actively undermines others raising their quality of life. And 2) the anger ignores that human beings and their creativity are plastic, they can respond to honest criticism about them not carrying their weight, and they can, and want to, improve. If they are an individual or group that does not want to improve to help elevate quality of life, then the irrationality of this choice needs to be made plain to them. We are also making assessments on comparable contributions to human advancement now, without looking back at previous civilizations such as Mayans, the Han Dynasty etc., only in order to make a more cogent point, and without knowing what the dynamics of the future hold in terms of who does what. All is in flux around the only real constant—that Life orients around thriving. This begs the question of why is it ever wrong to be closed minded, or to be a bigot? The only thing wrong with being closed-minded or a bigot is that you never know when you’re going to cheat yourself of something wonderful. TM

            Compassion, help and welfare are noble, but they must be done in accordance with what makes us and society whole. As such, any welfare must include a Work component so that it does not become addictive and remains constructive. This is common sense. What part of our body are we better off having as dead weight that does not work toward thriving, or, with respect to society, that does not at least try to come up with some genius idea that would change the world? The only people who would object to it are Marxist tribalists who by these actions and statements indicate that they do not really care about the people they claim to want to help as much as they do grabbing naked power to re-install a One Percent. An essential part of holism is the populist meritocracy based on rewards and punishments being distributed on how much each of us raises quality of life, as society itself freely decides. Everyone must Work and be involved in contributing to this end, just as everyone does in a Marxist country, even the most poor. There is honor in all work. Any society that does not have a populist meritocracy by default slips into the only alternative, which is the elitist meritocracy focused not on the quality of life of us all, but of the few. There is no way any of us in the 99% will see this as fair. And so, once again, the elite must hide the Truth about who they are and what they are doing behind emotions and propaganda. Again, this is always to the detriment to us all, because the few can never keep a step ahead of genius to give it the headway it requires. This inherent unfairness erodes social bonds. And the more the people are educated in the nature of Health and thriving and the natural role of genius, the less they will stand for that injustice because there is not one Good reason to go along with it because of the nature of genius, and the interconnected nature of all living things. And it is the fate of rational people that they will always wake up to realize that there is nothing wrong with making these holistic demands of anyone in leadership. It is the only optimal way the operating system works. Again, this booklet is not intended to go into depth on health or each ethic, but merely to introduce the general ideas that can be expanded upon in another work.

            Moral interconnection can be a hard thing for us to believe in and see, especially for sociopathic types who care so little about the world anyway. It is only too easy for them to pretend interconnection does not exist (and maybe they are right?) so that there is no bad karma for me if I steal someone’s car and gain a tangible reward, and “bad karma” does not touch me before I time out and die. Or maybe karma gets me in the next life? But there is clearly ethical connection if stealing becomes so rampant that society breaks off into little pieces of families and friends living behind high barbwire to keep their stuff from being stolen and themselves hurt, with the consequent loss of trust so that any commercial action slows down, leading to the loss of speed finding genius. But what if the dose of stealing is somewhere in the middle, in sustaining, not extreme enough to result in social degradation into gated, post-apocalyptic communities? We have no proof yet that we live in a psychic soup of what quantum physicists call “protoconsciousness” where even “dead” things are enough “alive” that they too respond with a certain degree of living consciousness. This theory is now being tested and physicists say, if true, it would answer many questions about how our quirky universe behaves. Might this mean that all things are merely pencil sketches in 3D within the same block of cosmic protoplasm? If that is the case, would each stress and benefit work in dose-dependent fashion in correspondence with Benthem’s concept of proximity to the poison or gunshot wound? In either case, poison in the pond, or gunshot wound in the body, eventually all living things in the system, all cells in the body, are brought down in their quality of life commensurate with the interplay of stress and benefit, and their only cure is the lessening of stress and the addition of benefit. The validity of the idea of interconnectedness is undeniable when the given system, like an engine, or a crank, is made of metal. The crank turns and Balance + Form (Metal) = Result. The result is immediate and precise because of the Form of metals. The limitations of matter are also immediately seen. But what if the Form of the material in the system is ligament and cartilage in the knee? The limitations of matter can be hidden for a long time because of the elastic lag time in the softer materials. But if Balance is a structural force of the universe that exactly mediates results in every case—is there any doubt that knee limitations of matter exist and that the interplay between stress and benefit is mediating precisely whether the patient is getting healthier or not? Our answer depends solely on if we believe, or can prove, that Balance is indeed exact. The answer is that of course Balance is exact because the universe cannot function any other way. Lastly, what if the system is made of the softest, least measurable “substance” of all—consciousness? If our world and society are large ponds of consciousness, are we then polluting our environment with the stress, the toxin, of violating our innate ethics as we march along together through history? After all, in our own body, because of Balance, we can assume that everything we do to stress and benefit our health throughout our lifetimes is never forgotten or dismissed. Every Twinkie and every chiropractic adjustment goes on the ledger of Bad or Good to move the needle Left or Right in spite of any lag time or moment to moment indecision. If all of this is true, is there a hormetic buffer for violating our ethics as well, where the stress of violation is beneficial at first, before it crashes through the hormetic barrier and then becomes straight on toxic at higher dose? The self-serving of the selfish, the addict, the obsessed, the tribalist, the insane and the sociopath is at least worth considering from this perspective. Of course the insane and the sociopath will not care what the answer is. And therefore the goal of sane people everywhere should be to block sociopaths from taking office. However, it is a strange coincidence that, even if protoconsciousness proves in the end not to be real—isn’t it odd that all of us are exactly holistically better off if we pretend that interconnection is true? If it is not true, isn’t it curious that we are exactly better off the more we live our lives as if it is true? 

            We already know from war records that soldiers can show a great deal of guilt based on the innate ethics even during the heat of battle. Wartime ethics, when one tribe fights another tribe, rationalizes even broader departures from our ethics. But do sociopaths suffer the same degree of moral guilt for violating enlightenment as the rest of us? It is well known how stress profoundly damages the brain. It is even already known that chronic anger from any cause (like politics) creates the same worm hole damage in the brain cortex as crack cocaine. Anger is a by-product of stress, and increases the more our brain is damaged in any way, certainly from the emotions that are ginned up by political propaganda, and this is in fact the universal goal of propaganda: to make us lose sight of our enlightened self-interest in the end of all tribalism for the greater pursuit of genius and thriving for all. Once again, the depraved, sociopathic elite are the only actors who’s endgame would be threatened by all the rest of us coming together, naturally relying upon each other in a holistic relationship of free will and enlightenment, rather than us artificially relying upon them and the cosmetics and false beliefs about the world they want us to buy. All of this is to brain damage us so that we are deluded to continue tribalism and stay at each other’s throat while they sneak up the ladder to power to become another iteration of the One Percent in the Era of Surveillance. While the internet gives us the advantage of sharing information around the globe in an instant, the other edge of the sword is that, if the people who control the internet are sociopathically conceited enough—they also have the option of wiping out all information substantiating our realization of the endgame in the sovereign individual and enlightened society, as they did with Covid. All information antagonistic to the Big Pharma business model was repeatedly savaged and sunk out of sight as if the people in control cared nothing about our lives and wellbeing. None of their “care” for us was based on the holistic model of citizen and society, but instead was motivated only by the artificial model of citizen and society under a conceited elite who are so superior to the rest of us that they need never worry about genius coming up with a better idea than what they have. 

            Western civilization trusts in the individual and is grounded solidly in the individual because it sees individuals inevitably seeking these qualities, and being the best watchdogs to guard these interests and find them. As Abraham Lincoln said, “Give people the right information and they will make the right decision every time.” The West sees improvement toward all of these things such as in the strong improvement on poverty all over the world, as Pew and others have reported. Marxism on the other hand, does not believe that this perfect operating system in Life is already here, although Marxism itself is the brainchild of our quest for something better, when they grew impatient with our rate of progress. The rare conceit of Marxism gives the school no faith either that individuals are finding enlightenment out of their own holistic self-interest, or that their greed and tribalism will ever let them find it. Marxists believe the world is a morass of horrors and only they know what enlightenment is, and that they must force us to go to it as Marx and Engels envisioned to purge us and to use trauma to reset the flawed system. But there is no more perfect system beyond Life, and this is why all Marxist/Socialist authors have never articulated what exactly lies beyond their revolution, and this is why Marxist nations like China and Russia settled back into Capitalism, or commerce and enterprise, that is an extension of our innate morals. Both nations found this out, China in 1976, and Russia in 1991, when they began easing taxes and regulations for more freedom and equality in the pursuit of better living standards for their people largely because the Marxist leaders of those nations quit hating their own people, history and culture so much. Or at least enough to let their people pursue enough prosperity that they would hate their own government less and permit the elitist meritocracy to stay in place with less overhead.

            The impatience of Marxism to see the progress of humankind quickened is completely understandable. This book itself seeks the same end. But Karl Marx and Engels flat out lied that there was no improvement in the human condition. They also missed the target when they said the villain in the human story was the Haves and the victims were the Have Nots. It is much more accurate to point out that sociopaths, selfishness, addiction, obsession and tribalism hold us back, and that these pathologies are by far most destructive when they become the raison d’être for the One Percent. This is our perennial enemy, under whatever flag they fly. The more they stand on the neck of our progress by picking winners and losers among their own, the more we are in trouble, the more we are stuck in a cycle of sustaining rather than moving toward a scientifically provable promise land. It becomes even crazier for us to give Marxist-Fascist-corporatism, or any other elitism, carte blanche just at the dawn of the Era of Surveillance. How do you find enlightenment at the end of their rainbow? Meanwhile, Western civilization (and Health) is the only champion of the Haves Nots against the Haves. Before Sinai, the ancient world had no concept of history or progress. Mankind lived in a non-veering limbo of caste systems at the mercy of their divine royals and the childish whimsy of gods. Sinai and Judaism, Christianity and The Greek Miracle all gathered out of the inspiration that a single God existed along with a certain thread to understanding the universe and human existence. Western civilization’s inspiration gave rise to The Rights of Englishmen that shrank the power of the oligarchs, the banning of polygamy in the 7th century, Magna Carta that further shrank aristocrat power, the end of European slavery in the 11th century, Martin Luther, who brought God beyond the elite to all the people, the British Civil Wars that toppled royal authority and founded the British Commonwealth in 1653, American independence in 1776 that formally declared all men equal for the first time those words were ever uttered in spite of the fly in the ointment where slavery temporarily still existed as a holdover from tribalism. 

            The advances in scientific understanding were every bit as breathtaking and the damn against human genius broke with the Industrial Age. The shift of human activity from the land to the city required huge improvements in working conditions and sanitation to offset the increased stress of industrial society and closer living. England banned labor for children under age nine in 1833 with the Factory Act, and in 1847 the Ten Hour Act restricted work hours for women and older children to ten hours. Edwin Chadwick’s 1852 “The Sanitary Condition of the Labouring Population of Great Britain” set the stage for more aggressive social welfare improvements. The next year London created the first Board of Health that was rapidly copied in other European capitals. And 1858 became known as the year of “The Big Stink”, when London sewage conditions became so awful that Parliament acted to establish a first-ever sewage system. Other European capitals quickly followed these measures that would lead to social welfare and civil engineering advances so effective that by 1963 the CDC report on infectious disease observed that all of these ancient scourges and plagues of infectious disease had disappeared from the earth not because of drugs and vaccines, but because of anti-poverty campaigns and better sanitation[k].

            In spite of this blizzard of progress, the impatience of the Marxist school to eliminate poverty is commendable. However, the growth of human genius is the cure for relative poverty, not wealth distribution at the muzzle of a gun, and the pursuit of human genius is not possible without big pockets of money free of corruption. The only thing that can stop that corruption is the freedom for society to pursue the best ideas of genius that will stomp on the corrupt by bankrupting them, making their investments obsolete. When looked at in this manner—it is no wonder the American founders had the genius to arm the populace against the inevitable drift toward corruption among their betters. One chronic problem exists when the 99% trust the elite with the power to pick winners and losers: The elite can only win, can only stay ahead of the entropy and chaos for their investments by our genius, by killing our progress toward making their investments obsolete. Like the drug companies with brain-first healthcare. Human genius makes things obsolete every hour. Whoever made our genius what it is—God, Nature, Life or Existence—our genius is utterly unpredictable, it pops up anywhere at any time, from any direction, from anyone, and the odds are always that it will be on our side rather than the side of the One Percent. It is a jazz riff that comes at a rate of speed faster and faster that no one entity can possibly keep in front of except by the most economically free society that understands the uniqueness of this gift that rapaciously seeks human improvement. The elite must always try to censor our genius to protect their privilege. Take Einstein, Faraday, Lennon & McCartney, Brando, Tesla and Churchill. Are the next generation of geniuses their kids? No. Genius skipped away and blessed somebody else’s kid. What made America unique was the way leaders and government officials in our early times restrained themselves more than any others from picking winners and losers, as in the case of the debate between natural healing and industrial “scientific” medicine. American government said: “Don’t ask me to pick you as the winner—go sell yourself to the public!” This hands-off attitude lasted until the Progressive Era when well-meaning social forces ebbed into economic and class influences that led to the denouement of the 1909 Flexner Report on medical education that allowed elitist forces to industrialize American healthcare and all but stamp out any idea of naturalness. We remain frozen in time since then with the medical industrial complex using their incredible clout and social reach to keep healthcare artificial while also making any serious talk on the power of naturalness a laughingstock. At that critical point, well-meaning progressive ideas were co-opted by cut-throat professional guild and industrial interests that not only took down naturalness from healthcare practice, but more importantly from healthcare research, and peer-reviewed journal publication, and official government policy. With all but total control of public resources and public policy, those resources meant to study what was best for people went only into Column A that supported the artificialist industrial business model, and hid from public view Column B, the fascinating debate started in the 19th century on the naturalist side of health and thriving. 

            During that dramatic period of free thought, the giants in science said that the cause of disease was not germs and viruses, it was the loss of health. Health and our resistance to disease boiled down to what Claude Bernard called “Host Health,”[k] and that the stage for where disease tried to take control of our lives unfolded entirely in the mind and nervous system[k]. Two camps set up opposite each other, Column A and Column B: Column A was the artificialist school championed by academics and researchers with ties to industry that said the patient was a stationary target to germs and viruses, and that costly drugs, surgery and hospitals run by the elite were the only salvation. Column B research found exactly the opposite—this naturalist school of Host Health championed by academics and researchers with no ties to industry found that health and disease lay in the power of the individual managing a smarter lifestyle. The champions of Column A always had links to medical industrial money, that built an ever-expanding gallery of “top experts” and “fact-checkers” for Column A, keeping Column B out of the spotlight, out of the news. From 1900 to 2019, that chain of related players split amongst themselves a $105 trillion pot spent on healthcare. The colorful social and scientific pageantry between Column A and Column B was carried in the newspapers with some fidelity up until the 1920s when the big money became so big as to start winning out, and to start making anyone who disagreed with the AMA (and the elite) look unscientific. Ever since, “follow the science” leads always to Column A, the ideal industrial business model. The fingerprints of this can be seen everywhere in Covid. The age-old dynamic was being replayed—the sovereign individual of Western civilization versus the top-down suffocation from those with money that put them at the top of society and power, fighting a ruthless guerrilla war with house money against human genius. We were made into a society only of Column A by an emergent chemical Goliath and its Wall Street hangers on that moved out any idea about the sovereign individual and Column B even in America—the crown jewel of individualism, individualism’s last hope. The germ and virus were kings, not Health. Column B explained why, for example, if anyone’s daughter quit eating her fruits and vegetables that child would soon fall out of sustaining into disease such that there would be nothing all the universities, medical schools, hospitals, drug companies and surgical wizardry could do for her. The lack of one Benefit could wipe away all the king’s horses and all the king’s men of the medical empire as if they were toys. All Benefits have this power. 

            Regrettably, two crooked hucksters, Dr. George H. Simmons and Morris Fishbein, both former journalists, took possession of the AMA and the Journal of the American Medical Association respectively, in the era between 1890 and 1920, and turned them into a cash machine by selling the AMA brand to American business. Massive American business growth between the World Wars exploded the prestige and image of medicine that had also discovered two miracle drugs, insulin and penicillin, that could mask the symptoms of two diseases that previously only naturalism could help, and actually cure.“Scientific medicine” became a front for the drug companies operating with so much money and cunning that conscientious doctors and nurses barely saw what they were up to in corrupting our basic concepts on health. By the 1920s, the industrialists wielded so much influence that they could send their own people to shape doctor and nursing education into anything they wanted it to be, so that generations of doctors and nurses had no idea how any notion of naturalism was pushed aside by the artificialism that was the tent pole of American health. Unbeknownst to them, their education, and all the energy of their well-meaning, became perverted into them becoming salesman for that bottle of pills. The error was repeated with each graduating class, with doctors and nurses filling the ranks of medicine, research, education and public office with skeptics who believed in the dialectic of germs versus pills rather than stress versus benefit. In 1911, Campbell wrote a book on his lifetime study to incorporate the methods of chiropractors, osteopaths and manual medicine to cure all manner of disease. Prophetically, Campbell stated that the “fraternity of medical doctors” received no training in posture, spine, nervous system brain and natural cures, and that they were by their nature and education inclined to gadgetize medical practice and overcomplicate it, to look past simple, natural explanations for the sake of more involved answers with drugs. By growing a pharmacracy that always kept the seat of “cures” open for the next great drug—the drug companies always kept their first place status as number one earner in Washington. Medical doctors and nurses, people who work tirelessly in support roles raising funds for “healthcare” research, it is not their fault they have no concept of how they live inside a box built from a quaint notion about germs that was outmoded by 1880. The reader should ask themselves this question: “Who is in control of your health—you or the drug companies?” Then: “What percentage of control goes to each?” Without even knowing what is in Column B, we know what the answer is. Column B has forged ahead to humiliate Column A for its backward beliefs in chemical witchcraft, but we remain hijacked by Column A for its service to the elite no matter what it costs the rest of us. If drug companies have been a part of an elite that have, over a hundred plus years, put in place a social belief system wholly based on health coming from costly, artificial, technological, dangerous, stressful, outside means, and all “experts,” scholars, doctors, nurses and politicians are a product of that society—how long before this medievalism melts and society peeks at the Column B evidence that says Health comes only from a partnership of the sovereign individual with enlightened society? How long will any such society remain a hostage of the ideal business model for a select few? Our “See Problem-Take Drug” predicament is a product of designed social conditioning that Thomas Szazs calls “pharmacracy.”

            These last two centuries have been a curious time for human beings. We developed so much power to discover, to control, to communicate, to raise money, to build, to influence, that it’s like a Frankenstein that is all the more unwieldy and dangerous if you create this Frankenstein before you’ve discovered your inner humanity that tells you how to use this power wisely. Our drift away from the populist meritocracy that once ruled America to a return of the elitist meritocracy has quickly remade America into a corporate-Fascist kleptocracy. This sudden relapse leaves us common folk with no certain idea even who runs the nation. This facelessness allows aristocrats to remain unidentifiable so that it is harder to isolate, hate and mock them the way they do their enemies. We are left to deduce that our aristocrats have relapsed into their classic pattern around the invisible Round Table of the super-rich and top-flight dirty corporations who either agree with the Left’s conceit, or fear it, and now see which side their bread is buttered on. Just a short while ago, America stuck by the Western meritocracy of innocent until proven guilty and raising human quality of life. But Marxist conceit only allows the elitist meritocracy—serve us or else, and, more dangerously, the self-obsession of Leftist tribalism convinces them that, if you are not actively serving them, you are Guilty, and they will track you down. In this scary environment, American business now serves in order to keep its doors open. The answer of control with elites is as it ever was: At the Round Table, everyone ranks in descending order of their balance sheet and personal connections. There is not even a thought given to the public welfare in direct proportion to how well-armed the elite are in comparison with how unarmed the public is. Number one are the drug companies, netting $4.01 trillion in fiscal 2019, fully one quarter of our $16 trillion GDP. $4.01 trillion is enough money to bend the arc of light. Whatever they want they get, that’s what the “science” says. The cut everyone else gets from drug company rent holding is too much to say no to. Vaccines, mask mandates, every bit of covid public health advice that goes in exactly the wrong direction from real health in order to sell more medical services by breeding less health—no problem. It is drug companies, after all, that in the 1960s started the culture of “revolvers” and “regulatory capture” that began to run Washington and spread so much money inside the Beltway that real “public service” became a thing of the past. Slowly, between Marxism and corporate wealth, the culture in Washington reached a swapping point between holistic public service and politically correct self-service. Eisenhower and Kennedy would have you shot for betraying the public trust. But now the new cast of characters will hurt you if you don’t betray the American people at their behest. The medical sector’s $4.01 trillion is enough to keep all of Washington, all of medicine, and research, and media, and hospital conglomerates in line so that everyone is kept fat and happy with their share of the profits built on hiding the truths about health. As a result, most Americans wander around in a state of Half Health, or less, with no idea about how much difference their brain could make, and where life is a crap shoot against the germs designed to make you healthier and tell you when your health is failing. At this point, the fear, greed and conceit of the elite in Washington gives no one the incentive to do the right thing, even in the media. This is the classic Achilles Heel of any elitist meritocracy. It is a stuck point that breeds toxicity until the pollution becomes so bad people see through it and insist on holistic change.

            Instead of living in an enlightened society, we are sliding backwards to a situation so anti-human no one can stand to look it in the face. That $4.01 trillion, in a single fiscal year, and $105 trillion since 1900, is enough to buy everyone off, and keep the light of philosophical truth about the emancipation of the individual locked in the dungeon of the Count of Monte Cristo. Dr. Arthur Levine has observed that the drug companies have seized total control of medical and nursing practice by stringing together long lead-lines with all the top people in every field. Following the top people at universities, at some point drug companies offer them generous fees as “consultants” to help the medical sector make itself better. These relationships continue when these stars reach the pinnacles of their specialty and revolve into the top positions at the CDC and FDA, and elsewhere. Who can argue with credentials and with such devotion to better serve the public? These relationships are why the drug companies have settled on a $26 billion dollar sum for the millions of fentanyl deaths for which hardly a whistleblower made it through the gauntlet running from civil service through the media. There are thousands of people who need to go to jail at this point. Our aversion to the fact that we have been a willing participant in this fiasco is too much for us to admit, and so we go on letting our health be traumatized by this business sector because we are too nice to force the point. This booklet hopes to push people to insist on what is right by pointing out that we are all going there eventually anyway, and that what we want to demand flawlessly solves all of our problems as well. The poignant irony here is how this upside-down-world criminality has come about when we have enough science and history behind us to make this self-destructive malfeasance and corruption unthinkable, one would think. It seems we cannot bear to look at the foul predicament square on because it is the epitome of everything we shouldn’t be, that our leaders and science shouldn’t be, but still are, because of profiteering and elitist tribalism. The only people so far showing the guts to stare down this atrocity is the Left. Only they have enough skepticism of corporate America and Washington to demand, eventually, that the beasts responsible for this assault be held to account and force them out of the way. The Right, after covid, is too trusting, too optimistic, too compliant, too caught up in the mythology of drugs and surgery and the drug companies to have the same hair trigger as the Left. During Covid, the Left proved even more compliant with vaccine mandates than the Right, for now, because of revolutionary discipline and tribal loyalty. But the hair trigger of the Left is not going to be happy the more they see big pharma and corruptniks like the Clintons, Bidens and Soros’s on top crushing all dissent for the sake of the medical business model and the money thrown around DC to the upper class. Through all of this mayhem and crime, there is always one saving grace: However ruthless, depraved and conceited any elite are, everything built into the vitalist system of Life and Health is even more ruthless because it contains the true expression of all we can be together.

            Our ethics and enlightenment appear to line up exactly as the logical constructs they are and must remain because human life is only perfect if they remain so, and every aspect of human life contains a moral component. Let us hastily say on this last word on the ethics that if the ethics and the parameters of Health can be tampered with then slave masters (any depraved One Percent) could manipulate quantum mechanics and scramble the brains of their slaves to make them happy with the injustice. As the system is now, our two life instincts make it impossible for there to be happy slaves. The human nose is exquisitely tuned to sniff out injustice. Enlightenment and healthy self-interest make it so that the elite must hide the facts of their injustice. In time, we will not tolerate it. This one little change in how health is earned would entirely botch the beauty in the system. And as Einstein remarked of his theory of relativity: “Look at it, it is so beautiful—how could it not be true?” 

            The last category of perfect wellbeing that makes human existence linear and predictable except for accident and the little bit of room for genetics is the body structure component of chiropractic mentioned earlier. After all, the red hot point of conflict between Left and Right is the either-or choice we must make between social welfare and the pursuit of genius. Both sides make a righteous point. Minus thriving, we cannot give our attention to helping the underprivileged and funding genius at the same time, and we never will be able to without the single snug harbor of thriving where all things are possible. But everything changes with chiropractic brain-first healthcare and brain-first social welfare. What chiropractic has found is that our own brain is one of our last great frontiers and that it appears to hold the neurological tipping point where stress going into the black box turns into disease, crime, mental illness, pain and political rebellion. After Selye, we know that anything besides nutrients, water, air and behaviors of enlightenment count as stress on the body, mind, spirit, and the antidotes are the quintessential opposites of the stresses. And stress is a challenge to the way we are supposed to be. The Column B research has proven beyond the shadow of a doubt stress causes the body to become dysfunctional [k], and that the first domino to fall is the nervous system, the Master System of the body, and that it’s most difficult task is movement, posture and alignment [k]. It is also known that this stress-induced dysfunction impairs the body’s ability to keep itself in perfect alignment like a musical instrument, with streamlined, efficient movement. Harrison has described how stress progressively makes the posture collapse into an old man stoop, and the feet collapse inward to destabilize the entire kinetic chain from toes to skull [k]. Harrison et al have also found that these postural defects in asymptomatic people cause a slowing down of brain and nervous system processing of 20% [k]. This means our brain and nervous system are operating out of phase with our environment, and are making inaccurate responses to what is going on inside us and around us. Our body’s perfect self-regulation becomes inefficient and inaccurate. Our body begins rotting from inside out. Our body is aware of this loss of perfection, and begins cycling through a larger and larger stress response like a bicyclist losing balance. Pain, more stress, stress responses, dysfunction, symptoms, fatigue, exhaustion, self-regulatory imprecision, disease and death are the inevitable result if the tide is not switched back to benefits fixing the problems. Meanwhile, we try to cover the rot with salves from Harvard that cost millions of dollars to develop, or we use surgeries to cut out the rot. But the only real cure comes from benefits, and wiping the stress from the brain, so that the body can catch its balance and reset perfection. The medical industrial sector has moved vast resources to keep this Column B research from upsetting its ideal business model that says the only cure for the rot comes from artifices only they can provide that will cost us a fortune. If we turn our backs on their Column A wizardry, they assure us, we are “ignoring the science,” insane, cultist and inhumane. Or children should be taken from us and we should be forced to take vaccines, the most stressful things on the planet other than surgery, and a gateway drug to needing many more drug products over our lifetimes. But everything the industrial sector has to offer is stressful, invasive and toxic. How can stress cure stress? How is Stress ever a Benefit? Except when we are cut in half and our life needs to be saved at which point Stress matters little. This is a stump the industrial sector cannot crawl over. Up to now, the medical industrial complex has deluded us with song and dance. But Column B passes the human sniff test. Column B changes everything. Chiropractic and the realization that the body’s engineering needs to be kept pristine changes everything. And recent developments in chiropractic to map out the perfect alignment of the human musical instrument, and to wipe clean stress build-up from the brain, and to actually restore that body frame alignment perfection—which has never been done before—are again changing everything. Completely without stress and completely without side-effect. It is perhaps the single most revealing idea of genius that has ever come along, able to bankrupt the buggy whip factory. And all of it is being hidden from view by force of massive amounts of cash.

            When an inconvenience like chiropractic comes along any depraved elite must gird their loins for an exceptional guerrilla war to hide it. They do so with discredit. They must make the enemy look ridiculous and friendless so that no decent person will ever touch them, because the poor man’s wisdom is always despised. The AMA initially, and then the larger healthcare industrial sector that eventually pretty much neutered the AMA, has kept chiropractic locked down to stop the wildfire. The crusade has cost a fortune but it has prejudiced generations of scientists and researchers so that even those in brain and neurological research hardly know chiropractic even exists, let alone promises to upend the landscape. In the very name of science and public health, a campaign was waged that is as scurrilous as the most vicious ward politics fight. Again, this is hard to hear because the doctors and nurses we love are a part of this, but they are not. They were poisoned in the crib against brain-first healthcare, and most know as little about it as anyone. The evidence shows that care for our brain appears to stand equal to proper diet. Keeping the engineering flawless has to be an ongoing staple of our daily life starting at the youngest ages, carefully monitoring children’s posture growing in properly for full-scope prevention that has never been seen on earth before. Great chiropractic has to be everywhere for the model to work. Are you adjusted every day of the week? Three times per week? Are you keeping an eye on your precise spinal tuning and stress-junk in your brain after each serious jolt and stress? Fedorchuk shows radiological evidence [k] that grave alignment problems can begin in earliest youth. The problem we face is that pushing a drug-first society to a brain-first society is like shifting society from gas vehicles to electric without the chiropractic infrastructure yet. Not only are there not enough chiropractors, the world at large does not even realize that brain-first healthcare and precise body engineering are even a thing, let alone a basic part of scientifically validated salvation. Prospects look even more gloomy considering that the dominant paradigm will turn every inch of healthcare into Iwo Jima. To make matters that much worse, the medical sector fits human laziness like a glove; not everyone wants the tough-to-get-used-to self-responsibility of the Truth. They do not understand that that step up is like riding a bicycle; it’s easy and makes perfect sense once you get up and running. The obese person who loses 600 lbs and looks back at their former self cannot believe they once lived and believed as they did. It is easier to take a pill. . . . But all of this does not matter. In time, when the “solutions” from selfish elites fail to get people past sustaining, they will insist on pushing past the blockage in results to seek relief from all the horror and pain that comes from the dark side of Life. They will keep searching until they stumble upon the only avenue instinct, common sense and evidence will ever find is available to us in the universal commonality of who we are.

            No discussion of endgame political enlightenment is complete without the input from the brain-first revolution in chiropractic. The righteous insistence from Left and Right cannot be met otherwise. Any pure Benefit worthy of the name not only has to be good for us at any dose, and show no tendency to hurt us at higher doses, but it also logically would prove safer than most anything, and it would show the property of being a cure-all. Chiropractic looks in the preliminary research like it will fit this bill. The safest specialties in medicine, pediatrics and dentistry, both require malpractice insurance costing around $15,000 per year. Chiropractic looks to be about 15x safer since it’s malpractice costs are under $1,000 per year, and who would know who is safe and who is not safe more than insurance actuaries? Strangely, this is the line mainstream medicine will give about chiropractic safety. The most dangerous feature about chiropractic looks like strokes suffered by an infinitesimal percentage of people who try chiropractic. But even here, the “danger” of a stroke is not the result of anything about chiropractic, it is related to a hidden defect in the patient’s vertebral artery that could open up when they lay their head back even in a hair salon sink. As a result of these defects, it appears there may be 26 deaths related to chiropractic care since 1895. For this, industrial medicine says chiropractic is too unsafe to even try. Compare this with the 180,000 strokes per year caused among young women by birth control pills alone. The preliminary research on chiropractic shows that it has been shown effective in treating every condition it has been tried on except IQ. Again, this only underscores the power of our own brain.

            A single chiropractic adjustment changes the fMRI brain images in the before and after figures of A and B in just twenty minutes. A single chiropractic procedure of seven minutes duration opens blood flow at the brain base by 200 to 400% as shown in the before and after figures C and D. [Three surveys of the medical literature report that the primary risk factor in dementia and Alzheimer’s is reduced brain blood flow.] A study published in Nature on a Chiropractic Biophysics procedure shows a reduction in neck misalignment related to a 20% increase in nerve conduction velocity. A single chiropractic adjustment lowers blood pressure by 17 points, as much as a patient on five hypertension medications, a study by Dickholtz and Bikram found that drew international attention. Eighty-one patients with Parkinson’s and MS showed remarkable results using upper cervical chiropractic care, including “complete resolution” of nearly half of the cases[k]. Numerous other smaller studies of these diseases show similar results. Preliminary research on Diabetes Type 1 patients shows a single adjustment lowering blood sugar by 75 points, lasting four days; a second adjustment lowering glucose by 75 points for three to four weeks[k]. A study by Haavik of a single adjustment on chronic stroke patients showed a 65% increase in muscle strength[k]. One study measuring brain waves by Alva Byers shows a single chiropractic adjustment improving brain wave patterning as much as 50 to 200x sessions of meditation and biofeedback[k]. A press release by the International Chiropractic Association covers a wide range of studies and reports on chiropractic boosting immunity[k]: A single chiropractic adjustment has been shown to elevate T-cells by 27% within two hours, while six months of upper cervical chiropractic has been shown to raise T-cell counts by 48% in subjects with full blown AIDS, as compared to 8% drops in T-cells for controls. Chiropractic care on a man with hepatocellular carcinoma, one of the three most deadly cancers, for which the only treatment is a liver transplant, after the man was denied care by his HMO because of his history of hepatitis, was cured not once, but twice[k]. A fair criticism of chiropractic is that there is so little research. While this is a fair point, it must also be admitted that chiropractic has never faced a level playing field. Chiropractic is cut off from significant research funding, and pays for all of its own research out of pocket, as medicine only did in its infancy nearly two centuries ago. Since then, “medical” research has been made synonymous with humanitarianism, and is popularly accepted as the only option for salvation. The evidence in part from the nine-year AMA et al anti-trust suit shows that the medical industrial sector has known about chiropractic from its infancy, so that the excuse is false that people in the know were “too busy” to pay attention to the growing wave of brain-first care, and its potential in both health and social welfare. A Dr. Hendryson, an Army surgeon in 1942, observed chiropractic curing soldiers with spine and body pain twice as fast as all conventional means. Hendryson, himself an AMA Board member, insisted the AMA get behind the war effort to deploy chiropractors to every Army hospital for the duration. The AMA was so afraid of chiropractic changing the game that it did not breathe even a syllable in support of helping tip the scales in this the world’s darkest hour. 

            Chiropractic also shows remarkable potential in the most costly sector of cases where conventional care is least effective, cases that are bankrupting every national healthcare system, whether socialized or privatized. These are the advanced arthritis cases called High Resource Patients (HRP). This condition is the “bottomless pit.” In a 2011 study by Pritchard in the Journal of Managed Care & Specialty Pharmacy, HRP consume $43,104 worth of care per patient versus $3,955 per patient for the all other conditions. HRP are typically 15x more costly than other conditions. Chronic low back and neck pain are the most common types of HRP. National back surgery figures show that, of back surgery patients, results are so poor that 46% go in for a second surgery, and of these 62% go in for a third round of surgery [k]. These dismal results are typical of HRP. Ireland’s Central Statistics Office reports Ireland spends more on back pain than on cancer and diabetes combined. The Health Board of Ireland findings are echoed in the New Zealand Report, the Oregon Worker Compensation Report, and other international bodies studying HRP. In the United States, spending in 2015 for back pain alone equaled worldwide spending for cancer, according to a May 2015 Wall Street Journal article.

            Body pain HRP is such a serious condition that no other discipline besides chiropractic has shown a consistent and effective method for treatment. AV Med HMO of Florida used ordinary chiropractic rather than the latest CBP techniques, but found with 25 HRP patients scheduled for low back surgery chiropractic resolved 24 of 25 cases so that surgery was unnecessary. Taking into account the crushing burden of HRP, it is noteworthy how the AV Med HMO study showed that even ordinary chiropractic care only “failed” in one of 25 HRP cases. The HMO credited chiropractic with savings of $250,000, given how each back surgery cost $25,000 in 1986 dollars. This is chiropractic showing a 96% success rate with by far the most ruinous problem the healthcare system faces, even without the CBP adjunct that might have picked up the stray failure. Another AV Med HMO study showed ordinary chiropractic used to replace medical care lowered all hospital admissions by 60%, hospital stays by 40%, doctor visits by 40%, and drug use by 85%. In an early 2000s study comparing pain relief by chiropractic or the NSAIDS Celebrex and Vioxx, chiropractic proved to be 6x more effective[k]. Meanwhile, government figures show 80% of heroine addicts started with OxyContin and fentanyl, the “miracle” replacements of NSAIDS, that are 50x more addictive than heroin, with people becoming addicted only after four days on the drug. The use of chiropractic in substance abuse treatment leads to a 100% completion rate in treatment, while the average completion rate is 37%. 

            Meanwhile, the CBP Chiropractic Biophysics literature shows it is a step beyond ordinary chiropractic that is picking up the few cases where ordinary chiropractic previously failed. With seven non-randomized trials, 12 randomized trials, and 84 published case studies, the level of evidence already far exceeds what all drugs and surgical procedures are supported by before approval into the mainstream. The work of Harrison publishing the first-ever model of human posture between 1996 and 2002 in Spine, and with significant steps in large improvements in posture and alignment, chiropractic’s results in improved health, disease recovery, and immune boosting are even more consistent. Case studies showing the complete resolution of Tourette’s Syndrome, two case studies of complete resorption of Sryngomyelia spinal cord tumors, and the only case in the medical literature showing corrected spinal re-alignment by non-surgical means, a corrected spondylolisthesis case reduced by 13mm, case series in epilepsy, depression, bed wetting, pediatrics, Parkinson’s, MS, diabetes. This booklet is aimed at both the research community and the public to inform both that the early data suggests that a most peculiar hypocrisy has been committed against all of us in the case of the brain revolution.

            It is already shown that any joint even minimally out of place invokes Wolff’s Law [k] and the Heutur-Volkmann Law [k] to degenerate any joint two to three times faster than normal aging. This accelerated death of the joint has also been shown to then carry forward along nerve and arterial lines to prematurely age and sclerose target organs and tissues, even the brain. By as early as 1921, Winslow [k] noted how the chiropractic rationale was proven by 50 autopsies to correlate with disease and cause of death 100%. The kink in the spine is a hole in our spaceman suit. The kink in the posture is a ray gun that shoots death at whatever lies downstream. In 1935, a South Dakota judge, A.W. Ponath, created a pamphlet for his state legislature, medical board and psychiatric board, imploring they look at the evidence and set aside chiropractic-dedicated mental hospitals where DCs could work under their own auspices, free of medical interference. Judge Ponath believed this would give relief to countless lives tortured by mental illness, including criminals. His pamphlet, “Facts, What Chiropractic Has Done for Insanity,” reports on the long list of cures in chiropractic mental sanitariums. He includes seven “hopeless cases” hand-picked by South Dakota’s own state mental asylum system that were referred to Fair Oaks Chiropractic Sanitarium in Iowa, which were effortlessly cured within one to three months just like “intractable” HRP cases. Included also were another over 70 completely cured mental asylum cases with a brief paragraph describing each patient and the resolution of their case, detailing their return to normal life. Each of the 70 cases is a marvel, each one a life taken from ruin and put back on the shelf of being whole, a glimpse of real hope for an integrated future that both the Left and Right believe in. 

            The unseen, unknown, intentionally misunderstood puzzle of chiropractic also lips over into the mystery of our missing lifespan. One team headed by Jan Vijg looked at statistical data and said natural factors top human life off at around 115. One study of cadavers found that the longest-lived people always had the best posture and the least amount of spinal damage[k], which seconds what Winslow found in his cadaver studies. But three different studies have looked at two different factors, mitochondria and cell replication in the first, and the human genome in the two others. All three of these studies put human lifespan at 140 to 150 years, which means we are only halfway home. All of us are aging two to three times faster than we should, which, again, corresponds with what Winslow found in his careful autopsies of spinal failure and the hidden electrical fires these lesions unleash into our insides. In each of these three studies, the research teams commented that they were completely baffled about what could be the missing ingredient that is scorching us and making us age so much faster than we are designed to. 

            Whatever made us is not trying to keep the answers to a better life secret. The answers are simple, they are cheaper and safer than any alternative, they actually cure without a single side-effect, and the entire universe of data line up with instinct, common sense and logic to point a bright neon flashing arrow at the endgame. Only our stupidity, our herd animal social habits, and our tendency to place far too much trust in our institutions stands in the way of realization. Pain, surgery, surgical failure, crime, complications, national budgets, the misery index, on and on, the evidence piles up directly and indirectly suggesting that the hidden war against the brain-first reboot is a problem. It is as if some very smart people knew that all of this holistic scientific evidence hung by the single thread of the chiropractic field and the brain. In a nation of 340 million, there are only 70,000 chiropractors who fully grasped the brain-first element, and were a single spot of light hinting at the future. But chiropractic was not just a bridge too far, it was two bridges too far—it might even be three bridges too far for society to grasp today. And even chiropractic is hanging by a thread because chiropractors are working inside chiropractic to weaken it and keep it either hidden, or divided against itself, in keeping with the identical strategy the AMA et al had starting in the 1950s after the Fishbein debacle. Chiropractic’s own war against non-believers is understandable considering how so many people entering the field grew up in Column A culture. As such, chiropractic is cut in half between those who “get” that chiropractic is the final resolution of the human mystery, and those who “get” that chiropractic is the clear winner in the conquest of HRP. The early day firebrands that raved about chiropractic results were able to grab public attention before modern medicine looked like NASA, with all of that goodwill and credibility. But more chiropractic outposts every day flipped to the dark side, to the See Problem-Take Drug point of view. By the 1970s, it is reported that the drug companies heard from their consultants that the best path to secure future market share was to raise the vaccine schedule, because the immunological damage and chronic inflammation caused by vaccines would create enough health problems that this strategy alone would make more medical customers over the rest of their lives. They had also learned that people are either habituated into being drug takers or not by age 21, and so, with vaccines making problems in childhood and adolescence, well-meaning parents would be forced to put their kids on meds and do the rest to turn out faithful drug buying automatons by the tens of millions. Since the 1960s, the medical industrial sector has spent lavishly inside the Beltway to acquire the research and government assets to completely control what American healthcare looks like. This aggressive acquisition led to the coining of special terms, such as “revolvers” and “regulatory capture” to describe the depth of the problem. Revolvers are the choice experts big pharma has under its wing with lucrative “consultancy agreements” that cycle back and forth between private and public sectors in a buddy system that has locked down American health. Regulatory capture refers to how they squeeze out any attempts to unstick the system. The AMA and seven other co-defendants even lost a spectacular anti-trust and anti-fair trade lawsuit for decades of skullduggery against chiropractic with tactics such as killing the medical and nursing school accreditation for any university that “legitimized” chiropractic by opening a chiropractic school. The AMA pushed in all chips to keep chiropractic “illegitimate.” The AMA lawsuit exposed that one of their most effective tools was internationally syndicated advise columnist Anne Landers, who was the sister-in-law of an AMA board member, who provided the beloved doyen for decades with the worst of uncut AMA anti-chiropractic propaganda. Morris Fishbein used the weight of the AMA to influence Hollywood, radio and television as well from 1920 to 1950. From 1900 to 1986, in over 36,000 films and countless more TV and radio shows, chiropractic, the nation’s second largest healing art, was mentioned in only one movie, Come Back, Little Sheba, about an alcoholic MD wanna-be chiropractor that shamed the profession. Literary giants like H.L. Mencken laughed at the profession. No one dared credit it. Fishbein is said to have bragged that the success of his career-long vendetta to wipe out chiropractic came to fruition with Come Back, Little Sheba

            Today, chiropractic is bewildered by the head-scratching antics of the majority of its own associations and institutions. It is the only profession where its leaders push legislators and insurance companies to shrink its foot print and status, and relinquish privileges and reimbursements. Numerous chiropractic interests are working hand in glove with insurance carriers to stop chiropractors from taking x-rays—in a field based on seeing postures and fixing them, and documenting the correlation to the entire human condition. What would happen to this work if this were to occur? Chiropractic associations have done things such as show up two hours early to a meeting with the Defense Department to expand soldier and veteran chiropractic access, and “worked out” an agreement where soldiers and veterans would receive far less access to chiropractic care. Similar help has come for government insurance plans where allotted physical therapy visits number 75, while chiropractic visits are limited to 12. To the outside observer this head-scratching behavior to shoot a profession in its own foot might look like the medical “regulatory capture” that is only supposed to happen to an entire state or federal government agency with possibly tens of thousands of employees, not the associations of a competing health profession, with staffs numbering in the handfuls. Of course this could never happen, because a sovereign profession would never imagine that its competition could be so thoroughgoing. But it would be a coup for the record books if it ever did occur. And again, the chiropractic field has been so divided historically that this situation has been able to occur—which has also delayed the realization about brain-first healthcare and brain-first social welfare. 

            Our progress is like an expedition at Pompeii with a flashlight and a pick chipping through the walls of a palace, where each room is more wondrous than the room before. Each chamber tells us more about our life together. At each chamber we think there could be nothing more of interest, and so we do not test the next wall. We are now in the second to last chamber and we think this is it, these are the cards we’ve been dealt, nothing really makes sense, only God knows the answers. But we start to suspect maybe there’s another chamber, but as said in Ecclesiastes, “the wisdom of the poor man is despised.” The poor man has glimpsed the splendor of brain-first healthcare and brain-first social welfare on the other side, but no one will do anything but spit. No one will hear of the glory in wait four inches between our ears. The mightiest enemy of all—an enemy of enormity built on the backs of our very own fear—guards the wall. Jeffries’s epic poem could not be more epic.

            Our genius for chemistry and engineering is a gift to pursue what lies materially outside of ourselves. The poor man observes that thriving is a practice of always of reducing to essentials. The inner genius of our health needs no help, only to be uninterfered with. Balzac said, Nature heals while the physician amuses the patient. In the eyes of the poor man with spit on his face rests the end of the Left-Right war. 

The END

DAVID WALLS-KAUFMAN

Welcome to my BLOG.

Purchase the Book “Caesar Americus-One Party Rule”

If you would like to purchase the book, Caesar Americus–One Party Rule, you can purchase it at Amazon.

Love story. Comedy. Political satire. Brooding political thriller. Holistic polemic and anti-pharmaceutical screed. Hearty, well-thought-out challenge of both Left and Right. . . This is actually a funny, sassy, urban love story humorously sketched over Walls-Kaufman’s unique take on political gridlock and how two sides can find mutual resolution in – of all places! – the lessons of Holistic health and how it bathes and nourishes the cells of a body just as they might represent citizens in a society. These lessons the author artfully and convincingly extends into the fields of politics and the common law. And once he opens the box it ain’t as far-fetched as you might think. Walls-Kaufman pulls no punches with our own Twitter-world incivility, and he definitely has a unique view worth taking stock of. His perspective on how to be more civil to one another winds us down some dark and threatening turns as he reminds us what political turmoil has done to us in the past, even as his superlative dialogue and elegant character development lead the reader along the story of a presidential campaign. Walls-Kaufman has a brilliant sense of humor and irony. The reader easily enjoys the great deal of fun he is having at the expense of the current political class.

Purchase the Book “Overmorrow: Stories of Our Bright Future”

If you would like to purchase the book, Overmorrow:Stories of Our Bright Future, that has my story, “Family Buffalo Safari” in it and eleven other awesome sci-fi shorts you can purchase it at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Traumatic Versus Non-Traumatic Vaccine

By Dr. David Walls-Kaufman

THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE IS CURRENTLY BEING SHOPPED AND IS AVAILABLE FOR PUBLICATION, please handle with this in mind. The history and backstory on vaccines is compelling; feel free to share and quote from the extensive sources. Contact the author for further information or appearances.

DAVID


The dark side of vaccines has been all but expunged from the modern record by the $100 trillion the medical industrial complex has earned from drug-first and hospital-first healthcare since 1900. It doesn’t take a mathematician to see how easily billions can be peeled off by drug companies for the $280 million each year spread around Washington according to the Senate Office of Public Records, among 1,400 lobbyists, as compared with $30 million by Apple, Google, Facebook and Twitter combined, and $11 million by the NRA.

         Don’t forget the $22 billion each year for advertising, the highest in advertising, to twist the arms of the news media. Dr. Alan Levin, Adjunct Associate Professor of Immunology and Dermatology at the University of California, makes a profound statement that we all should take to heart: “Pharmaceutical companies, by enlisting the aid of influential academic physicians, have gained control of the practice of medicine in the United States. They now set the standards of practice by hiring investigators to perform studies which establish the efficacy of their products or impugn that of their competitors. . .” More than this, drug companies have controlled medical and nursing education since the 1920s. Drug company money has created a false reality in many respects that has virtually blotted out more natural concepts on healing, precisely because these methods work, and because these methods form a slippery slope away from drug dependency.

         Nothing threatens the medical industrial complex today. But one hundred years ago, the concept of chiropractic’s brain-first healthcare threatened it like no other, and was proportionately targeted to make the field the object of ridicule. Saul Alinsky noted the effectiveness of the nonstop ridicule of chiropractic and made use of the same technique in his famous Rules for Radicals. This little-known cultural backstory plays into why chiropractic today stands as one of the few front runners in telling the dark side of vaccines. The sensitivity drug manufacturers show for their vaccines shows up in how they have erected an aggressive protective scrimmage around them that has made frank discussions of vaccine damage as emotionally problematic as discussions of politics. The damage vaccines do to health are the centerpiece for drug company market share for the rest of this century, as we shall see. Skepticism from pro-vaxxers should admit that nothing is perfect, not even vaccines, and that every authority that drug companies assemble to discredit anti-vaxxers have financial ties directly or indirectly to manufacturers, and that the current practice of funding disclosure for presenters at scientific conferences only needed to be started because of these extensive compromising affiliations. Anti-vaxxers have no such trillion dollar commercial incentives.

         First off, we all love our doctors and nurses. But they mostly only know what they have been taught (by drug companies) in their schools, since drug companies have been the hand that rocks the cradle since the 1920s. Drugs don’t heal, they mask symptoms and problems. Drugs used to “cure” one problem cause 150 problems, according to the warning label. Mild OTC medications kill about 200,000 people a year. But vaccines are the holy grail of public faith in the MIC business model, damaging the health of tens of millions and serving as a sort of gateway drug for future market share.For this reason, the medical cartel has put all their eggs into emotionalizing and confusing this basket.

         To begin with, only four vaccines really work at all well historically, i.e. over 80%—rabies, smallpox, hepatitis and tetanus. All other vaccines are much less certain of conferring immunity for any length of time, which is generally two or three years, whereas natural immunity confers advantages for life. Why aren’t you dead from that same disease after your vaccine “wore off”? Two reasons: First, you have a brain and immune system that are powerfully immune capable ever from the scariest germs. Second, a 1963 study by the CDC shows that modern society had an improving baseline of health from nutrition, city cleanliness, and programs for poverty, that diminished collective susceptibility of the population to infectious disease so that vaccines were increasingly pointless. Drug companies omit this fact from their narrative.

         Additionally, chiropractic claims that the human body structure is like a musical instrument, and when this structure is precisely tuned, it opens a portal for directly de-stressing the brain and nervous system, the master system of the body, for a brain-first model of health. This makes vaccines all the more obsolete and ill-thought. The chiropractic perspective is that, without this improvement, individuals and societies stand at a level of “half health” at which our immune system and brain still are extremely effective against germs. For example, the most dangerous germ on the planet, Anthrax, kills only 42% of people exposed. Rabies—20%. Whom do these terrible diseases kill? —the unhealthy, those of us even below half health. To conquer all germs, we need to raise our health from half health to full health. We cannot do this without our brain. Look at the definitions of the words epidemic and pandemic: an epidemic claims between 1% to 3% of a population, and a pandemic claims over 3%. At full health rather than half health, we are naturally protected from everything.

         Besides the CDC 1963 study, and “half health” being the real problem of our era, let’s look at why vaccines are so traumatic in of themselves: The Sabin oral vaccine was completely safe and even more effective than injected vaccine, because it used the vehicle of natural exposure and did not traumatically “sneak attack” the immune system in bypassing all modes of immune radar. Similarly, the father of modern vaccines, Edward Jenner, in 1795, gave smallpox vaccine protection to milk maids by simply scratching their skin with the puss of the cowpox pustule. This is another perfectly safe, effective method because the brain and immune system are so exquisitely alert to every change that they easily respond to such prompts that operate through the pathway of normal immune radar. Another exposure method congruent with immune radar would be to puff material to introduce it to the nasopharyngeal immune array. All of these methods are far superior to shots, and have none of the permanent immune scarring side effects avoided by addressing the evolutionarily prepared channels. Some researchers have said these immune responses do not last as long, but this is not the real reason, and more short term immune responses are easily, and safely, offset by simply repeating these perfectly safe vaccine exposures.

         So why did the medical industrial complex in the late 19th century insist on the hypodermic stick and squirting compounds requiring mercury preservatives (Thimerosal) and extremely toxic aluminum adjuvant boosters that make shots last up to two years instead of only a month or two? The answer is that medicine earlier in the century legally defined itself as the healing art that diagnosed disease and broke the skin. This barred any other health specialty from using a scalpel or giving a shot. And nothing wows the public like the drama of vaccines and surgeries. Sticking hypodermics in arms is sexy, and affirms the lofty status of the MD, while scratching a hypodermic across the skin of a milkmaid is something any acupuncturist or mom could do. And so, for medical profit and ego, and space-age wow factor, the super-toxic hypo load is shot deep into an artery past the immune array so that it is pumped everywhere inside the body in two beats of the heart. And the level of mercury in a single vaccine for a child is 6x the level the FDA says is safe for a full-grown man.

         This unforeseen toxic atomic bomb launches the adverse immune chain reaction that lasts a lifetime, and sets the table for the “unexplained” explosion in chronic inflammation, such as allergies and asthma, that will require people buying far more drugs, products, tests and visits than if they did not have hyper-active immune function. The mercury and aluminum payloads together act 10x more toxic than either one alone. Our brain and immune system go into hyper-response, leaping away from the normal igG cascade, to the igE cascade, the emergency pathway, that recruits all of the immune system with the histamine response for extra clout. This igE response is what causes all allergies and asthma, including peanut and food allergies, that debilitate millions of children and adults annually, and which are all unknown in the unvaccinated population. This is also the suspected cause behind the onslaught of chronic inflammatory disease that has sprung on America since the 1980s. This explosion in diabetes and the entire family of autoimmune disorders, including more cancer, is not explained away by diet alone. This tidal wave of immune hypersensitivity has more than replaced infectious disease as the scourge of modern society. Without the highly toxic adjuvants in today’s vaccines, vaccines only last a few months. Our immune system does not like being artificially scrambled and throws off the harmful effects of the vaccine without them. It is the heavy metal poisons in the vaccine that make them last. It is these same poisons that cripple our immune system and open the door to this floodgate of awful consequences.

         The short life span of vaccines shocked early vaccine makers in the 1920s, and they quietly realized the charade they had played on the public respecting vaccine potency. They went about covertly searching for ways to give their shots more kick, which led them to the Faustian Bargain of aluminum adjuvants.

         Research at the University of Christ Church has shown that the 21% and 25% of the vaccinated population respectively suffer from asthma and allergies, with asthma killing about 4,000 people each year in America, while both conditions are unknown in the unvaccinated population. Peanut allergies and nut allergies only occur in the vaccinated population because peanut oil is a cheap liquid suspension for the vaccine load. The peanut oil (a fat) is harmless because the immune system is only concerned about foreign proteins, the basis of life. But if micro-grains of peanut protein leak past lab filtration into the oil in the shot, then these foreign proteins ignite the igE cascade and all the rest. Bee sting allergies are also examples of foreign protein sensitivities that only come from immune damage caused by vaccines. The igE cascade (think “E” for Error, and “G” for Good) is the abnormal pathway that is provocative, unbalanced, exhausting and stressful, moving us toward a life of measurably worse health, and more need for drugs and medical intervention. But perhaps one of the most horrifying results of vaccines is when a baby has an adverse response and exhibits the hair-raising “dying bird cry” that only comes from the particular convulsion of their nervous system to the ingredients in the payload.

         Critics of vaccines such as the human rights activist Barbara Loe Fisher have pointed to the anomaly in modern public health that seems to correspond to the suspicious rise in the vaccine schedule. These are the flood of autoimmune disease, diabetes, inflammation, poorer pain modulation, cancer, Alzheimer’s and dementia, chronic inflammatory conditions of the brain that are involved in ADHD and other learning disorders. This mysterious explosion in inflammatory disease corresponds with the vaccine era, and significant research has mapped out why traumatic vaccine leads to these conditions, and why non-traumatic vaccines would not. The burden of chronic metabolic disease can be seen to climb like a staircase each time the pediatrics community has responded to drug company pressure to raise the vaccine schedule, four times since the 1930s. In the 1950s, the recommended schedule was 5 to 10 vaccines. Since then, the drug manufacturers have prodded the American College of Pediatricians three times to increase the vaccine schedule. Today, children receive 48 doses of 14 vaccines by age six, and 69 doses of 16 vaccines by age 18. Given the 1963 CDC infectious disease report, what is the College’s argument for nearly quadrupling the vaccine schedule? Are there more diseases now than before? Are the old diseases more virulent? To date, none of the four vaccine makers has addressed these glaring incongruities, especially in lieu of the 1963 CDC report.

         Three stair-steps standout in the vaccine schedule. The first was 1981 when drug manufacturers received a key report on the central importance of vaccines for long term market share for drugs and medical procedures. Soon after this report, the American College of Pediatrics more than doubled the vaccine schedule. This led to the explosion in chronic inflammatory disease and learning disorders in American children, and more vaccine damage lawsuits. In 1986, the drug manufacturers went to the Reagan administration and cautioned that the barrage of vaccine damage lawsuits since 1981 were killing their profits to the extent that they might have to shutter the industry. This was probably an idle threat, with the pump already primed, but it worked. The government gave the vaccine makers near-complete indemnification, including a near-total blackout on the records in the newly formed special vaccine courts where court records would not be made public, unlike regular court. This begs the question, if vaccine damage is reasonable and proportionate, why would drug makers want court records and settlements buried?

         After indemnification and the creation of the special court, vaccines became so profitable that the drug companies turned again to the American College of Pediatrics, who doubled the vaccine schedule again. This quadrupling of the mercury-aluminum load in the life of American children corresponded to yet another louder outbreak in learning disabilities, chronic disease and nut allergies by 1992. But this time, the hands of American parents were tied by the special courts, and parents were operating in the dark to recognize what vaccines might have done, given the blacked out records.

         The outbreak was so obvious, and the rumbling became so dangerous, that the medical industrial complex lowered the amount of at least the mercury in vaccines. This softened the incidence of mercury-aluminum-related learning disabilities by about 30%, although health statistics show they have by no means disappeared in a disease that was first discovered in 1936 in an otherwise healthy boy from affluent parents who made sure he had received all of his vaccines.

         The MIC also seeded money to grow a frontline of Autism advocacy groups that claim to be searching for the cause of Autism while they raise funds for further research for drug cures for Autism. The MIC added to this circle fest a skirmish line of top experts in pediatrics, child psychology and vaccinology, all on generous payrolls as “consultants,” and as beneficiaries of grants and prizes, typically paid for by drug companies, who busily assure the trusting public that vaccines create absolutely no problems worthy of concern.

         One of the most telling chapters in the story of vaccines is organized medicine’s claim to have conquered polio in the 1950s. One insight on this oft-repeated epistle on heroic vaccine was given by Dr. Robert Mendelsohn, famed author of two international blockbuster best-sellers, “Confessions of a Medical Heretic,” and “Male-practice, How Doctors Manipulate Women.” At a Palmer College of Chiropractic faculty lunch in 1979, Mendelsohn explained that the disastrous live-virus Salk vaccine actually caused renewed Polio outbreaks when the natural course of the epidemic was in decline and removing the disease in the natural cycle. This second wave was so virulent, and so destructive of the vaccine myth, that the medical industrial complex huddled up with the Centers for Disease Control and talked the Center into changing the diagnostic parameters of Polio, to tighten them up, so that, overnight, only the most extreme case of Polio, Quaternary Polio, would be diagnosed as Polio, thereby slashing the polio numbers and hiding a scandal of the most monstrous proportions. (This sort of tampering with diagnostic parameters would seem unheard of by most Americans before similar tampering during Covid, but now seems believable.) Meanwhile, the far safer Sabin oral vaccine chugged along bolstering immunity, along with the natural forces of the elevation in collective human health. It should also be noted that chiropractic work in polio victims, even after paralysis, had set a new standard, as in the Gardella case, the six-year old girl who had been the national polio poster child. The book “Chiropractic First” retells the case, where the paralyzed girl, appearing in March of Dimes posters everywhere with her crutches, is pictured a year later walking happily hand in hand with the chiropractor that saved her.

         The record shows that drug companies have been cognizant of the problems with their vaccines since the 1970s and the complicating factors with America’s calorie-rich, nutrient-poor nutrition. Many doctors and experts inside the drug companies and research have been willing to talk and write about these terrible conflicts of interest and “regulatory capture” in healthcare that reach directly into the highest offices of public health. Dr. William Thomas, and a group of CDC whistleblower researchers who call themselves SPIDER, have offered numerous accounts of this runaway corruption. These stories get such infrequent coverage because the American media seems content to violate any ethics of public service by remaining as captured as federal and state regulatory agencies from the $22 billion in annual drug advertising. The media is America’s only lynchpin to the truth and hope that this reprehensible collusion could ever be revealed and the record set straight to pave the way to more rational models for national health. But it appears American media is as cold-hearted as are America’s four vaccine producers.

         The backstory on the doubling of the vaccine schedule in 1981 is telling: This surge in recommended vaccines came about because the manufacturers in the 1970s assembled a commission to study how to expand drug company sales into the next fifty years. The commission found a social pattern of crucial significance: if children were takers of drugs by age 21 then they tended to remain unquestioning, compliant drug takers for the rest of their lives. If they were unused to taking drugs by age 21 then they tended to be the most resistant to taking drugs for the rest of their lives. The commission said in no uncertain terms that vaccines were the gateway drug by which the drug companies could tool die American healthcare for generations. High vaccine schedules were as good as standing on an assembly line stamping out children who would be lifetime customers made by vaccine damage. And their own doting parents would offer them up on a silver platter to develop conditions from allergies to Autism needing medical intervention all the rest of their lives. Vaccines give drug companies the double bonus—billions for the vaccines, hundreds of billions to treat the carnage they make. The American Pediatric Association did the rest, turning the wealthiest nation on earth into a Frankenstein of drug users consuming pharmaceuticals on a level that can only be described as experimental. America by any measure is now a drug-gobbling machine that is not looking back, who’s top health agencies and experts, since Covid, show an unbroken pattern that has lain the entire nation into the lap of the medical industry. Top authorities are counting their money and looking the other way as this mugging is taking place. In 2019, a Wall Street report warned investors that the public showed an appalling lack of even basic knowledge about Covid and immune health, and that the blame for this lay squarely at the feet of the media and government oversight. The consequences economically of this ignorance, they advised, could be disastrous.

         History has forgotten how the family doctor’s opium-heavy pain killers in the early 20th century spawned America’s long dark journey into drug abuse. NSAIDS in the 1970s were supposed to be the non-opioid miracle to replace opioids, but then NASIDS brought serious harm. They were replaced by the new miracle painkillers, Vioxx and Celebrex, when the hailstorm of side effects chased NSAIDS off stage. The same deadly pattern occurred with Vioxx and Celebrex until new opioids and fentanyl were introduced as the saviors, which then shaped a full scale national massacre. As of 2016, American lifespan is going down for the first time in her history from drugs and the obesity that is a primary feature of chronic inflammatory disease. And don’t forget how Statins played across the headlines for a single day after they were finally deemed useless for preventing heart attacks in 2018. Four decades on the market, after being found “some of the most dangerous drugs ever produced” by in-house researchers at the FDA in 1986. Their recommendations to reject approval were ignored by the top echelon, called “revolvers” by drug company insiders. These highly prized specialists rotate from public to private sector and are bid on for their ability to coordinate regulatory capture. The drug companies to date have paid $250 million in fines for $250 billion in fentanyl profits. And yet, where vaccines are concerned, the force-feeding program remains Teflon, because drug company credibility remains untarnished on vaccines.

         Drug companies have paid handsomely, and worked ruthlessly, to keep Americans unskeptical about shots. They have made the issue as hot as a MAGA hat. Vaccines remain the center post of Drug-First Healthcare and the Germ Model of disease. But times are a changing. An April 2020 open letter from Robert Kennedy Jr to Dr. Sanjay Gupta at CNN calls out the network for it’s shilling for the four vaccine manufacturer’s annual scare campaign to boost flu shots by flat out lying about the numbers. Federal sources are cited to show how drug companies frighten consumers by inflating annual flu deaths from less than 100 to from 50K to 80K by counting them in with pneumonia deaths, a far more deadly disease that hits the elderly especially in hospitals and for which there is no effective vaccine. Multiple studies from top medical journals in virology and vaccine are referenced in the letter to show how flu vaccines are not only ineffective, but that also repeated immune trauma from vaccines actually permanently damages far superior natural immunity pathways so that multiple flu vaccinated individuals actually become more susceptible to all infectious agents. Kennedy cites the landmark 2004 Institute of Medicine conference on vaccine damage in which one presenter admitted how manufacturers saw rising consumer awareness posing the greatest threat to future vaccination efforts. This author attended the 2004 IOM vaccine conference, and saw strong data showing the vaccine link to Autism, yet The Washington Post claimed no such evidence, and ever since the erroneous Post article is referenced so frequently that the falsehood has become fact. A 2010 study published by Skowronek in PLos Medicine found that repeated vaccination “effectively blocks the more robust, complex, and cross-protective immunity afforded by prior [natural] infection.” A 2011 study published in Journal of Virology confirmed that regular seasonal flu vaccine undermines our ability to develop far superior natural immunity.

         Kennedy’s letter refers to depositions from top CDC researchers stating how the CDC pressured them to “destroy” facts that showed a link between vaccines and autism. Numerous official government studies and publishings are quoted, including the January 2018 Journal of the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, which found that individuals acquiring the flu vaccine spread more flu than unvaccinated individuals because they aerosolize six times as much virus. A January 2020 Pentagon Study found that flu shots increased individual’s susceptibility to corona virus by 36%. This Pentagon study joins other studies that find vaccines create highly undesirable “virus interference” where the immune system afterward shows significantly increased difficulty dealing with other viral attacks and respiratory conditions. A paper published in the Pediatric Infectious Disease Journal on healthy Australian children found that seasonal flu shots increase the risk of flu by 73% and doubled the risk of non-flu respiratory infections.

         The letter hit CNN for scaring the American public about measles and quotes the 1963 CDC review that said measles was eradicated by 1960 except for the few cases that still occur at a frequency on par with being struck by lightning, and that measles now occurs almost exclusively in malnourished children usually with intellectual disabilities. The letter cited multiple comprehensive federal investigations and whistleblower declarations that documented the corrupt relationship between the CDC’s Vaccine Branch and the four vaccine makers: Merck, Pfizer, Sanofi, and GSK. These include a 2000 report by the US Congress Government Oversight Committee, a 2009 report by the Federal HHS Inspector General, a 2014 letter by David Wright, Director of HHS Office of Research Integrity, and a 2011 letter to Carmen S. Villar, chief of staff for Tom Frieden, from the organization of CDC scientists calling itself SPIDER. Here, CDC researchers described in detail the level of corruption at the CDC. In 2014, CDC’s senior vaccine safety scientist, Dr. William Thompson, said in a series of depositions, and public and private statements, that his superiors in the Immunization Branch had “systematically ordered him and other researchers to destroy data and falsify study outcomes to hide CDC research linking vaccines to the exploding epidemic of childhood chronic diseases including autism.”

         The drug companies have created a hall of mirrors around their vaccines. We did not make their reputations, they did. The best “revolvers” in DC belong to the drug companies. They network between the universities and research labs, the Food & Drug Administration, the Centers for Disease Control, its Vaccine Branch, and even the US Congress Government Oversight Committee, the Health and Human Services Inspector General’s office, and the Office of Research Integrity for HHS. From these vantage points they hold down the entire frontier of vaccine force-feeding, and the media help the “bodies stay buried” seemingly without any thought to science, or the public fate, or the truth about how a healthy body works. Every indication is that drug companies have made generous use of their $100T in profits since 1900 to make public health their plaything, with the most egregious example being the vaccine imbroglio. In this ground, the drug czars have determined these bodies will stay buried.

The God Gun

by David Walls-Kaufman

A template of Innate Ethics has been a preoccupation of mine for decades, and I’m hoping to complete a book on them soon. The God Gun came from that idea, and blended with ideas of some sort of serious civil confrontation. All of which I feel is nullified by chiropractic answering the call on medical and social welfare spending, and therefore taxes.

David
The gun looked so toy-like that it seemed all the more sinister.

The Political Officer got up very slowly from behind his desk, staring at the heavy rifle case lain on his desk as if it contained the death of him. He came around with the same stiff edge of caution and dread, switching hands on his long red lacquer cigarette holder. He never took his eyes off the bulky plastic case that obviously held some sort of weapon. The Political Officer, Shirley Folk, had taken up the filthy habit of smoking again, brought on by the stress of the War that had gone on far longer than anyone anticipated. But the old stigma attached to the smoking habit now was mostly gone, since a few higher ups had come to be known to do it again.

            Shirley Folk stared down at the case the two soldiers had carried in. A plain plastic hardshell case. Surprisingly light weight.

            “Open it,” Folk directed.

            After a second’s hesitation, one of the Homeland Security officers unsnapped the chrome cleats. Deep embossed on the lid was the Octavian Arms logo. Just the sight of the logo stirred some animal dread in Shirley. There it was. What the entire upper echelon was talking about. Shirley almost doubted the rumors.

            The gun appeared made of flimsy military green plastic like a toy. Two elongated rectangular pieces with a crude sight array, a rifle stock and a pistol grip. The business end didn’t even have a hole for a bullet or projectile.

            The gun looked so toy-like that it seemed all the more sinister.

            “That’s it?” Folk curtly asked the two soldiers.

            “Yes, sir. That’s all he brought.” The DHS officer said, feeling stupid.

            Shirley held his cigarette holder in both hands. “Bring him in.”

            The DHS officer brought in a plain-looking man in a denim jacket and older jeans and a lovely new pair of Ferragamo loafers that were certainly rare to see these days. Shirley almost scowled. They were the only ones allowed to put on airs with their dress anymore. Their women could wear real fur coats.

            That’s okay. Their time will come.

            The man glanced around the room uncertain who was in charge. He realized it must be Shirley, beside the gun. Shirley noted how everyone in the room was on pins and needles, waiting on his lead. Gone were the days of loose joviality.

            “This is a Psyche-Pulse weapon?” Shirley asked him. The screens on his wrist and his pad winked on. He impulsed them into dormancy again.

            “Yes, Political Officer, it is.”

            “How did you get it?”

            “I was an engineer at Octavian Arms.”

            “Why did you steal it?”

            “Because I am loyal to our side.”

            Shirley’s eyes returned to the object.

            “You know it looks like a toy?”

            “I’m well aware of that, Mr. Folk. But it is the real McCoy.”

            Shirley touched the nib of his cigarette holder to his lips and took a careful, probative sip. “So—how does it shoot?”

            “It doesn’t shoot a projectile per se; it shoots a perfectly tuned electromagnetic signal.” The engineer watched the Political Officer digest this. “I’m told that the signal poses a simple question to the target.”

            Shirley leveled his gaze. “A question?”

            “Yes, sir. A question.”

            “—How does it do that?”

            “It is my understanding it is same as an old-time radio signal.” He hesitated; it seemed so queerly fantastic. “The signal is so perfectly calibrated to the amygdala as to make it past all other biological chatter. And the query is made.”

            Shirley pinched the nib tightly, staring.

            The Psyche-Pulse God Gun. Just too f-ing unreal.

            The next question opened to the dark behind an anonymous door. “And what does it ask the target brain?”

            The engineer hesitated. He cringed at answering out loud. You never knew what insulted these higher ups. “It—asks a moral question. Sir.” He had known this would be the toughest part of the sale.

            Shirley felt the dread again. This is what the intel implied, but never said. As if no one in Intelligence wanted to know the answer. Because how could the other side have this weapon if this were true? People in the Party had chuckled it off. But then, all the horrible disfiguring. The photos were quickly eliminated. Before they demoralized anyone. There was talk that the enemy had been first to make alien contact. This could be disastrous. It could end the war. If only our side had gotten there first. This weapon would stop the Fascists from waltzing into New York or Chicago or Seattle and setting up kangaroo courts for war crimes. Who could explain those injuries?

            Shirley sat on his desk beside the case. “You don’t seem to be all that confident in telling me precisely how this thing works.” 

            The engineer coughed into his fist. “Well, sir, Octavian keeps all departments separate. I worked on what looked like calibration. The most difficult part.”

            “How so? Why—would that be?”

            “Well, the difficulty in getting the full attention of the subconscious. In making it see that a decision must be made.” He knew this was hard to follow. And that doubt could not be far behind. “You see, the entire theory behind this weapon is that there is a universal right and wrong, Good and Evil, and it is in this context that the gun allegedly makes an inquiry past the individual’s preferences.”

            Shirley squinted confusedly. “But that’s bullshit. That can’t happen.”

            “I don’t believe it either, sir. I’m just reporting what is said.” No one interrupted, so he went on. “The target is made to ask themselves if they have led a worthy life, if the causes they support are moral—” He could see flame creep into Folk’s neck.

            Shirley waited for the part that had dropped off. “And?”

            The engineer screwed his head sideways. “The gun asks if the individual is not making the world a better place, then why not—get rid of themselves?”

            Shirley painfully let out a breath he’d held for a minute.

            Did that explain the wrenching disfigurements?

            “They get rid of themselves?”

            The photos had been only too vivid.

            “And—where does the bullet come out?”

            “I don’t want to be held responsible for wild war rumors, sir.”

            “Well, how do you test it?” Shirley demanded. “Do you use animal subjects? They don’t do anything evil.” Shirley’s mind pushed away the images.

            “They say the brain rebels against itself. I have no idea how to test it, Mr. Folk.”

            Shirley leaned over his desk, stonily uncomprehending. He looked around as if for his cigarette holder that was still clenched in his left fist. “Mr. Okonye, I’m sure you’ll be well compensated by stealing this little device. But I’m beginning to question your entire story here. How could this thing do what you say?”

            “There is an assumption on the other side about an internal moral construct. For example, if you remove politics from a situation it becomes clear what the moral thing to do is.” Okonye could see Folk needed more. “If we fail to live a healthy lifestyle then the body drives us toward breakdown and faster aging. Their claim is that all of that is accelerated somehow with the gun, sir. That’s all.”

            “I see. That’s all,” Folk repeated.

            He thought about what the other side said about moral relativism.

            The engineer shut up. He let the Political Officer rummage among the pieces for those he preferred. Folk sank into his desk chair. He looked over the gun case at his Captain by the door, wondering what he made of all this.

            The Captain said to Okonye, “But where does the power come from? It looks like the bodies are exploded.”

            “It comes from the person.” Okonye paused. “Our body uses fantastic amounts of energy to run itself. Something like—a person could light up New York for a year. I figured we could duplicate the weapon, and program it with our moral code, then we could tip the war back in our favor.” He realized suddenly what he had said.

            Shirley straightened himself deliberately. What reason did Okonye have for thinking they were not winning the war? Did it look that bad from the outside? Was it the rumors about this gun? Shirley started to wonder if he believed this entire story. “I just want to know how you managed to steal this.”

            “I snatched and grabbed it.”

            “So, they know you took it.”

            “Now they do.”

            “Any way it’s not the real thing? A plant?”

            The engineer shook his head. “They would’ve had to suspect me. And I’ve just never given them any shred of reason to.”

            “What is the power source?”

            The engineer made a sheepish face. “A 9 volt battery.”

            Shirley’s sneered. “A 9 volt battery? I’ve seen what this thing can do!”

            The engineer didn’t know how to respond.

            “Then how are you sure of any of this?”

            The engineer’s shoulders twitched. “Mr. Folk, I did the best I could.”

            Folk put up his hand to shut him up. He pulled out the stub of his cigarette and laid it in the heavy amber ashtray. “Mr. Okonye, have you tested it?”

            The engineer didn’t budge. He hadn’t dared.

            Folk regarded his two Homeland Security officers. “Go to the stockade. Round up some POWs and bring them in.”

            The Captain hesitated. “But, sir—”

            “Are you reconsidering my order for me?”

            “Well, sir, it’s just that, when the war ends—”

            “They used the weapons on us!”

            The Captain hung by the door.

            Folk exploded. “You can be my test subject, Mister!” The Captain nodded and the two soldiers hurried out. Folk stewed over their conduct. This War.


            Folk, his Captain, and Okonye waited. Folk stared at his platinum cigarette case in his hands. Okonye refused to lower his eyes and look suspicious. He wondered if he would have done this all over again had he the chance. Would the blasted thing even work? The last two years of the War, he had longed for this day to get back with his own side and steal something for them that would get him noticed. A cottage on the Hudson. Even just a car. Really, he had hoped for much more. Now, he felt you were better off never bringing yourself to their attention.

            They heard the approaching scrape of heavy chains and boots on the scarred wood floor. Into the office stepped five POWs, American GIs. All of them had bruises and cuts on their faces from going through it. One fellow’s eye was puckered fatty white with a rind of purple. Their skin and hair were dense with muck and stink. The smell of long unwash and thick adrenaline from uncertainty stabbed the room with vile putridity as they were forced in front of the desk.

            “Oh, ho-ho!” Shirley Folk laughed, covering his mouth against their smell. “Enjoying your restful stay, gentlemen?” He mocked them, but a part of him cringed at the conditions for these POWs that were never going home unless they lucked out on a prisoner swap across the DMZ. The worry hole crept into Shirley’s gut again of the wrong side winning, of holding people accountable for what they had done.

            What we’ve done. And they know us now.

            And now they had this weapon. 

            The American GIs looked around, gauging the situation. A Political Officer with full Party insignia and bars. The cigarette holder from Hogan’s Heroes and the flesh of the Party elite with well enough to eat every night.

            Shirley saw the soldiers spy the weird plastic gun. He also saw how the dingus fazed them a bit. He hitched up his hip and placed it on the corner of the desk. The name tag said “Bailey” barely legible under grime on the battle jacket of the captain. “I want you gentlemen to help me with something. If you cooperate, I can arrange for you to be separated from the other political prisoners and given special quarters.”

            Captain David Bailey had whispered to his men coming down the hall to stand up straight; don’t slump. Your last weapon was the look on your face. It was the last “fuck you” you could lay your hands on, after all they’d done.

            “You’ll have more to eat,” Folk added casually.

            “You can spare more roaches?” Bailey said.

            Bailey had thought every day in captivity about another captain in another war. Every day, they beat that guy. They crushed his hands and fingers so that he would never be able to hold a pen right for the rest of his life, and how the turncoat press working for these guys back in the day had mocked him for it, like they always mocked you, when he ran for political office. David Bailey always wondered what he would do if they gave him that same offer like that guy, to get out of the POW camp if he left his men, him an admiral’s kid. That other guy never folded. He gave them the finger every day. And they beat the shit out of him for it.

            Bailey had never known precisely what he would do or say. Since he figured his “countrymen” were most likely going to kill him anyway.

            “We’ll stick with our guys. We do think you should let us all go and end this stupid war you started.”

            “We didn’t start it. You did. You racists!”

            Folk wondered which way to go with this guy. He could have the useless piece of shit taken out and shot. “What are we fighting for? We’re countrymen!” He patted his hand casually on the plastic top of the dingus.

            Bailey shrugged, not looking at the gun. “Maybe because we won’t kneel?”

            Folk smiled as if he liked this guy. But he didn’t. Something in him could not stand it when they said something clever. “Do you know what this is?” Folk watched Bailey look at the weapon for the first time.

            Bailey got a quizzical look. “A God Gun?”

            “That’s right. I want to test it on your men.”

            Bailey noticed how the civilian in the Ferragamo’s stiffened at the idea of playing witness to something like this. “You want me to pick my own men?”

            “You’re afraid of it, then?”

            “No. I’m not afraid of it. Why would I be?”

            “So, you don’t know that much about it, do you?”

            Bailey half squinted at the Political Officer.

            Folk nodded. “What does it do? Genetically recognize you all?” Shirley stopped. That was a good idea. He saw Okonye snared by that idea too. That made more sense than the other thing. But then, how would they know if you were a traitor switching sides? And the other side also believed that they had scientific proof that ideological decisions, just like everything else, trickled down to DNA.

            Is that how this thing works?

            Creepiness crawled up and down Shirley’s spine. That must be it! That made more sense than there being a real God with real good and evil imprinted on the world. That crap was just to demoralize the enemy. Well, two could play at that game.

            “Pick out two to test it on.”

            “You think I’m going to help you?” Bailey said. “No matter what I do from here on, you’re swinging on your own noose for this one, pal.”

            Shirley felt his anger boil. He couldn’t stand it when they thought they were smarter than you. He snatched the weapon up and threatened the POWs with it, feeling ridiculous since he didn’t even believe the thing worked. The POWs looked at him in the same way, wondering what they should do. “What is it called?”

            “It’s called a Psych-2,” another POW said.

            Folk pointed at the door. “Let’s go outside.”

            The group reassembled in the parking lot. Shirley saw the houses down the block where people might be watching. Two sandbagged machine gun emplacements and razor wire atop the high fence guarded the headquarters. Three troop trucks stood in the lot. Shirley directed the men to head behind the troop trucks where no prying eyes could see. He didn’t even trust the men behind the sandbags. 

            “You POWs, stand against the wall.”

            Bailey and his men ranged along the wall.

            Shirley studied the gun, confusedly. “This is how I shoot it?” He’d never been to a basic training. He’d been meaning to learn ever since the election was suspended due to tampering. But they had been fighting ever since.

            “May I?” Okonye said. He made his way over, reaching for the safety.

            Shirley watched with keen interest as the switch clicked.

            “You’ve got it ready now.” Okonye stepped away.

            “This is the trigger?” Shirley directed the toy gun at the soldier on the end. The soldier stood in antique leg irons and manacles found in the basement. He looked at Bailey and thought of his wife and four kids in Indiana in case this went very wrong. From the first day he had feared leaving his kids without a dad. He thought of his oldest boy, Jacob Jr., not knowing for six months now where his father was, or whether he was even alive or dead, because these guys used everything on the hog but the squeal to mess with their enemy.

            “I miss you, Jake,” he said aloud. “I love you, son. Know that I woulda come back, if I could. I love you all. Rayna. Lester. Miller. Honey.”

            Shirley jerked at the trigger.

            The God Gun gave three indications that something had happened—the plastic trigger clicked, an orange light blinked, and it vibrated.

            The soldier stood, unharmed.

            Private Jacob Javitz heaved a huge sigh and shut his eyes. I’m still here. He felt inside for anything. He was okay except for his left knee jangling from fear.

            Shirley jerked the trigger again. Click, buzz, slow orange light. He rattled the end in disgust. “What the fuck? Look!” He squeezed the trigger again. “It is a toy! It’s a freakin’ toy or a plant for a stooge like you!” He said angrily to Okonye. He aimed at the next POW in line, who put up his hands. “Look! Look!” He jerked the trigger. Click. Buzz. Slow orange light. “Nothing! Fucking nothing happens!”

            Shirley laughed. He shook the toy worthlessly.

            “It ain’t shit! . . . It ain’t dick!” He pointed the dingus at Okonye’s feet, who put up his hands and took a step back. “Look at this stupid thing! Are you the stupidest asshole that ever lived?” Shirley shook the gun like an empty water pistol. He chuckled in relief that the weapon wasn’t real. “A 9 volt battery.” Maybe it doesn’t have a battery? He opened a slot on the pistol grip. It had a battery. 

            “Watch me kill myself!” he said.

            Shirley Folk brought up the business end to his jaw and squeezed the trigger.

            Everyone heard the cheap plastic Click!

            The ground bounced. A flash-corona of red-purple vapor replaced the top half of Shirley Folk’s body, knocking back the men around him. The explosion was muffled like a stick of dynamite in a safe. The black dress uniform had stretched and torn in wet, searing pieces around a trunk that had popped like a massive popcorn kernel. A hissing lump with legs slumped where a “man” had been.

            The “God Gun” hung from a pustulant hand.

Family Buffalo Safari

by David Walls-Kaufman

This story went into the “Overmorrow” sci-fi anthology in 2020. I developed it from chapter seven in “Robot, Archangel”, and liked it so much that I included it in the final version of the novel.

DAVID

            “Do you want to fly to dinner, Jason?”

            The boy couldn’t believe the luck. “Sure! Hell, yeah!”

            “Alright. Take it easy with the tough language,” Aras warned.

            “Where are we going? Can I pick?”

            Ginger came around the corner from the expansive, gallery-white living room with a deviant smirk on her mouth for her teenage son. “Why are you editing his language?” she said to Aras, her husband. She goosed her son’s bony ribs. He clinched to escape her thumb. “Let this growing boy cuss all he wants! Right?”

            Jason tittered at his mom’s patronizing. “Yeah.”

            “Don’t encourage ugly behavior,” Aras told his wife.

            “Oh, please. Screw ugly. Right, buddy?” She made to goose Jason again.

            “Yeah. I guess so.”

            “‘Ey! I’m on your side! Gen Fed, baby!”

            “So, where are we going?” Jason asked his father.

            Ginger wondered why she tried so hard with this kid. No matter what she did or said, he always seemed to look up to his father.

            “Luigi’s. It’s sunset. Sit outdoors.” Aras glanced invitingly at his wife. The roof deck had been one of their date spots since before Jason was born.

            “Can we leave after I finish my game?”

            Ginger hooked her arm over her son’s neck and smooched him on the cheek. “You bet. And don’t forget to wash up. You reek.”

            The family gathered at the lip of the living room over a clear evening rich with scarlet slashes in the sky. Jason had his learner’s permit, and leaned out awkwardly over the lip of the living room floor. “Wha-hoo!” Jason hollered as they dropped. He was copying verbatim the move his father used quite a bit. Aras, uneasy in the virtual passenger seat, said, “Alright. Not too fast. Not too much drop. . . . ”

            Ginger razzed her husband. “You hilarious prude!” Wasn’t she the one always trying to give Jason more slack?

            “Dad! You do this all the time!”

            “And I’ve been flying a lot longer.”

            “Dad. Tech won’t let anything happen, jeez.”

            “You want me to upchuck down your neck?”

            Jason giggled.

            The family flew out into the twilight, climbing unevenly back around the girth of the building toward the golden onion domes of Center City half a city away. Jason enjoyed the flight even more since he was the one doing it, and lowered them down to Luigi’s Tuscan where they got a stone table under the hanging lights.

            “So, Dad,” Jason said, “some of the kids are talking about there being a secret plan to wipe out the waste. Is that true?”

            Ginger grinned around a bite of pizza.

            “Uh. Who’s talking that up?” Aras asked.

            “There’s been talk like that for four hundred years,” Ginger said.

            “Some of the kids. Like Felix. He says he has a robot idea to do it and do the environmental clean up. He also says he has a way to glimpse food into our stomachs so we don’t have to eat any more. Isn’t that a cool idea?”

            Aras shook his head impatiently. “So guys, I have a surprise.”

            “That idea was dropped long ago because people enjoy eating,” Ginger said to her son. “Tell Felix I said he’s stupid.”

            Aras found it interesting that even school kids were thinking about the issue. But then, why wouldn’t they? “So—guys, we’re going on vacation.”

            “Yeah!” Jason barked. “Where to?”

            “Buffalo Safari,” Aras said.

            “Yeah, baby!” Jason crowed. “When are we leaving?”

            “I’m assuming this is okay with you?” Aras asked Ginger. Ginger could have glimpsed up any request he made for leave or for safari or anything. But if she ever did she would only have spoiled the surprise. “We’ll leave tonight, if it’s okay.”

            Ginger shrugged, touched by the effort. “Cool with me.”

            “Yeah! Buffalo Safari! Can I invite any of the guys?”

            The family rose up from Luigi’s and Jason omitted the dive since they had just finished eating. He could have had Tech buffer it but he didn’t want to because it might aggravate his dad. They soared west over the great featureless expanse of territory outside of the metropolis. Pittsburgh came up on the right. Chicago would be next. Ginger grew annoyed at how long the flight was taking since Jason could not fly as fast as his father was able. And the unevenness.

Chicago

            “Baby, let your dad or me take over,” she said to Jason.

            “He’s got it. He’s got it,” Aras responded gently. He gave her a look to be more patient. She rolled her eyes at him.

Finally, Aras told Jason to descend, into the massed twilight.

            Jason got better, but there was only unending dark below. “Are we there yet?” Ginger carped. Finally, Aras told Jason to descend, into the massed twilight. The grassy prairie came abruptly into focus like a threat, and they gently landed beside bundles of equipment that Tech had pre-stationed. Jason’s nose immediately caught the sharp, damp, woolly odor of the great herd nearby. He heard grunts and quiet squeaks of grass ripped up by blunt teeth. He smelled the loamy black earth. He ordered Tech to raise his retinal sensitivity. The herd was just thirty yards away! Aras, grinning ear to ear, hand-signaled Jason and Ginger to be sure to stay quiet. Tech would not let them be hurt, but it was so much more fun and raw to keep Tech to a minimum. “Oh, my God!” Ginger whispered the words to Aras. 

            Aras signaled them to follow. They tiptoed right into the massive disheveled creatures with towering shaggy humps. Jason saw their eyes in the infrared enabling. Buffalo safari was his new favorite thing. Smells and memories from the two other trips tumbled back, but they were knocked aside by the new sounds and sensations of being in with the herd. The Ngorongnoro was so cool—but bison. Their smell. The dust, the sweated mounds of wool—his Dad was the greatest.

            Jason made out fleet shapes of wolves! The herd had not sensed them yet. Jason jabbed his finger to show his father.

            Ginger felt a wave of fondness for Aras. She liked him trying this way. But recently, something had been gnawing at her. Everyone had always said they were crazy. But they were having Jason. They hadn’t cared about convention. They had felt in their gut that a child needed both parents, although that was not the belief widely held in their society. But this lurking question had been stalking. Now, next to the godlike primitiveness of these beasts, the emotion leaned out of hiding just enough. Milton Aras was hunky, he dressed well, he was relevant, he had the rarest thing in the world—a job that wasn’t fake. He was Deputy Chief of Security on his way to being Chief one day. The sinecure bureaucrats in a pointless bureaucracy looked up to him because he cared, he actually did things. . . . But, there it was. Ginger watched him grin at her for this crazy shared thrill. This was incredible, but he had been oblivious to her doubts, amazingly. She thought about how Tech scanned the minds of these beasts and etched out any realization about her and her family intruding on their space. It pushed their minds to keep them from stepping on one of them. Ginger waved to Aras flirtingly. She didn’t like that he was a stickler for the rules. She could have glimpsed up the Rules of the Great Wichita Game Preserve for herself, or Tech would just block her if she did something against the rules. But she didn’t give a rat’s ass. The reckless boredom for her marriage made her want to touch a buffalo. Boredom could do that; like a saline drip of grey poison. She reached up for the mane of the bull towering next to her, and pouted naughtily at her husband, who gawked at her. Her fingers disappeared into the stiff carpet of coarse hair that echoed the warmth of her skin. Ginger yanked down hard as if she intended to climb up and ride the thing. The brute swung his massive black head around, his weak eye trying to pierce the dark. His huge wet nostrils snuffled wet and cool against her knee, then he went back to foraging. Ginger marveled at the massed muscular energy pent up under the wall of hide.

            Aras thought, “What the hell!” Tech seemed to shave hairs in these encounters sometimes, as if to keep people on their toes. He and Jason shared a sober glance over how crazy mom could be. Ginger slapped the bull dismissively. Tech blocked the sensation, or made it into a horsefly, and the beast moved on. 

            Aras squatted Indian style right there among the unbreakable legs. He snickered over at Jason and Ginger at the craziness. Ginger lay all the way back on the grass, suddenly feeling every mile of the trip. Or maybe that internal release when the toxin from the boil pops out. She sensed her son and husband close. Her thoughts traveled back to this new feeling of finally realizing what had been in her mind. A shadow leaned over her. An enormous hoof came down beside her face. She touched it, the hard, cornified dermis. She edged off toward sleep, aware of the tiny islands of space carved out around herself, her son, and her man.

            Ginger started when Aras whispered in her ear to wake her.

            The herd was a mass beyond Jason, tails pricking.

            Aras indicated the canvas box tent he had already set up. Aras had Tech start the fire. A Dutch oven slowly cooked a stew of bacon and beans. Aras had let his family sleep while the problems from work nosed into his mind again. There really had been no good options with the paroles for four hundred years. Like the plan for letting them rot where they fell if they killed them all and let the immune system of the planet clear up the mess in it’s own time. The worry here was the concentrated release of toxins built up from coal smoke, dung smoke, dust and whatever was left in the soil from ancient times that would be re-introduced to the environment. Proles ate their rats and their rats ate them. All those billions. A nonstop cycle of concentrated toxicity for half a melenium. The prole revenge would be their own die-off. Aras unhooked the heavy pot from the iron cross rail, pushing away the thought. “Well, how was all that for starters?” he asked his wife and son, licking stew off his thumb.

            Jason shrugged, grinning noncommittally. “I’m going to ride one.”

            “Are you really, baby?” Ginger said, smiling.

            Ginger directed Tech to uncork the wine. It emerged with a crisp snap. “Let me ask you something,” Ginger asked Jason. She took a seat in a rickety camp chair. “Don’t you think that eating is fun? And you’d like to keep doing it rather than be injected with your pizza by Tech?”

            “Pizza was earlier, Mom,” Jason said. “This is stew. And it wasn’t my idea! And!—you can’t have Tech inject you with food!”

            Jason’s tone reminded Ginger of some old movie she couldn’t remember. She poured two glasses of wine to the top. Tech made the best damn wine. “Be sure and tell Felix I said he’s stupid.” Every bottle flawless. And it knew exactly what you loved. Her mouth watered. She took a hefty draught. The full flavor cocooned splendidly around her tongue. Bullseye. This was going to be a two bottle night. She wouldn’t finish both, but she was going to talk to Millie about what had come up, before it turned.

            “All the guys think it’s a good idea, Mom!”

            “God, you’re at that stupid age,” she said with tired affection.

            “We’re not stupid, Mom. You don’t have ideas!”

            “I know I don’t want to be injected with pizza.”

            “I told you that’s impossible!”

            Aras felt his mind towing him back to the slums. Why? How many millions of unmarked square miles did he have around him now? He watched Ginger refill her glass. Was she going to hit it hard tonight? What was going on with her? Should I look it up? He decided he would. . . . Oh. Oh, yeah? Ginger looked over guiltily at him. He pursed his lips at her and nodded in understanding. What did she expect? After sixteen years. Ginger frowned at him in remorse, and took another swig. Aras glimpsed in to see if she wanted a divorce. She didn’t.

            “You want to go for a walk?” he asked her gently.

            Jason knew something was up. “Are you guys going for sex?”

            “No. You little idiot,” Ginger snapped. “And don’t look!”

            “I’m not!” Jason didn’t want to look. He sensed already his father had blocked him, just in case. Tech read every thought in order to guard the State. “I’m fifteen!”

            “It’s parent stuff,” Aras assured him.

            “Are you guys getting a divorce?” Jason immediately regretted asking as soon as he let the question go. But he realized he never would have asked if he had thought it was true. He was just being catty. “Don’t have sex! Wolves can smell it!” He had no idea if this was true, but the worry occurred to him.

            Ginger and Aras walked out from the box tent. He laced his fingers inside her’s. He was surprised she was this far along with this idea. He felt deceived, and not. Her shape next to him felt strange, their shoes in the grass. The herd was an indeterminate distance away against the bottom of the night.

            “I don’t know why I felt it,” Ginger said absently. “It’s not anything you did.” 

            “Baby, by any measure—we have a great marriage,” he said. They walked on. “You might as well speak your mind,” Aras offered. “We’re about the only young married couple we know. Nobody’s going to help us.” An abrupt hill loomed ahead like a buffalo hump against the pricks of stars along the horizon. They headed toward it like a sacred relic from the Indians six centuries ago.

            Now, Ginger felt stupid. He is a good man! You can’t ask for better. “Are you looking?” she asked him, smiling shyly. Their boots met the rocky bottom of the hill. Lumps of grass mounted steeply to the top. A coyote popped up above and dashed toward the summit with ears pinned.

            “No. I’m waiting for you.” 

            Ginger had said nothing by the time they reached the top. Aras took both her hands while Ginger stared at the ground. “We got married for our son. He needs us.” He tried to find her eyes. Ginger would not look up. The breeze plucked a strand of hair over her face that she turned away from. “We change things up,” he said. “You know we do. If you’re bored then you know it’s only psychological. There’s no end to what we can do and how we can change things up. If you’re trapped it’s in your own head.” He shook her hands to let her know he meant it, that he was with her, that he would do whatever she needed. “If you want to take some time off, feel free. But you know this is a psychological inevitability that people run into with each other. And I don’t think you should wipe it. Keep it. It’s real. Don’t make it easy on yourself. That’s not living. People do it too much.” He rubbed his thumb over her fingers. “Why don’t you start your bronzing again? Get refreshed.”

Ginger did not make a sound as they looked off.

            They could see the dark of the herd from above. Ginger did not make a sound as they looked off. Once, she moved another strand of hair.

            Next morning, Jason opened his eyes to the sun blindingly gilding each grass blade as if they were made of metal. He stayed in his sleeping bag listening to his old man make breakfast. He smelled the eggs popping in the skillet. Jason stood and stretched and saw the herd far off. He asked Tech if there were some edible Indian fruit or plant and it showed him a few tiny strawberry-like things that the herd had missed. He added them to the pancakes and they tasted delightfully of licorice. 

            “I think Felix still likes Cassie,” Jason said while eating, “but she thinks she’s better than everybody else.”

            “Hey,” Ginger said. “Our family on both sides were editors and publishers of The New York Times. This world would never be what it is without the press. Remember that. Tell Cassie that. Your family is as important as her’s.”

            “I know. Cassie is conceited. Just because her family had three Chancellors.”

            “No way, baby. We made this world.”

            Aras watched his wife and son. “Ready to find the herd?”

            “I might go off on my own,” Jason said. “Can we hunt, Dad?”

            “Our permit covers it. You want some steaks?”

            “I might. I’ll have Tech handle the mess. But it might be cool. I could get like a buffalo skull, and a big ass buffalo robe!”

            Aras had hunted twice before. He remembered the time Jason saw the open water buffalo with fly-blown bowels, killed by a lion pride lazing nearby. Hunting was nasty business, but didn’t people need to know where their food came from? Civilization had been jolted when they learned food could not be made from inert materials. They had wanted not to kill so desperately. At least not animals. They had been sobered by the discovery that nothing ate if it didn’t kill something. Now, people didn’t care. Strange, how different ideas came and went.

            Jason glimpsed Tech and had himself lifted up. Ten feet off the ground he saw the dark cloud stretching to the horizon. Jason saw two bald eagles way up, slicing though invisible drafts. He went up to them. Tech, how many buffalo are in this herd? 

            This is the Wichita River Herd. It has 2,503,256 members in population.

            Jason did want to ride one.

            He swooped down and floated, looking for the biggest bull. He found an old warrior with a particularly thick, pitted cape. Jason came in tentatively and straddled the broad back just like a rodeo cowboy. A dull rimmed eye looked back and the black tongue stuck out. The bull stopped dead at the unknown sensation. Jason felt the muscles gird. The beast exploded. Tech read the neurological telegraphing and appropriately confined the muscle firing in real time to keep Jason safely aboard. Jason clenched deep into the cape and directed Tech to lay off 5% more. Jason felt himself losing it and Tech rescued him by instantly restricting the jump.

            “Whoa! Whoa!” Jason laughed crazily. “This is wild!” The bull jumped and whirled furiously, tossing his head and legs. Jason raised Tech control by 20% because his arms were suddenly turning to noodles.

            The other buffalo panicked away from the bull wondering what was the matter with him. They did not see Jason riding him because Tech actively wiped his image from their brains so they would not stampede.

He was off–upside down, high up. “Tech!” Up he went, in reverse. How could Tech let this happen?

            Then, suddenly, Jason felt under him the unchecked mania of the animal. He was off—upside down, high up. “Tech!” Up he went, in reverse. How could Tech have let this happen? “TECH!” Jason screamed, as he dropped. Flashing hooves slashed like combine blades. He bounced off the ground and one walloped him, sending him sideways. He tumbled in a ball, dust and grass in his teeth. His miraculous appearance romped the cows and bulls away from him. Jason could tell he was broken up. A dark wall of shaggy heads and bovine eyes enveloped him.

            “Oh, my God. Tech! Tech, get me out of here!”

            Nothing. No comment, no action.

            —I could die here!

            Jason couldn’t use his right arm. He leaned his weight and staggered up. The old warrior slashed menacingly with his horns, one of them broken like a beer bottle. “Tech! Tech! Please, somebody! Mom!” The old warrior lowed, slop falling from his black mouth. He lowered his rack and charged. Jason dove. The warrior missed, hooking his snout and yellow teeth in passing. He wheeled on Jason again. Jason limped away as best he could. Luckily, the wall of bison gave. But more were beyond them. Jason flailed and cried out, and the bison kept giving ground.

            What if they stop?

            “Yah! Yah! Let me out!”

            God. His arm had snapped in two places.

            “Fix my arm, Tech! . . . Tech! Please!

            The enormous bull followed him out of the herd, his mouth open to take Jason’s scent. Jason squeezed together all his strength to get away.

            Ginger and Aras ran from camp. The herd shouldered together curiously with the old warrior. Ginger grabbed her son around his slender shoulders, panicked.

            “Tech went out! It’s not helping me!”

            Aras grabbed his wife and son. “C’mon. Back up!” He hurried them ahead. “Tech! Tech! . . . We need help!”

            “It isn’t on?” Ginger said. “What’s wrong with it?”

            The hill stood forever two hundred yards off. The herd began trotting. They lowed in unison. The hard earth drummed from hooves. Aras made the bottom of the hill and pushed his little family ahead of him. The loose grass and earth gave, and Jason’s arm hung limp, and the herd of massive skulls closed in behind, led by the bull. Ginger didn’t want things to end this way. Aras had been so good. Aras pushed his family higher, hoping. “Tech! . . . Where the hell are you?!” The angry bull glared with a white-rimmed eye, unwilling to climb at first. Then he lunged, cape dropping dust, on his way up, eyes insane. He reached the top and slashed so fast that his horns disappeared. He tossed Aras, Ginger and Jason in the air one at a time like snatches of turf. Scattering the enemy, he turned and carefully descended the hill.

            Aras huddled over his battered family. Jason groaned, Ginger wept, her face and chest abraded from rocks. The Tech came back on an hour later. What the hell happened?  Tech never answered. The family stayed another two days, telling people back home what happened, testing the Tech. Ginger refused to let go of her men. Aras would go back to the camp for food. Finally, they flew down slowly from the hill, flying low over the ground in case of another failure. Aras wondered now if maybe the Security Council would let him do his investigation.


Chiropractic & Tai Chi & Public Speaking Engagements

Check Out My Professional Sites for Appointments, Classes & Bookings.

Please go to my websites for more information about my Chiropractic Practice in Capitol Hill, at 411 East Capitol St. SE, Washington DC 20003 and my Tai Chi Practice. I teach Yang Tai Chi in Capitol Hill. Also please contact me for Bookings and Speaking Engagements.

Robot, Archangel

Book One: Wazku Vanishes

by David Walls-Kaufman

         This was a short story submitted to Liberty Island and it was rejected because there wasn’t enough to it. I disagree. My vision of the story was to show a hopeless future where ordinary people had no chance. The LI editor suggested it became a larger story. At first I thought this was a dumb suggestion—then suddenly I imagined Robot Archangel and thought what a cool story it would be. The opening with Milton Aras was kept even though it was not part of the original short story.

DAVID

         Your worst enemy was your own nervous system.

                                                               —-George Orwell, 1984


         Milton Aras did not know how to respond. 

         How isn’t this Man’s Inhumanity to Man in the eyes of our God?

         Aras revolted instinctively.

         “Wait! Stop!” he yelled.

         Rage crept into his voice. “You say our god? Aren’t you machina? You aren’t even alive! What’s this talk of any god being your god?”

         The orange-red Aztec skull blazed silently.

         “You have no say in this! This is a fight between people!

         What do you do, Aras, when one bad animal torments others?

         A hot pain burbled in Aras’s gut.

         Say it, Aras, if we are so unkind!

         A sound welled up. A whistling, shaking, tearing roar. It quaked out of the very bonds of space and time around them. Somehow Aras knew this was the sound of every prayer ever uttered since the moment the first man became more than a beast and believed there was a god that might be spoken to for relief from wrong. Aras heard the team shouting and ducking under desks and chairs behind.

         But Aras knew all the technology in the world was no protection.

         They were coming for him.


         The sixty-year-old citizen stepped down from the dray cart into the rain and into the cold puddles in the empty road and felt the rain pellets drum across his hat and shoulders and fire off the canvas roof of the cart. The city sky had wept rust-smelling rain all day into evening. He walked up the broad stairs to the ornate bronze doors of the closed and dark government building, and turned. The cart driver snapped the reins, the lines sprinkled white rain drops in the streetlight. The brace of mules shook their long-eared heads and rattled the cart away over the cobbles into the dark.

         The citizen waved thanks. He did, indeed, feel helped by the driver’s mantra of prayers. The driver had said what he thought of this odd nighttime appointment beyond First Gate, and prayed for him, many times. The driver had asked:

         “Dost thou think thine art to see the one they call The Jolly Man?” 

         Did the driver speak in the old dialect because he was uncertain of Wazku’s fate? “I have never heard of a ‘Jolly Man’.”

         “It is said He is the one thy dost not wish to see!”

         “I have no trouble with the government.”

         “Yes. But who ever does?”

         “I am a simple pawner.”

         “I am a simple driver of mules!”

         They had been silent, again.

         “Let me see again.” The driver examined the papers more carefully under the next arc light, leaning his broad hat away from the light, droplets pelleting paper.

         “One cannot tell what trouble is or not,” the driver said again. He handed back the letter without looking at the citizen. “There is no trouble for you, citizen. And yet, I will pray for thee and thine family.” 

         The citizen entered the high gloom of the government building lobby. Under the grand geometric cornice sat a stocky guard with black hair at the reception cell. The citizen brought his damp-softened summons to the cell. The guard barely looked up. “Please?” said the citizen. The guard made no real sign of what the citizen should do.

         The citizen crept past toward the huge bank of elevators.

         “If thine stance with our officials was truly dour,” the driver had said, “then they would have come for you with The Robes.”

         So, how bad could it be?

         His finger trembled at the button. He glanced again at the office number. The 632nd floor. His chest hurt. His heart was very timid these years. The elevator whooshed down and compressed wind from the shaft pushed the dirty tails of his long coat. The grand bronze doors yawned. Inside, the citizen heard faint pleasant flute muzak. He had never before heard recorded music. Such delights!

         The elevator closed and whooshed up, and up. He felt it in his heart, rushing up to Heaven, or God, if God existed over these places.

         Ding. A gentle bell rang sweetly.

         The citizen stepped into a low lit empty corridor that peeled off down an endless hall in both directions. Room number 632-146. A wall plaque pointed right for even-numbered, left for odd. His breathing hurt more.

         He thought of his three-year old grandson, left with him and his wife after the death of their son after the poor lad was kicked to death by a horse.

         He walked and walked. Finally, a door like the rest. He knocked. No answer. He swallowed; he had no spit. Did this mean he had fulfilled his obligation? No. Surely, they would come for him. In the way the driver had said. He tried the nob. It turned. He let go, startled. His heart ached like misery in his chest, but he walked in.

         “Master Wazku?” a happy voice said from beyond an opaque screen. “Don’t stand on ceremony, dear sir. Enter, Master Wazku! Enter, by all means!”

         Beyond, the most handsome space for bureaucrats! Dormant visuals hung over the desks unmanned at this late hour. The citizen had never seen such wonders and thought they were jewels hanging by invisible wires in the air. Behind the desk on the right sat a fleshy man in an old-fashioned business suit and tie before a huge window overlooking the lake and the most incredible vista of the Tall City beyond the First Gate. The citizen had never even imagined the Tall City from this perspective. It was petrifying to be walking around up so high. It was so beautiful he thought he might cry! He knew of no one with any relatives who worked for the government or who lived beyond the First Gate. He had heard stories, but he could not believe he was actually here. The fleshy man at the desk was youngish with jet black hair and a black beard that offset uncanny white teeth as he smiled and indicated a chair for the citizen. White the shade of those teeth existed nowhere in the citizen’s world, not even in porcelain kitchen tiles in buildings from the ancient times. “Please, for cheer, Mr. Wazku! Be unfeared. I have little bad to tell you.”

         Again, the laughter, the hand, welcoming.

         The citizen crept forward, unable to look from the view.

         “Mr. Wazku. Why do you act like a man afraid?”

         “I am not afraid. I have nothing to fear.”

         He lied. The height was incredible. Would the building fall?

         “Oh, but we all have something to fear. Yes? It is a part of life. Yes?”

         “I am untroubled. I have done nothing wrong.”

         “Of course you haven’t! You are a good man! This, we know! But, when you say it like that, so suredly, then I know you have done something.”

         “I am a simple pawner.”

         “There. You see? A money-lender! This is trouble for you, yes?” 

         The citizen shook his head stubbornly. “I am a simple pawner, and my wife runs a four-table coffee shop, Monsieur.”

         The official’s smile changed to one of sharp comprehension. “I see in you a man who knows how to talk to a public official, oh, yes.”

         “Oh, no, I do not. I never wanted the pleasure.”

         “We are both men of God, and, oh, yes! You do know how!”

         “But, I have never been called up in my life. I am never trouble. I am a simple pawner who helps other Sons of God with small money problems.”

         “That is what your neighbors told you to say, yes?” The man grinned warmly, as if it was no problem; no big deal, everybody did it.

         “No, no. I was embarrassed; I spoke to no one. No one coached me how to talk because I did not want to be shunned, and my family.”

         The bureaucrat maybe did not believe him so much. “I think maybe you are lying to me. But—what does it matter? Who does not lie to the government, yes? Ha-ha.”

         “I would not lie to the government. I do not want the trouble.” The citizen held his hands as if to presume to lean them on the front of the desk, then thought better of it, and folded his hands in his lap.

         “Make yourself comfortable,” the official urged.

         The citizen stayed where he was.

         “Mr. Wazku, I am Alfred Wah, Official Sub-Altern at the Bureau of Theological & Civic Maintenance, at your service.” Manicured fingers politely touched his midriff. “And you are here in our Al Hariri Branch Office, First Gate.”

         The citizen was not overly bright. He had accepted this of himself since his early schooling when he decided to favor wrestling over book study. “Do you want me to take a poll of some kind, if you read it to me? I am always quite satisfied!”

         The official laughed louder. “Of course you are! You are a model citizen!”

         “I am grateful you think so. No record is of me complaining.”

         “Do you have any complaints at all, Mr. Wazku?”

         “No. I do not believe I do.”

         “How old are you, Mr. Wazku?”

         “In my sixties.”

         “Really? You look much older. You and I are close enough in age, actually. Look at me! I look much more vigorous! And you have no complaints with your whole life?”

         “No. Not really, no.”

         “How about with your wife?”

         Was this it? His wife? Had she done something? He bumped his glasses up his nose. He was in queue for a watery eye operation, and had been for four years. His wife had been more angry about it than he, but she never dared say anything outside the shop. “No, I am unangry with my wife. She seems to be a good person.”

         “’Seems’ to be, Mr. Wazku?” The smile, forgiving all.

         The official turned in his chair and smiled out the window at the vast space of the dark lake and the cityscape across. The night was the color of char, and the lake the color of ashes, and the buildings that ringed it rising up to three and seven hundred stories, with more buildings beyond, unending.

         “The truth is, Master Wazku, you are here not because of your conduct, but because of the conduct of your people five hundred years ago.” A visual leapt up, and he checked himself. “Yes, five hundred years ago.”

         Wazku flinched in fear from the abrupt appearance of the visual. He knew not what it was. “My ancestors did something wrong a long time ago?”

         “Yes. Sadly so.”

         “What did they do?”

         “He was a writer.”

         The citizen said nothing.

         “He wrote about political things. About the government.”

         “What is ‘politi—?”

         “Things to do with power and government.”

         “About the government five hundred years ago?”

         “Yes. But it does not matter. That was the beginning, you see? And he, your ancestor, was pointedly critical of everything, even the Religion of the State.”

         “What did he say?”

         The official shrugged. “He was uncomplimentary.” He pouted. He glanced up at the visual again, checking a detail. “Yep.” He frowned. He leaned back in his chair and joined his hands behind his head, twisting.

         “That is all you have for me?” Wazku thought how ironic all of this was. He remembered the summons coming in the pink envelope, and his wife, Indira, holding it up for him to see, the fear and surprise registering only in her eyes. How they carried it to the neighborhood scribe to have it read. “He was ‘uncomplimentary’?”

         The official pushed his mouth sideways. The Tech alerted him now to let him know that the citizen approached a Threat Level 3 from a Level 2. The official saw Wazku sense the danger and respond to bring his anger down.

         “What has that to do with me, sir? It was so long ago.”

         “Yes, but must we not deal with such things?”

         “But,” the citizen sighed, “I never even heard about him. And even you do not know much about him.”

         “His name was David Wazz-Koffu-man. He was a writer. Your name, you can see how it derived from him.” He sniffed. “You are his blood.”

         The citizen put the fingertips of both his hands together to plead the absurdity of this blot against him. “How would I know? All I know is what you tell me.”

         The Tech again alerted Mr. Wah to the Threat Level status change because Wazku not a minute before had hit a 2.68. Now he was at 2.2 headed to 2.4.

         “He encouraged others to resist what now is.”

         “And so, he wasn’t even successful?”

         “It is needed for Rightness & Instruction.”

         “Was he critical of The Religion? But my entire family have been faithfully of The Religion since our conversion long ago.”

         “Four hundred years ago.”

         “There. You see?”

         “But there it is! Thou ist not Original, ist thou?”

         The citizen smoothed his fingers over his lips like drawing them to a fine point. That was it. He had no answer.

         The official said, “I just came back from vacation with my family. We went to Lake Mire-gan. Do you know it up there, Mr. Wazku? So lovely. So unspoiled. Buildings only thirty or forty stories tall around the lake, you know. My family always has a good time. I too have a boy.” The official leaned down onto his elbows as he gazed with some vague emotion of sympathy at his guest.

         “Do you want to know what your sentence is?”

         “I do not want to know.”

         “See? You are a smart man; a brave man.”

         “Given my crime, the penalty surely is equal to it.”

         The official made a fingertip bell-tapping gesture. “See? You still have the defiance of the writer in you, so is it not the Will of God?” The official up-glimpsed to see that Wazku remained flatlined at Threat-Level 2. Not that it mattered. He was merely curious about the man’s psychology.

         “What of my family?”

         The official glanced up at the visual. “To be determined.”

         “Can I say goodbye?”

         “I’m sorry, not for this offense. They come for you now.”

         “The Robes?”

         The official nodded.

         Wazku sighed. He could not believe this would be his fate after a life lived such as his. The Robes! “Will we be punished, together?”

         “No. Not for this offense.”

         “They had less to do with this than I!”

         “People can be trusted to do stupid things if they do not periodically see another face the Portraiting.” The official raised up his thumbs and protruded his lips to make a faint popping bubble sound.

         The citizen felt hot weeping crawl up his throat as he thought of his grandson.

         “I know it is a sad thing with thine children.”

         “You cannot imagine how absurd; how cruel.”

         Wazku went up to a 3.

         Again, the upraised thumbs.

         “We are 25 billion, sir. It hardly makes a difference.”

         “It does to him.”

         A faint shrug. The gesture carried with it the extent of feeling by so many in this hard and strange world. 

         “Paradise is nigh, Master Wazku.”

Hemingway, Dos Passos and the Spanish Civil War

by David Walls-Kaufman

         The rise of Socialism in America has always fascinated me. Two key public figures typical of what many must have considered and gone through philosophically before and during the 1930s were Hemingway and Dos Passos, two good friends. Their friendship was damaged by the excesses of the Soviets during the Spanish Civil War and the murder of one of their good friends.

David

         Hemingway and I first crossed paths in 1918 as ambulance drivers in the Great War. I was an ambulance driver on the French side, and he was on his way to drive for the Italians fighting the Austrians. It took six weeks of training to learn how to operate all the levers and cranks in those old jalopies. I graduated Harvard cum Laude in 1916, and it was there that my politics became radicalized. I was the bastard son of a distant, rich New York corporate lawyer, and I felt then that the world could only be made fair for the poor through Communism.

         Hem and I met again when we were both expats in Paris. He arrived in the Latin Quarter with his bride, Hadley, eight years his senior, with a small pension from her family that would help a struggling writer. Hem was a strapping matinee-idol with unbelievably straight white teeth and confidence that would make life just too easy. His lack of appreciation for others was going to be hard for the rest of us. I was medium sized with owlish eyes and e.e. always said no one looked more “foreign” at Harvard than did I. 

         If you charmed or pushed your way into our clique of Paris writers and painters, you became aligned in drink and bullshit with James Joyce, Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Scott Fitzgerald, e.e. cummings, Sherwood Anderson, and others. I lived on my small trust even after my first novel One Man’s Initiation in 1920 made me one of the new voices in fiction. Hemingway never went to college, became a cub reporter on the best paper in the Americas, the Kansas City Star, then went to Italy to get in the fight. He promptly got himself blown up by an artillery shell that made him an Italian war hero, then landed in Paris with all that momentum of story to slay us all with enviable charm, and fit right in with a crowd that had also read just about every book ever written. Hem read everything to compensate for his lack of a college education. I did because people smarter than I said a lot worth hearing.

         “Dos, let’s sit at the Rotund again tomorrow and read to each other,” Hem said to me when he and Hadley and I parted ways at the Seine book stalls. I remember his smile that freezing day because he and I both liked to wear berets.

         “Passages from the Bible again?” I said. “Yes, let’s.”

         “I’ll write at The Dome until three then meet you.”

         “How’s yours going?”

         Hem browsed the Bible with an eye for titles to his work. He came up with great titles. But that’s why his titles tell you little about the story: The Sun Also Rises. A Farewell to Arms. For Whom the Bell Tolls. Across the River and Into the Trees. His titles bring lovely poetry, don’t they? Mine are more functional: USA, Three Soldiers, Manhattan Transfer. A lot of my early work was critical of free economics. Some of this was my father supporting me and my mother, but never acknowledging me, until the warmth opened up just before he died in 1917, as it often does in an outburst of emotional prescience from those with the shadow of the shadow on their faces.

         “I’ve got some of ‘My Old Man’ for you,” Hem told me excitedly one day. He held the pages, written in thick pencil. I remember them shivering in the breeze as we sat at the Lilas with two Pernod between us. “Did you bring something?”

         “I’ve got something.” I could see in Hem’s eyes the envy for me because I was already a published novelist.

         “From the novel?”

         “Actually an essay for a new Communist sheet.”

         “Oh, Dos . . . That’s great!” He grinned as if I was silly. “Paying you anything?” Again, the smile over the deuce. He knew those Red sheets didn’t pay anything.

         Hem and I got on so well partly from my plan to see the world by walking tour. Hem and Hadley loved to go along with me. I introduced him to Spain that way. I introduced him to Key West too, after my Florida walk in 1925 and I hopped a train for Key West that rolled over causeways on cerulean seas. Hadley and Hem came along on a walk through the Pyrenees ending in Andorra. Over 200 miles. A lot of that in the rain. Poor Hadley was miserable but uncomplaining, and Hem was sweetly upset for her discomfort. But that would change, as Hem loosened his hold on his appreciation of Hadley too.

         Hem’s journalism made him great at grilling you about your expertise. He’d grill you for hours about roses or mending a sail or Roulette. I could tell he feigned interest while really he didn’t give two shits about you. He’d grin at me, knowing I saw through him and how we both enjoyed the writer’s hunt—for information, for wonderful, simple stories kicked over like a clod of manure in the paddock of life. My interest in people was made by my father’s disinterest in me. I understood Hemingway, and so he and I never got into awful fights like he had with everyone else. Until Madrid that is, in 1936. You don’t need perfect friends. Christ, if your family isn’t perfect, why hold your friends to a higher standard?

         Everyone in Paris knew my politics. Communists were rare in the 1920s when money flowed like booze. The War made the United States the world’s money colossus. Europe was smashed, and Paris was so cheap we literally couldn’t afford to leave. Besides, we were busy pushing for the overhaul of language. We all felt it coming. We wanted to write like people spoke. The posing in writing created a huge emotional gap. Our desire to democratize language, the shock of the War, our dislocation as artists from our institutions—it echoed America throwing off England after the Revolution: Rejecting knee-breeches, the powdered wig, cutting our hair and shaking hands instead of bowing. All of us sought to capture a new immediacy and vitality in our writing. We knew one of us in Paris would get it.

         I tried to interest my friends in Communism. It’s an easy sell. “Don’t you want to help the poor?” And they saw it. But they also saw the great strides made for the poor with unions and rising wages naturally following competition to keep worthwhile employees.

         Attitudes didn’t change until the Great Depression. The explosion of poverty woke us up to the desperate need for Communism. People rushed to all us Communists, joining The Movement and infiltrating America and Europe with their new insight to bring fundamental change for the sake of the Have Nots.

         Every university campus jerked awake with students flocking to Socialist radicalism. They went from lazily absorbing the classics and brooding longingly over their self-involved poetry to galvanized youths throwing off frivolity to grasp the controls of political power and undermine every institution that had lulled us to sleep regarding equality for all.

         We saw it in the exciting election of a Socialist in Franklin Roosevelt. We winked at each other as we whispered stories about Roosevelt opening his Cabinet meetings with the warm salute of “Good morning, my fellow Socialists!” Communist Party USA members were appointed to prominent White House positions. And we knew what Stalin was doing blazing a trail of health and wealth for the impoverished of the Soviet Union.

         Hemingway would sit and grin stupidly as we talked around him. It was the only time I saw him look stupid and doubt himself on what to think. This was because the fibrous ball of his soul, his art, was rooted in the enduring American reverence of the strong individual conquering a better life. Hem writhed in hatred for Roosevelt and how his vast welfare programs gradually turned vital people and families into cowed dependents of a numb bureaucracy. 

         “How does making people obligated to handouts help them in the long run?” he bristled. “We all know what’s down that road. It’s flat-out bribery!” 

         “It’s only temporary,” I argued, “to give them a leg up.”

         It took me years to see past that one.

         In 1935, Hemingway weathered the terrible hurricane and made his way from Key West on his new fishing boat, the Pilar, to Matecumbe Key where a Roosevelt public works program had lured over 800 hundred war vets with their wives and children for a government paycheck. The government knew how high a wall of seawater this awful storm might throw and lifted not a finger to get them north. Was it because the vets had angered Roosevelt in marches on Washington demanding he make good on Woodrow Wilson’s pension promises to them? Hem told me how he drove up to Matecumbe and came across the hundreds of bodies bloated into great, mottled pigs of corpses face down or face up in the water, like balloons with hands. The flies and the stink. The pop of bodies. Hem was livid. He wept. Those vets, their families, men who sacrificed so much in our War.

         Hem roared at Roosevelt with the pen too. The article got a lot of attention from the Left, that thought this might be the chance to peel Hemingway from Capitalism. I couldn’t go so hard on Roosevelt since you can’t do that when you’re in camp with other Socialists. You see, it’s you and The Movement against the entire criminal world, the greedy, selfish nature of Man. The epochal struggle of history demands you can never weaken The Movement by criticizing a single member of it. Only our enemies can ever be made to look bad. If you don’t keep the story simple, stupid people might think we’re no better than anybody else.

         Seeing Hem roil, my Communist friends watered at the mouth to score Hemingway, the top author in the world. Antonio Gramsci was piecing together his ideas on how to take down the West from within by The Movement subsuming control of education, the arts and entertainment to maneuver behind the credibility of these institutions to grow our crops in their fields. Already, anti-Capitalist messages emerged from Hollywood, and anti-Capitalist is switched in the human mind to pro-Socialist without our having to say a word. That technical divide between Silent movies and the Talkies is a fairly good timeline for when we began growing the prejudices against wealth and letting human nature steer those emotions. Movies from the 1920s portray an American morality on poverty and social evolution that says “The most robust Freedom grows us faster and better past human want.” After our takeover, movie morality insinuated: “Greed and racism have made the United States the most despicable nation ever, and only fundamental transformation and punishment of the old thinking will achieve the best expression of our humanity.”

         I helped Stalin’s New York handler, Goros, study and ponder on Hemingway and other authors. Hem’s code name was “Argo.” I talked to them at length about ways to appeal to Argo’s personality and ego, and we all agreed Hem’s reaction to the hurricane might open a way to exploit his sympathy for the worker. I helped form the League of American Writers (a Communist front group), and then put them in contact with Hem, and this led to him writing a piece for New Masses about the Matecumbe Key vets, and this led to an invitation for Hem to speak on Spain at the convention in New York. Hem accepted all of these offers, even though New Masses had savaged him a few years before for not writing “proletarian literature” that we were making all the rage in literary circles.

         And, of course, as is ever the case with the superior preparation and coordination on the Left, with its vast Left-wing conspiracy, these Hemingway pieces were pre-arranged to unleash an army of imbedded Socialists to jump in ovation for Hemingway’s outstanding “conscience”, so to seduce the writer’s vanity, and demonstrate the built-in audience waiting for them if they will only say what we want them to.

         All of us artists, critics, writers, celebrities in the 1930s got the word from Moscow that we should exploit the explosion in support we received from the Depression. We were told by very smart people to talk as if our ownership of the arts was a fete a complis. “You’ll lose all your friends,” is what people were saying. Our psychology was blunt. It was the same entry fee for urban Democrat politics. We were the smart ones.

         I had been the early beneficiary of some of this. In the 1920s, the literary world was still actually liberal so that dissenting views like mine were published and appreciated. Each of my books showed “important” work: In Three Soldiers I attacked fighting for America by undermining the credibility of the American military brass. In Manhattan Transfer and my USA trilogy, I mocked an establishment built around material comforts. I had been out front on these Communist themes, and now arts and letters was catching up and respecting me for my pioneering.

         Hemingway, on the other hand, starting in the 1930s, began tasting the shitty end of the critical stick. His themes of frank individualism, his leisure travel to Europe and Africa and Key West for sport fishing, bullfighting, for safari bwana big game trophy hunting—left critics unstirred for the first time. His treatise on bullfighting, Death In the Afternoon, was all but ridiculed when only three years before, in 1929, they called A Farewell to Arms the greatest love story ever told. I hated to see it. I took no good from this. He was a genius. Hell, A Farewell to Arms knocked All Quiet On the Western Front finally off number one on the bestseller list.

         Hemingway had to at least take stock of the assets we had so quickly amassed on our side and how stingy we were with them. And what the hell—The Depression made us all sharply aware of the condition of poverty. Hoover hoped that the engines of commerce would rekindle and tow the country out of the ditch. It didn’t work. The vehicle was too terribly stuck. And Roosevelt rode in with a spectacular plan to prime the pump with Socialist money-throwing. But the shock and fear from The Crash exceeded even Roosevelt’s naivety. It wasn’t Roosevelt’s fault. This was a head blow like no other. The psychological impact of the first hit is always the worst. Roosevelt was at fault for his unwillingness to admit that Socialism’s above-down methodology had failed when by 1940 it still had not rekindled the engines. But intransigence is the essence of Socialism-Communism. The Depression was an economic coma, and a coma takes its own time to heal. No doctoring performs a miracle with it.

         And so, we had a lot to think about after the War, and then the Depression. Our walking tours made us all fall in love with Spain, Hemingway especially. The Spanish poor were the most noble in his eyes, and the Left in Spain was rapidly bringing hatred to a boil. The high color of poverty in Spain sharpened a picture for Hemingway just as he saw how his writing would have a built-in audience if he just gave more thought to the concerns of labor and the Left. I didn’t like how canned all of this was. Why weren’t we fair and open if we were so good for people? The very idea of militarizing enlightenment is antagonistic to the human soul, to our curiosity, to the role of our imagination. I saw how the Moscow workbook was used to trick people into believing our ideology was flawless. But why pretend such a thing? Because you think people are so stupid that this makes them feel safe? Because you want to trick them into thinking governance or life appear simpler than they are? Isn’t there something reliably innate in our draw to a thing of worth that affirms our revulsion for lies? Won’t the need for propaganda prove we’re off the mark? Enlightenment is the last thing that should require bullying, force, lies, cover-up and propaganda. If it isn’t, life isn’t worth trying.

         And then came the Nazis. The “Fascists,” repellent for encouraging division among races, rather than what I was doing which was division based on politics. And the chessboard was Spain. Just when Hem saw the Spanish poor as the best people in the world. And Hem also liked war, and a fight, and he loved feeling superior to other people maybe more than any of us do. To me, that’s the problem in so much of this. The word “Fascism” became a sort of incantation that gave ready access to that deep desire to think ourselves superior to others. Impossible-to-handle emotions crept up in short order all because Stalin feared Hitler for his rival designs on Europe. The Nazis were Socialists who hated Commies and had no illusions about who they were, and they had wiped out Stalin’s cells in Germany and would do the same everywhere else. Worse, the economic crash caused by Communism impeded Stalin’s military build-up, while the economic miracle Hitler brought Germany raised a nightmare for Stalin. And so, Stalin sent down marching orders for all of us to bully our home governments to hold off the Nazis to help him. It was detestable, for we were no longer patriots of our own countries. We were now patriots of World Communism, and we would sacrifice even our own homelands to protect Communism, which was Stalin. 

         We rallied as befit the threat to Stalin. Our verbiage and energy were so effective that the Nazi stigma lasts to this day, while the Communist monstrousness slips by with a hall pass. Hemingway, spoiling for a fight, spoiling for better reviews, became particularly spirited. This was when he talked to Goros, and Goros got him to agree to the lowest level of cooperation with us—to give us information, always the first step. In return we lured him with what Hemingway relished—inside dope, access to top political people and circles, where he could feel self-important and listened to. To his credit, Hemingway never completed the loop.

         In the meantime, political hatreds so poisoned Spain that it was clear the fighting would be odious. Because Franco knew what the sides were capable of, and if Spain fell over the cliff to the Left then genocide would ensue. Franco sat in the middle with Stalin and Hitler on either end of the board, each seeing the chance for a trial run with all sorts of guns and tanks. We knew Stalin had already murdered 20 million even though the New York Times wouldn’t print it. Their reporter, Walter Duranty, a Communist, had even won the Pulitzer for hiding the truth about the genocide in the Soviet Union. Hitler threatened the Jews, while we Socialists were well on our way against all who wanted free enterprise. Hitler was the bad guy, Stalin the good.

         Jose Robles and I were there in New York when Hemingway appeared with his new lover, and Communist, the red hot journalist Martha Gellhorn, to warn the world about the rise of the Nazi threat. “The democracies need to wake up to the Fascist threat!” His incongruous, squeaky voice grated in the cheap acoustics of the hall. “The Fascists will use Spain as a springboard to the rest of Europe!” 

         I didn’t look at Jose Robles standing next to me in the stage wings. I had already gone too far with him saying my piece about how Nazi Fascism hated all who opposed its agenda to gain German conquest over the world, while our Global Fascism hated all who opposed our agenda to gain Communist conquest over the world. Jose was my Spanish translator and fellow Communist. I had risked making this joke after two times when our eyes met and we both recognized in the other a doubt about a person or a slogan someone repeated.

         I remember searching for a sign in the way Jose’s hands clapped for Hemingway at the big speech to the North American Committee for Spain, a front group. I tried to decipher his mental state from his clapping, how hard he clapped. I wondered if Jose had said anything about my joke. Waiting in the wings for my turn to speak, I wondered. Me, one of the most valuable Communist assets in the United States.

         And then war opened in Spain.

         I went there, Hemingway went there, Gellhorn went there. All we Commies flocked to Spain to be part of it. Gramsci was daring to call out Stalin and say that his Socialist genocide in Russia was not the method Communists should use for conquest in the future because the genocide wasn’t working. Communism was failing, Gramsci said, because of Christianity. Communists needed to take over the Means of Education in countries to supplant the Christian values with Communist values and, as I said, grow our crops in their fields. Gramsci showed the way to make elementary schools and entertainment our beachheads as we hid ourselves there to pivot from battlefields and firing squads to focusing the minds of their children on our truth. This peaceful approach gave me hope, because this strategy said to me that we were going to win by peaceful means rather than our usual means of fostering political bigotry, leading to intimidation.

         Stalin talked about murdering Gramsci. But Gramsci was only talking these ideas at the time and his thinking mirrored the concerns of many who were afraid to speak out. And all of us in Spain waited on pins and needles. Remember, Stalin had called to Moscow the Swedish experts on race differences and Stalin listened intently to their findings. He asked them to stay in Moscow three days while he weighed their research that so fascinated Hitler. On the fourth day, Stalin announced his decision that Soviet-style Global Socialism would reject the race theories and that Global Socialists were superior to other people not by virtue of our race, but by virtue of our Marxist views. Acceptance of Marxism should determine who wins or loses, lives or dies, not race differences. All of us breathed a huge sigh of relief, because now we still had this clear distinction between us and Hitler’s Nazi Socialists. And Stalin, with his usual flourish, finalized his decision on race by executing all the Swedish experts whom he had invited to Moscow. 

         My orders from Moscow were for me to travel and write to raise American money for the war effort. I called on American Communists to join the “Lincoln Brigades” to go and fight in Spain. The name was another Soviet masterstroke. 

         The war in Spain set brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. Russian and German military advisors rushed in. Stalin’s atrocities from the Ukraine surfaced in Spanish towns and cities with the wholesale slaughter of prisoners even after they surrendered. So much for old fashioned chivalry and love of countrymen. As if they weren’t defenseless countrymen and children of God at all, but dried weeds to be scythed and burned from a field. But that’s what “class warfare” looks like. Wasn’t “Capitalism” the goiter Marx told us must be burned from the human corpus?

         Our genocide was soon answered in kind by Franco. Franco was militarily brilliant, and desperate to stop us, and the war didn’t go well for our side. In Madrid and Barcelona, I saw the Soviet NKVD start rooting out the “wreckers”, “traitors” and “spoilers” who were causing our side to lose. In my travels, I saw the Soviets begin using techniques that pinched our troops between two forces where maybe the most ugly might very well be the ones at their back. This, in the Soviet mind, would cow civilian resistance. Our terror gave rise to what the other side called a “fifth column,” where civilians kept their true feelings in deep check to keep from being swept up in the Socialist cyclone of salt and burn. Soon enough, what emerged was that the war machines built by fifteen years of Soviet purges and Socialist Five-Year Plans were plainly inferior to the German. And in outrage, the Soviets kept rounding up the little people.

         A sack of disgust came up in my innards, while I saw my old friend Hemingway falling more into admiration for the Soviet no-nonsense. Maybe he could detect a difference in the two Fascisms. I think he was smitten by raw Russian pugilism on the battlefield and behind it.

         “The Soviet’s are the only ones who can beat Hitler!” he roared at an English journalist innocently repeating arguments from back home on staying out of the war. “It’s the Fascists, goddamnit! We have to beat Fascism!”

         “Fascism, fascism, fascism,” I said. “It’s all I ever hear.”

         I left Spain to raise more money. When I returned to Valencia, Jose had vanished.

         I knew the Soviets had picked him up a couple times to talk to him. His face was pretty beat up after the last. But why did they suspect Jose of anything? Back in Madrid, I made demands after Jose at The Chicote, the bar-central for The Movement:

         “Where’s Jose? Who last saw him?”

         You know something’s wrong when, each time, you get a different answer. The sinking light in the eyes. The withdrawal of the pupils. Finally, I got this: 

         “You should quit asking, Dos.” 

         I got this point-blank from a world famous lady journalist.

         “What do you mean I should quit?” I was amazed; Robles was a close friend to us all and a loyal Communist.

         “You should just quit snooping around about Jose,” she repeated. Her pupils didn’t even budge. As if Robles’s life had been only a shadow.

         “It’s not important to you when one of our friends just disappears?” I challenged her.

         “The Cause is more important, John.”

         “He’s part of The Cause!”

         Her lips tensed into a frown. She gave me a shrug. “Jose came under suspicion, Dos. They brought him in a couple times for questioning.”

         “Suspicion of what? Jose’s as solid as any of us!”

         Again, that arrogant insinuation with the mouth. Again, as if a life is a shadow.

         “Look. This is shit. Where’s Jose? Everybody in this goddamn bar, everybody in Madrid, will vouch for Jose! He’s solid. . . . Is he here? Is he in Valencia? Who has any proof that he did anything, and when can I talk to him?”

         She looked around uneasily. “Don’t make a scene!” She bumped her arm into mine like this was a performance. The bar was packed as usual and rife with cigarette and pipe smoke.

         “I don’t give a damn who’s watching!” I glared around at the crowd. From the glances all around I knew I was not alone in my fear about what happened to Jose. Those of us who had been around knew what could happen. “Is he here? Is he in Valencia?” Everyone with whom I made eye contact did not look down because they seemed to be staring at something other than real life. “Do the Russians have him in the basement?” The basement was the headquarters of the NKVD. I looked past my lady friend because she was obviously choosing to lie for them. “What if it was one of us? Do we want to be so easily forgotten?” 

         The only thing that moved was the cigarette smoke.

         I left the Chicote and strode up the street to the Hotel Florida where we smiled all year about how the Russians ran their political terror operations from the basement. It had all been very hush-hush and “politically” exciting knowing that Russian friends we drank with, and that gave Hem caviar and vodka, were going the distance for the advancement of civilization. I was too angry to be afraid. They had pinched a good man, twice, maybe three times. It wasn’t Robles’s fault the war was going badly. Who were these Stalinist fucks to steal the authority from thin air to snatch a man off the street or out of a bar and play games with his life and limb?

         “Is Orlov here?” I asked the NKVD soldier who cracked the rear door. Alexander Orlov was the Madrid Station Chief who was chummy with Hem.

         “No,” he lied in heavy accent. “He is not in.”

         “Tell him John Dos Passos wants to talk to him again.” I had already spoken with Orlov about Jose. Now, I knew he’d probably lied to me.

         The soldier fumbled a shrug and shake that emphatically promised nothing.

         “Is Jose Robles in there?” I pointed within. He gave me a bullshit half-shrug and upward eye tilt as he faked going through the Rolodex of people brought into our torture rooms. “You’ve questioned him, though, right?”

         “No. No. No one by that name coming in.” 

         “I know you questioned him twice already. Right? You’ve questioned him?” I spoke accusingly to make the leap over the wall of his bad English and bullshit. He kept faking me off, and so I left angrily. I wanted to think, so I headed back to my pension and sat on the bed, my khaki uniform shirt soaked with sweat. The army-style shirt served rugged double duty in the field, and under a tweed suit jacket for speeches in front of gawking intellectuals who love anything wrapped in English tweed. My face and chest howled in damp heat as I thought of these bastards stonewalling me like I’d never done anything for them and their cause.

         A polite knock arrived on the foot-thick oak of my door. “It’s open.”

         Martha Gellhorn stepped in meek and mild with Arturo the owner of the Toledo bar. They were stuffed with empathy for my feelings for our missing friend.

         “We all know how you feel, Dos,” Martha whined, hand wringing. She even sidled up her sex appeal by slipping onto the flouncy mattress next to me. She set both her hands on my hairy right wrist. I watched our wrists and forearms together under the soft reach of my bedside lamp, our shoes on the rag rug on the floor. “Sometimes people lose their way. They break ranks and turn on the side of right.”

         “You and I both know how these people do things, Martha.” We knew, unlike Hem, because we’d been around. I knew Jose was no traitor because I had expressed my own doubts point blank and his eyes remained sympathetic yet rock steady. “They rounded him up a few times, and we all know the Russians are over-cautious, over-zealous. They—talk to a lot of people.” I chose “talk” instead of a more impolitic verb. “This is all breathlessly fun and exciting, the world of spies. But now its time to join ranks and get our friend back.”

         For some unfathomable reason, Gellhorn hated this idea. “We can’t do that, John. This is war. We’re fighting for something important!” Martha’s blue eyes urged me to see. Arturo was right there with her, but rather more understanding with me. 

         “Why does our fight mean we give up our friend, Martha?”

         “We can’t question—”

         “If we can’t question, is it worth serving?”

         Martha slapped her hands angrily onto her meaty white knees. She was unwilling to even consider my point. She puffed out any more arguments she was going to waste on me, stood up, patted me patronizingly on my shoulder and strode to the door. She was pissed the old honey pot sex ruse hadn’t softened me. But I knew the game. That’s why we so badly wanted Hollywood, and celebrities. “We’ll leave you to recompose yourself, John. Make sure you see the larger picture, and quit making everybody upset.” Arturo crept behind her and lightly brought to the brass latch in the door.

         I got up and swung toward the tall window, and suddenly thought of Hem. He hated the Fascists and wasn’t a Communist and this stuff with Jose’s disappearance had to drive him crazy too. Together we had star power that the Madrid and Valencia NKVD and no one else on the Left could stand up to. I rushed up the Paseo Del Prado to the Palace Hotel where Hem held court in his double-room suite paid for by his North American Newspaper Alliance expense account. The usual round-the-clock gang filled the suite with talk and cigarette smoke. The “gang” consisted of international journalists, visiting celebrities, and officers from the Brigades. On the antique console table stood the bottled goods and the huge canned ham with the top pried up with ragged edges so that anyone passing could use a field knife to cut a big slice and stick it between bread.

         “Hem’s in Barcelona,” Walter Duranty told me. He had just arrived and looked a little out of it as he held a bottle of Hem’s Jim Beam for himself. “Martha just left to drive all night to catch him there.”

         I was annoyed. I wondered if Duranty would make his New York Times 1932 Pulitzer-winner influence of any help. I quickly caught him up on the story. At first he looked stricken and concerned, but then when I put Jose last in the Russian’s hands, his feelings congealed. He wanted no part of this. . . . Duranty, hero of the little man.

         “Jose could be down in that basement right now, Walt,” I said.

         “This shit happens.” The bottom of the bottle flashed coldly as he tilted it up.

         I returned to my room. During the night I started to fear if our old friend was even still alive. In the morning I was making a plate of bread and cheese when one of the old waiters we all knew from the Chicote leaned in at the door and jerked his head for me to come along outside.

         “It’s already over,” he said regretfully. He removed his smudged wire spectacles and wiped them with the end of his necktie, one side of the lens at a time. “I hear he disappeared for good over a week ago.”

         The news was so abrupt, and he was so casual, I wanted to choke him. “On whose orders?”

         The slouched shoulders lifted high, begging off. “They took him in four times. They had—” He didn’t want to say what they did. “They say they began to fear he knew too much of their tactics. Maybe he was too upset to remain a good comrade.” He shrugged meekly and looked off through his half-smudged lenses up the street. Not with paranoia, but in the way of an elderly boulevardier. “So, they—”

         “When? When did this happen?”

         He shook his sad face. “I haven’t seen him since ten days ago. I heard things right around that time.” He appraised me all over my face with deep sympathy. “I’m sorry, Comrade. He was a good comrade. With so many friends it shouldn’t happen.”

         “But why Jose? Did someone denounce him?”

         “No one denounced him. Because they cover it up, it must have been for nothing, yes? Which is worse.” He lifted his fingertips as if wanting to brush my sleeve, but he left the gesture upright like a flag of sad futility over the whole affair. “I’m sorry, Comrade.” He shrugged goodbye and made his way back toward the Chicote and I knew he would stay below the Gran Via to avoid the sniper fire. The Chicote would be crowded with soldiers and journalists at this hour. And they maybe would question where he had gone off to. He didn’t want to get himself denounced.

         I got no reply when I cabled Communist friends in New York and Paris exposing how I was being obstructed and lied to. I wanted at least to claim Jose’s body for his family. Orlov was avoiding me and so I knocked on the NKVD door to make a nuisance. Orlov finally talked with me in the door, blocking the way. He claimed his men never saw Jose after they questioned him the one time a month ago. He said no one denounced him and Jose did nothing wrong that he knew of. The usually friendly NKVD officer didn’t smile at me flatteringly now the way he did with us literary lights. His grey eyes were petulant, impatient, resenting having to hold my hand over this stupid political rumor.

         Two days later, Hem was back and took me aside at a public conference the Russians were throwing. His wide, handsome face held indulgent irritation for my meddling. He averted his eyes a lot as we walked for privacy to the Plaza Mayor which was filled with tents for the Brigades. Hemingway closed his eyes and squinted with acute regret, though I sensed his feelings were not so much for our friend.

         “Are you a coward, Dos?” he said, palm open. We had stopped away from the smoky cook fires. Around us, we could make out the rubble and holes punched in ancient buildings from artillery. “You know these guys! They have to protect us!”

         “How does what they did to Jose protect us?”

         He squinted again, not wanting to hear it. “Come on. We’ve been in two wars, you and I. You know what we’ve seen. This is the way strong leadership is. We have to be tough!”

         “Hem. They don’t give a shit about civil liberties!”

         “They’re the only ones helping win this war! They’re the only ones who can beat Hitler!”

         “And is this what we’re left with after Hitler?”

         Pebbles crunched as Hem spun on his foot like a man shot, trying not to hear me come out against the Party. “Dos. Come on. We can’t say stuff like that.”

         “We’re all better than this. Our loyalty deserves more than this. We both know what’s been going on, and we didn’t say anything. We kept our mouths shut for the important work part, and we kept hoping things would get better. But they’re getting worse. These people fool you with chants about helping the poor. But I’ve been to Russia. They aren’t helping the poor. And if they go this long showing no basic affection for giving the benefit of the doubt, for plain decency—then what is this all for?”

         Earnest listened, and heard. “It’s war, Dos. And if you turn your back on this—every critic in New York will lay waste to you. You’ll lose all your friends! How are you going to make a living as a writer?”

         “I don’t think war ever stops for some people,” I said. And, yes. Maybe we were headed into another Dark Age when artists could only portray what The Religion let them.

         “What if we were in Germany having this discussion, Hem? Would you be telling me to shut up and just keep helping?”

         “It’s not the same thing, Dos. Please. Please see it.”

         “Frankly, I don’t. And I’m disappointed you don’t.”

         We stood in the sandy lane of the park soaking in the brutal effort of each of us trying to make the other see. I fixed on trying to catch his gaze, desperate to win his talent and name so that we could denounce this garbage for what they were. All the years hiking trails, Key West, showing each other the world, flooded back. I could see his heart was pinned by the camaraderie in the violence that men and women can sometimes find a rationalization for, and become addicted to. And, he knew the easy glory and fame they had ingeniously stockpiled to bribe whomsoever stood silently by their sexy new take on Man’s Inhumanity to Man.

         A horn raked my insides thinking that Hem might stick.

         I tried a last time. “I’ve been piecing it together for awhile: They introduce the Good by claiming to be against the death penalty and poverty; but you find in time they are simply for using the death penalty on only one crime—challenging them for political power; and they support poverty so long as it’s for anybody and everybody but themselves. This is too much, Hem. It is so big and damnable that it defies seeing when so many ordinary people don’t know it’s behind them.”

         Hem gave me a clever, cold look for a very long awhile, then said:

         “Don’t be such a cry baby, Dos.”

         When I walked out of the park he called after me: 

         “They’ll hate you, Dos. You’ll never publish another word.” The last thing he said was, “I can already read the reviews on your book! . . . You want to hear?”

         I packed up my room, my typewriter, my socks, a sandwich, and left Madrid. I hitched rides to our lines where I knew of another writer-thinker I wanted to compare notes with, named George Orwell. Orwell, loyal to the Socialist ideal for a long time, was now having a tough time himself as his own group was being accused of being traitors by the NKVD. The charge was based solely on a power squabble. Yet Orwell and his wife were now hiding out. Reluctantly, I parted ways with him, and the two of us joined in a fight to expose a threat that always lurks when people refuse to question. Thankfully, Spain won its war over the Left, probably preventing the bloodbath for a million Spaniards, yet somehow putting the war forever in the column of misdeeds until what prevails is a more objective take on Twentieth Century history. I will know that day has come when I see genocide by the Left count for something, when Fascism is Fascism, when Stalin and Mao are history’s worst villains, with Adolf Hitler third or fourth behind Genghis Khan, or maybe even fifth, behind the Tai Ping Rebellion. Orwell went on to write classics on the monolith. Regrettably for us all, his talent blinked out just after 1984 was published. 

         Hemingway feared for his reputation when in the 1950s America briefly woke up to the takeover, and the FBI and J. Edgar Hoover uncovered the extensive effort to rewrite American education and entertainment, and American scientists thinking it was a good thing to give Stalin the bomb. Hem lost his beloved farm in Cuba to Castro in 1959, and didn’t trust them enough to stick around even after all he’d done for them.

         Publishing changed more each year as I heard the voice of modern society fall in synch with too-familiar slogans. The new moral message could be read like the map of a losing war by anyone who knew what to look for. The movies went from framing universal truths to framing tired political truths. Traditional America was now “courageously” depicted as the demon. The new “hero” always exposed Old America to The New York Times, and together they breathlessly exposed the “hate and hypocrisy” to the hippies who were unwittingly helping the gigantic reptile egg of a new, political One Percent birth from America’s own ass.

         To me, it was humanity lifting the revolver to its own brain. But, in this case, the patient never dies. They wake up and see what they’ve let their unquestioning do. Each day I lived after Spain, I moved more to the Republican Party and the side that knew how to evaluate freedom until one day when the patient woke up again.

Page 1 of 2

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén