Continue reading »]]> The big story this week has been the “revelation”, brought to the public’s attention by whistleblower extraordinaire and former CIA contractor Robert Snowden, that the NSA is using highly advanced computer programs to spy on millions of Americans.

Now, this probably came as shocking news to anyone who’s been living in a cave or, I don’t know, been in a coma for the past twenty years or so, but for many of us it’s just another in a long string of updates on how the government has invaded our privacy. Still, it’s all anyone can talk about lately – well, that and Snowden’s pole dancing Hawaiian girlfriend (because, really, who wouldn’t be interested in a pole dancing Hawaiian girlfriend).

In light of this groundbreaking story, I have compiled my own trove of secret information, gleaned from years of contacts with various whistleblowers, that I would like to unleash on the world right here, right now. So prepare yourself for some earth shaking stories that will surely be among the top items on all of the major news networks for the next few weeks.

1. Justin Bieber is really popular. And he’s probably an enormous douchebag to boot.

It took the marshaling of every resource I had, but on good authority I can now report that the young Canadian superstar is, in fact, wildly popular all around the world and, probably by dint of that massive popularity, has an ego so swollen it can’t even be contained by the 30,000 seat arenas he regularly sells out. From his pet monkey to his mid-life crisis style earrings to his Ed Hardy-inspired wardrobe, we can be Beliebers when it comes to Justin’s douchiness.

2. The American military has a lot of guns.

For years, many Americans assumed the military was a peacekeeping force that relied on humanitarian aid, civil government administration, and kumbaya-esque folk music to spread love, harmony, and democracy across the globe. But, as it turns out, they also have a massive arsenal of lethal weaponry unmatched by any other country in the world. I will have more on this story as we slowly and inexorably get involved in killing thousands of Syrians over the coming months and years.

3. President Obama is black.

Personally, I thought he was Hispanic. I mean, he’s married to a black woman, continually tries to exhibit his basketball skills despite an apparent lack thereof, can’t carry an Al Green tune to save his life, and resides in a house occupied by hundreds of other people. Shockingly, though, it has recently come to my attention that he is actually a black man. Making him the first black President in the history of the United States. And here I was spending the past five years dedicating every Cinco de Mayo tequila shot to our first Latino President. Talk about having huevos on your cara.

4. Fox News has a right-wing bias.

I usually watch Bill O’Reilly, Sean Hannity, and the rest of the Fox Friends because I assume they were doing some sort of meta-comedy parody of cable news programming. Despite my political moderation, I thought their punditry was intended to skewer the way news is presented in this country and push people to take more liberal stances. However, it seems the gas-baggery they continually employ is supposed to be a serious take on the day’s events. Who knew that the bloated, pasty, ignorant anchors they employ weren’t simply there to serve as foils for general sanity and reason? Certainly not me, I can tell you that.

5. The sky is blue.

Yep, it’s true. Just walk outside or take a look out your window. Shocking, I know.

Continue reading »]]> President Obama’s speech last week at the National Defense University marked the beginning of a new chapter in the war on terror. With his stated desire to turn to a strategy based more on diplomacy and less on dropping bombs on people’s heads, it appears the U.S. will be setting off on a new course in its dealings with the rest of the world, especially those parts of the world that pose a direct threat to national security.

The speech was intended to signal a positive new approach to international diplomacy, a more peaceful approach, an approach that will restore America’s moral standing on the world stage, and an approach that will hopefully set a standard for the future use of military technologies, such as drones. However, it does leave one question on many people’s minds (most of those people being corporate executives at companies that rely on defense contracts); what will become of all those poor, sad, lonely, unused bombs?

Luckily, I was able to locate one of these soon to be discarded weapons to get its side of the story. The following is a detailed account of that interaction, sung to the tune of the classic 70s Schoolhouse Rock song, “I’m Just A Bill”:

Me: Wow, you sure do have to pass a lot of security checkpoints to get into this sector of the military parts warehouse. I wonder what that sad little scrap of metal over there is…

Bomb: Oh, I’m just a bomb
Yes, I’m only a bomb
And I’m sitting here in warehouse 4B
Well, it’s a long, long journey
From here to putting Arabs on a gurney
It’s a long, long wait
While I’m sitting in the bomb bay
But I know I’ll kill some Muslims some day
At least, I hope and pray that I will
Today I am just a hunk of metal

Me: Gee, bomb, you certainly have a lot of patience and courage.

Bomb: Well, I got this far. When I started I wasn’t even a bomb, I was just some engineer’s insane nightmare. But then these industrial defense companies decided they needed to pick up another multi-billion dollar contract from the government, so they called up their lobbying firm, who then got in touch with some of the congressmen they have in their pockets, who said, “You’re right, we oughta slip this into a pork barrel appropriations bill.” Then they all sat down together – well, mainly the lobbyists and the defense contractors – and wrote out that bill and attached it as a rider to much more popular bill, and I became a bomb. And I’ll remain a bomb until they drop me on the heads of some unsuspecting villagers in a hut in some remote village somewhere.

Oh, I’m just a bomb
Yes, I’m only a bomb
And I got as far as Washington D.C.
Well, now I’m stuck in warehouse 4B
And I’ll sit here and wait
While a few CIA analysts discuss and debate
Whether that should drop me on a high-value target
How I hope and pray they will
But today I’m just a hunk of metal

Me: Listen to those analysts arguing! Are they talking about you?

Bomb: Yeah, I’m one of the lucky ones. Most bombs never even get this far. Usually their cost overruns are so alarming that the government cancels them before they get manufactured (but not after billions of dollars are wasted, of course). I hope they decide to drop me on some people, otherwise I might have to sit in this warehouse until I rust.

Me: Rust?

Bomb: Yeah, rust and get decommissioned. Oh, but it looks like they’re going to use me. Now I go to the State Department, and they decide whether the targets they’re looking at are high-value enough.

Me: If they decide they are, what happens?

Bomb: Then the decision goes to the White House where it’s strictly vetted to make sure no civilians will be harmed when I’m deployed.

Me: Really?

Bomb: No, I’m just kidding. Hell, I’m surprised these CIA guys even went to the State Department. Normally they just decide to drop me on people when they’re having a bad hair day.

Oh, I’m just a bomb
Yes, I’m only a bomb
And if the CIA says I’m good to drop
Well, then I’m off to Pakistan
Or possibly Oman
Where I’ll be dropped on some poor man
For the good of the security of the USA
If the President gives the okay
How I hope and pray that I will
But today I’m just a hunk of metal

Me: You mean, even if the CIA says you should be dropped on someone the President still has to approve?

Bomb: According to the speech he gave last week, that seems to be the idea. So, if he decides not to use me I’ll be so old…

Me: By that time it’s very unlikely you’ll get to kill people at all. It’s not easy to blow people up, is it?

Bomb: Well, it used to be. Actually, it still is. Happens all the time.

Me: Huh.

Bomb: How I hope and pray they will
Drop me on that human swill

Congressman: He signed off on you, Bomb! You’re going to Yemen!

Bomb: Oh, yes!

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Before the IRS audit this guy's hat actually had four corners

It was revealed over the weekend that for the past three years the IRS has targeted right wing and Tea Party-aligned groups for audits, specifically looking at their status as non-profit organizations, or 501(c)(4)’s. The revelation was, of course, met with outrage from across the political spectrum, and I’m sure Republican congressmen and pundits will attempt to turn it into a political football they can keep in play for months or even years to come. I would even be willing to bet that the people over at Fox News came in their pants a little bit upon hearing of the story.

Beyond the political hoopla that will surely arise from this, what I found most intriguing about the news was some of the detailed information contained in the audit reports, copies of which were made available to me by one of my sources in the IRS. Below are some highlights from those documents.

Tea Party Patriots
- $25,000 spent on public relations, apparently to refute the group’s purported connection to the “Dick Army”.

You see, based on this, it’s entirely understandable why people are getting upset about these audits. I mean, I’ve heard many slanderous names thrown around on both sides of the political spectrum, from referring to people as Nazis to rampant use of apocalyptic imagery, but this one is just childish. Why anyone would engage in second grade-level name-calling, going so far as to come up with something as immature as “Dick Army”, is beyond me and, frankly, should not come even remotely close to being a part of the national political discourse. What’s next? Are we going to start referring to people we disagree with as “fart faces” or “stupid heads”?

Dick Army. That’s just ridiculous. In what reality would something or someone called Dick Army actually exist?…

Wait, now that I look at it more closely, it appears the money was spent to refute the group’s purported connection to former Republican House Majority Leader, Dick Armey, who is, in fact, a real human being with that as his real name. My bad. Still an entirely understandable expenditure, though.

Americans For Prosperity
- Founded by billionaire industrialist brothers, Charles and David Koch, the audit revealed that AFP spent $125,000,000 to build a “Futuristic Evil Madman Lair”.

Like many people, for quite some time I’ve been curious where the Koch brothers’ based their Bond Villain-esque operations. After all, running a multi-billion dollar empire bent on destroying the protections afforded to poor and middle-class Americans, while pressing to pass laws that benefit only large corporations and the super-rich, that also attempts to repeal any and all environmental laws that stand in their way, would, I always assumed, require some sort of futuristic complex akin to the one in Dr. No.

Now we know that it not only exists, but where it is (The Yucca Mountain complex in Nevada that was originally designed to house nuclear waste) how much it cost (the aforementioned $125,000,000), and even some of its amenities, which include: golden orthopedic toilet seats; storage for nuclear weapons that may, in the future, be bought/stolen from a corrupt and/or poorly regulated foreign nation, or obtained from the United States after the execution of a complicated, intricately planned, and expertly carried out clandestine operation likely involving some sort of facial reconstructive surgery; a giant red button that will launch a global catastrophe; a giant scoreboard that will show the hour/minute/second countdown until said global catastrophe is unleashed; and, central air conditioning.

Tea Party Express
- This group, known for funding nationwide bus tours in support of Tea Party activities, spent $117,000 in FY 2010 on routine bus maintenance.

This routine maintenance included many of your standard bus issues – twice daily roto-rootering of the port-a-potty-like single bathroom in the back of each bus; hobo removal; alcohol and drug screening for drivers (which, as with most bus companies, required the dismissal of nearly half the drivers); extra gas for the randomly designated detours to whichever Indian casino they happened to drive by on any given day (primarily to drop off elderly Expressers); and, of course, industrial-size cartons of air fresheners.

9/12 Project
- Glenn Beck’s organization spent $85,000 on “office supplies”

These supplies included: blackboards (500), the number Beck usually needs each year to scribble his insane conspiracy theories all over; chalk (6,000 boxes), which is self-explanatory; designer glasses (200 pairs), used to make Beck appear more sane and intelligent (aka, putting lipstick on a pig); devil horns and Hitler mustaches (two dozen each), which Beck uses as props to libel and demonize any and all people he happens to disagree with at the moment; and, while not technically an office supply, much of the money was spent on gold, sweet, sweet gold.

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(DALLAS, TX) — Living members of the nation’s most exclusive club, those who have held the office of President of the United States, gathered on the campus of Southern Methodist University in Dallas for the dedication of the George Dubya Bush Presidential Center For Kids Who Can’t Read Good and Wanna Learn to Do Other Stuff Good Too.

President Carter applauded Bush’s efforts in increasing aid to Africa, Clinton noted seeing the faces of Africans who have been saved by Bush’s leadership, and the reanimated zombie corpse of Ronald Reagan demanded the center be torn down. His wife, still living Nancy Reagan, threw a blanket over her husband and ushered him back to his grave.

When asked if he would do it all again, President George W. Bush shrugged. “Sure, why not? Beats being the Prime Minister of Canada.” Bush laughed before turning to a more somber tone. “Because I cannot be the Prime Minister of Canada, as I am not Canadian. I am American. God Bless America.” He then turned to grab a golf club from a nearby aid. “Now watch this drive.”

Continue reading »]]> This is the second half of the translated and edited transcript from the basketball game Korean ruler Kim Jong-un and American diplomat Dennis Rodman watched, and commentated on, together during Mr. Rodman’s trip to the country last month. You can find the first part here.

Kim: That was quite a first half, wasn’t it?
Rodman: Yeah, man. I’m gonna get another tattoo just to rememorate it. By the way, what do y’all do for the halftime show? Y’all do that Gangnam Style thing, right?
Kim: No! No Gangnam Style! That is South Korea! And I will personally roast them in the fiery pits of hell for their mockery of North Korea’s lack of horses.
Rodman: Yeah, but that joint’s real catchy, yo.
Kim: Maybe so, but in North Korea we do something much more entertaining. Watch this…

At this point, a large group of Korean nationals walked onto the court. While we don’t have footage of their exact routine, I am told it went something like this.

Kim: Now, Mr. Rodman, what do you think of your Gangnam Style?
Rodman: (Waking up after momentarily nodding off during the ceremony). Oh, man. That was real cool. Just like the dancers we had at the Bulls games. You’re a real class act, Kim.
Kim: I am glad you enjoyed. Take this experience back to that den of iniquity, pigs, and scoundrels you call America, and show them what real entertainment is all about.
Rodman: Definitely, man. I’m sure it’ll really catch on back there.
Kim: I’m sure it will. And now let us commence with the second half.

With the halftime show over, both teams filtered back onto the floor. The players on the American team all looked like they spent halftime taking naps, while the DPRK All-Stars appeared to have the fear of god in their eyes.

Kim: Mr. Rodman, do you see how eager my players are to take this game over in the second half?
Rodman: I don’t really know. These sunglasses are real dark, y’know.
Kim: Just take my word for it. In order to inspire them I sent a personal message that the worst performer in the coming half will have to spend five years in a prison camp. I’m sure that will ramp up the excitement.
Rodman: You know, that’s just like when I was in a contract year with the Bulls, and the team’s owner, Jerry Reinsdorf, told me he would he would cut my salary down to $5 million if I didn’t lead the league in rebounds.
Kim: Who is this Rines-dorf you speak of? I will personally ensure that he is among the first casualties when my grand army invades your United States and slaughters your citizens like the pigs they are.
Rodman: I’ve got his address in my phone somewhere. We’ll talk after the game.
Kim: Speaking of the game, here we go. The DPRK All-Stars have the ball first and – Oh my! – an amazing layup by their point guard. Surprisingly, the American team allowed him to get all the way to the basket untouched. And now here come the Americans with the ball.
Rodman: Yo, is that a switchblade your dude is holding? That can’t be legal, man.
Kim: It is legal if I say it is legal!

The American point guard simply hands the ball over to the switchblade-wielding North Korean, who takes it in for another easy layup.

Kim: Ha! Another blow to the imperialist swine! The DPRK All-Stars are showing why North Koreans are the biggest, strongest, most athletic players in the world.
Rodman: I don’t know about that, man. They all look kinda scrawny to me.
Kim: That is because we have them on a special diet. Unlike the fat, pathetic creatures who swarm over the lands of the United States, here in Korea we keep our people lean. It makes them more agile.
Rodman: That sounds interesting. How’s that diet work?
Kim: I cannot tell you.
Rodman: Aw, come on Kim, I thought we was friends.
Kim: No, I cannot tell you because there is nothing to tell. We starve them.
Rodman: Woah. I ain’t no doctor, man, but I don’t think that’s real healthy.
Kim: True, some of them pass out from time to time, and it’s even caused more casualties than you’re used to in your coddled society, but it keeps them hungry, so to speak.

The game is interrupted at this point as one of the DPRK players falls down on the court, apparently from malnutrition. A stretcher is quickly brought out, and as the player, who lays motionless, is being carried out, the rest of the Korean players look at him with a ravenous gleam in their eyes.

Kim: Apparently, he was not tough enough to make it. No matter, I have many players who can take his place.

With that, four players come onto the floor at the same time, giving the DPRK team eight men on the court. Between this advantage, and the American team’s lethargic play, the DPRK All-Stars take a commanding lead, 102-84.

Kim: Ah, Mr. Rodman, it appears the superiority of North Korean might is shining through in the second half. It is a shame you Westerners are so spineless. Nonetheless, to show off how magnanimous I am, I will allow this game to be scored a tie. I declare the final score 114-114.
Rodman: That’s real cool of you, Lil’ Kim.
Kim: Yes, cool. I am very, very cool. And tonight I want you to come to my palace, where we will dine on the finest delicacies my country has to offer.
Rodman: Aw, snap. Y’all got like steaks and shit like that?
Kim: Hmm, yes… In a manner of speaking, we do.

And that was the first episode in what will surely go down in history as the start of the warming of relations between North Korea and the rest of the world. By being a part of this, Dennis Rodman, a man known as The Worm during his playing days, will go down with some of the great names in diplomatic history, and his role in this momentous event serves as a poignant example of the current state of world affairs.

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Ed FitzGerald is on his way out to challenge John Kasich for the Ohio governor’s mansion, and clearly has lost interest in serving his current constituents as we can see in this picture of him trolling Facebook while a group of Cleveland young professionals ask Cuyahoga County Council to reconsider renovating a dilapidated skywalk.

So I kindly ask that FacebookFitz either pay attention or leave, so we can get an Executive who at least pretends to care.

Meantime, he’s welcome to do the right thing and follow in the footsteps of Carl Spackler and Wile E. Coyote, who destroy the skywalk in future Cleveland.

Continue reading »]]> Ever since Kim Jong-un became the ruler of North Korea, succeeding his father, Kim Jong-il, who died in December 2011, only one international ambassador has had the political wherewithal and diplomatic savvy to be able to break through the veil of secrecy surrounding Kim’s regime and have any sort of meaningful dialogue with the young autocrat. That ambassador? Former NBA All-Star, and drag show fashion plate, The Worm, Dennis Rodman.

During the highly publicized meeting in Pyongyang last month, Rodman and Mr. Jong-un became, “friends for life,” according to The Worm, who also described the 30-year-old despot as, “awesome,” “honest,” and, “a great leader.” They even went on a sightseeing trip around the repressive state, taking in such tourist traps as… a bunch of gray buildings, statues of Jong-un, his father and grandfather and, presumably, a lot of goosestep military marching. It was the first stage in what will surely become a breakthrough in diplomatic relations between North Korea and the rest of the world.

Upon his return, Rodman did an interview with George Stephanopolous on ABC where he made many of the comments quoted above. But there was part of the story that didn’t make it into the public sphere. For the basketball game the two watched together, Kim made one request – he wanted to do a play-by-play broadcast with Rodman as his color commentator – a request Rodman gracefully indulged. Fortunately, I was able to get my hands on a transcript of that broadcast, a version of which, edited and translated for length and clarity, I have provided below.

Kim: And here’s the tip-off. The DPRK (Democratic People’s Republic of Korea) center controls it, sending it to his teammate with the control and accuracy of the new Taepodong missile my generals are constructing. We will have to open up our food reserves so that center can get a second helping of rice tonight.
Rodman: Yeah, he looked real good handling that tip. Brutha’ needs some tattoos, though.
Kim: I’m afraid not. A tattoo would be grounds for imprisonment.
Rodman: That’s cool. That’s cool. I really love your honesty, Kim.
Kim: Thank you. Just for that comment I will not put Chicago on our list of U.S. nuclear targets.
Rodman: Thanks, man. That’s real cool of y’all.
Kim: It appears the DPRK team is running the famous triangle offense.
Rodman: Aw, man. We used to run that with the Bulls under Coach Jackson.
Kim: Yes, I believe this is a slightly different version of that system.
Rodman: How so?
Kim: In Korea, we do not teach geometry, so our triangle offense involves seven players.
Rodman: Yo, that’s illegal, man. You’re not allowed to have seven players on the floor. I would have said something if I had noticed you were runnin’ that many guys, but these sunglasses make it real hard for me to see anything.
Kim: It is legal if I say it is legal! I am the Supreme Leader! A God on earth! Never question me!
Rodman: Whatever you say, little brutha’. It don’t really make no difference anyway, these are the Harlem Globetrotters I brought with me. They can handle anything. I’m predicting a rout.
Kim: There will be no rout! Not if any of you want to leave this country alive!
Rodman: That’s harsh, man. But I feel you. Let me just give my homies a head’s up.

Rodman then motioned to the U.S. coach and whispered something in his ear. From there on out the western team’s game took on a decidedly slothful pace.

A few minutes later…
Kim: You say these great players you have brought here play for which team?
Rodman: The Harlem Globetrotters. They’re an exhibition team that plays all over the world.
Kim: Very interesting. Is Harlem, by any chance, near New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Austin, Texas?
Rodman: Yeah, it’s in New York.
Kim: Ah, that’s too bad.
Rodman: Why’s that?
Kim: Well, I was planning on saving my most destructive warhead for New York City. I’m afraid Harlem and their Globetrotters will be engulfed in the fiery embrace of ultimate destruction. It’s a shame, I like their style.
Rodman: What about those other places, you planning on blowing them up, too?
Kim: Oh, yes. They will all suffer the same fate. I will reduce those cities to rubble and their people will grovel at my feet for mercy.
Rodman: All right, homes. But, why Austin?
Kim: They would not allow my band, Lil’ Kim and The Emaciated Political Prisoners, to play at their South By Southwest festival this year.
Rodman: Dude, that sucks.
Kim: Yes, yes it does… For them… Ohhh! Three-pointer for the DPRK All-Stars. Excellent shot. (Turning to one of his aides) Make sure that player gets Cocker Spaniel for dinner this evening.

Later in the first half…
Kim: Well, it’s been an exciting first half of basketball so far here in Pyongyang, with the DPRK All-Stars and the Globetrotters of Harlem all tied up at 70. And with less than a minute left, the DPRK team has the ball, looking to take the lead going into halftime. How would you rate the Koreans’ performance so far, Mr. Rodman?
Rodman: You know, they’ve looked good so far, but as my character said in the famed 1997 action thriller, Double Team, “Offense gets the glory, but defense wins the game.” So we’ll see what kind of defense the Koreans come up with for the second half.
Kim: Ah, Double Team, one of my all-time favorites. And it looks like that’s exactly what the DPRK team is doing right now, with one player climbing on top of another player’s shoulders in order to dunk the ball. And miraculously, the U.S. team couldn’t get to them quick enough to stop that scintillating move.
Rodman: Yeah, that was real special.
Kim: I should hope so. I taught them how to do that. And that’s the end of the first half. We go to the locker room with the DPRK All-Stars leading 72-70. I would say be sure to stay tuned, but this being the only thing on our official state-sponsored television station, and since anyone who tries to change the channel will be put in front of a firing squad, I’m sure everyone will be back for the second half.

To be continued…

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When your government starts playing by the same rules as Fight Club you know you're in trouble

You can find Part One here, and Part Two here.

Living your life under the threat of assassination from an unseen flying drone is a disconcerting way to go through the day. Especially when a snot-nosed pre-teen is at the helm of said drone. It becomes even more terrifying when you realize there is no oversight involved, as I was discovering with each passing day.

I talked to every government contact I’d built up in my years as an investigative reporter, and each one of them declined to comment on the program itself, my situation in particular, and the quasi-legal decisions authorizing drone usage; or they simply looked at me like you do someone in the last stages of cancer, before walking off down whichever hall would take them away from me fastest and farthest. In short, the United States government’s “targeted killings” strategy was operating under the same rules as Fight Club.

As I leafed through the paper every morning, scanning the headlines for further news of overseas drone hits, wondering which ones my neighbor David might have been responsible for, the sense of living in a Phillip K. Dick-ian dystopic future sank in ever deeper.

When they came for the terrorists, black-bagged them and sent them to dark sites around the world for “enhanced interrogation”, I said nothing. When they passed laws like the Patriot Act, I shrugged my shoulders. When they first started sending robots over the Pakistani hinterlands, blowing adobe huts and whoever may have been in or around them to shreds, I willfully ignored it. But now they were coming for me, and I was finally beginning to experience the kind of apprehension and fear that every Afghan villager who’s ever lived next door to someone in the Taliban must have felt. Knowing that Hellfire can rain down on you at any moment at the caprice of someone sitting in a military facility thousands of miles away (although, in my case it was actually right next door) is not a veil I recommend living under.

Every night around ten I would hear the faint buzzing begin. It would start as a quiet hiss. The first couple of times I tried to imagine it was just a bug caught in the thrall of my porch light. But sure enough the noise would increase by the second until I knew David had decided to menace me yet again. After the first week it became apparent he was no longer doing this to prove a point, but was now just doing it out of childhood cruelty – exercising the same impulse that drives little boys to kill ants with magnifying glasses.

Like most of the population of Pakistan, Afghanistan, Yemen, and much of northern Africa, I was starting to wonder whether these drones were really an effective tool of counter-terrorism or just another high-tech way for the U.S. to prove its military dominance over the rest of the world. Why did we need these early-stage Terminators anyway? Was it to keep Americans safe, or had we found a way to further abdicate the moral responsibility of murder by turning it into a video game? David certainly didn’t seem to have any sense that he was behind the extra-judicial killing of who knows how many people. To him, it was just another variation of Call of Duty.

After a couple of weeks of having this threat literally hanging over my head, and without having come up with any real solution, I hoped to forge a peace with my adversary. So one night I put a white sheet in my front window and walked slowly over to my neighbor’s house.

“Oh, wonderful. It’s so nice to see you again,” Anne greeted me when she answered the door. “I have to admit, we were afraid Davey might have scared you off. It’s so hard to make new friends in the neighborhood when both your husband and son are involved in such… sensitive work.”

“I can imagine,” I responded. “That’s actually why I’m here. I was hoping I could speak to David.”

“Well, last I saw he was working hard on that video game of his. But let me see what he’s up to.”

Anne retreated upstairs, presumably in search of her son. As I stood in the doorway I noticed Nancy peaking out from behind the kitchen door. The Colonel was nowhere to be seen. Instead of acknowledging the girl’s presence I decided to stand solemnly and await David’s arrival.

About twenty minutes later David came down the stairs, his mother at his heels, the game console firmly ensconced in his grip.

“Good to see you again, David,” I greeted him. He replied with a slight nod of his head and a barely audible murmur. “I was thinking you and I could talk a little, maybe come to an understanding of some sort.” David again made only the slightest of nods to recognize he was being spoken to, his full attention focused on the game.

“Go on, Davey,” Anne encouraged him, “Our neighbor is trying to talk to you.”

“What do you want?” he finally asked me.

“Actually, I was hoping to find out the same thing from you.”

“Finally learned your lesson, eh?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” I answered dejectedly.

“ I knew you’d come around eventually. Everyone does.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

This time he looked me directly in the eyes, disdain glowing within. “I suppose I could call it off. Just remember what you learned. Remember the lesson of power.”

That was too much to take. I knew I should just submit and end the nightmare that had been flying over my house every night for a month, but my pride was too much. “Well, we’ll see. Someday you might not have that drone anymore, or I might be able to catch you without it, or even find a way to turn your little toy against you. Pride can be a real bitch, David, and it might come back to bite you.”

The laugh he responded with was one I’d only seem from evil villains in cartoons. “Now you’ve done it,” he said, “Now you’ll never know peace.”

And just then, with the stealth of a MQ-1 Predator, Nancy came flying out of the kitchen and knocked the game console out of her brother’s hand, sending it to the ground where she stomped on it until it was in a hundred pieces on the floor. All of this happening before her brother could even move. Apparently, his hours of remote piloting had slackened his physical reaction time.

“I’ve had enough!” Nancy yelled at him as she ground one of the microchips into the parquet floor.

“What are you doing?!” He yelled back. “Mom, did you see what she did? Ground her! I demand it!”

At first Anne wasn’t sure how to respond, but she soon assessed the situation and made the first astute choice I’d seen out of her since the family moved in.

“You know, David, this might all be for the best. You spend way too much time with that thing as it is. I think this will give us all a chance to take a little break.”

David was incredulous.

“In fact,” Anne added, “It might be about time you were grounded for a couple of weeks.”

“You’ll pay for this, too, mom,” David screamed as he went running for his room. I left soon after, slipping out the door before I got caught up in their family drama any further.

Thankfully, it would be nearly a month until I saw David again, this time sans game console. He had a hollowed out look in his eyes now, but I didn’t see any hint that he’d been chastened, only the dark look of someone who’d tasted immense power and lived only to regain it.

Continue reading »]]>

You can find Part One here.

David sat there in his bedroom window, a wry smile spread across his face, his eyes full of malicious glee. I wasn’t entirely sure what my predicament was, or the exact threat hanging over my head, but I did realize my life and security were now in the hands of a twelve-year-old, a situation I’ve spent most of my life strenuously trying to avoid.

I looked up at David. His window was open about halfway so I figured he’d be able to hear me.

“What’s this all about, little guy? You didn’t take offense to what I said earlier, did you?”

“No, no offense,” he replied. And then the Reaper drone took a low path as it came down toward my backyard, buzzing an imposing oak tree that stood at the edge of my property. “I just thought I’d show you who you were dealing with.”

I wasn’t about to let a middle schooler have the better of me, but at this point I couldn’t deny he had the upper hand, so I decided to placate him. “Well, now I know, David. I’m sorry I offended you. Hey, if you want to throw the baseball around some time, let me know.”

His response was simply to slam his window shut, the drone flying off into the distance as our interaction came to a close.

The next day, after a fitful sleep, I woke up and resolved to find a way to put this kid in his place. For any Twilight Zone fans out there, you surely remember the episode, “It’s a Good Life,” where a six-year-old with godlike mental powers keeps the town of Peaksville, Ohio under his thrall, the townfolk unwilling to confront him because he can control every facet of their life. I wasn’t about to let that happen to me or my town.

Thinking back to my own childhood, I figured the best line of attack would be to go through the sister, Nancy. I waited all day until she got home from school. She got off the bus alone, and as I had been sitting watch I knew she would be the only one there. I jumped up and ran out to greet her before she got to the front door.

“Nancy,” I yelled, “I was hoping to talk to you for a minute.”

She turned to me with a rather stolid look on her face, and said, “I heard the airplane last night. You shouldn’t have upset my brother. Everyone knows that.”

“Obviously, I didn’t. And it wasn’t an airplane. It was a drone. Do you know what a drone is?”

“It’s something my dad works on for the Air Force.”

“Your brother, too, apparently.”

“Yeah, my brother was always really good at video games.”

“This isn’t just another video game,” I told her.

“Whatever. Look, go back into your house, and just try to stay out of my brother’s way.”

“Okay, okay. But doesn’t it bother you that your brother has so much power? Does he ever hold it over you?”

“Sometimes,” came her whispered reply.

“Well, I think we should do something about it. Don’t you?”

She hesitated for a moment, trying to decide if this was a battle for which she was ready. Unfortunately, when she spoke again, I was met with defiance.

“No. Leave me alone. If you try to talk to me again I’ll tell David.”

I decided to leave it at that. I knew, though, that the next time her brother wronged her I would have my opening. In the meantime, I did some research into the U.S. drone program, trying to figure out how a twelve-year-old boy could have become one of their top pilots.

Not surprisingly, finding information on the program was difficult. Sure, there were the news stories. I could compile a list of many of the people who’d been killed over the years, including American citizens abroad, but finding out how it was run, who made the decisions on these “targeted killings”, how they made those decisions, and whether there was even an iota of due process involved, left me chasing my own tail.

Also, more immediate to my own circumstances, could, as Rand Paul asked in a letter to Attorney General Eric Holder, the U.S. target a citizen within the country’s borders? The harder it was to find answers to these questions, the more paranoid and upset I became. It was starting to look as if my life now only existed at the whim of a snotty pre-teen who lived next door.

To be continued…

Continue reading »]]> The moving truck arrived early on a crisp, cool Saturday morning. The house it parked in front of, the one next to mine, was a century-old Victorian that at one time must have appeared regal and imposing, had fallen into disrepair under the stewardship of its previous owner, an ancient widow who spent the last fifteen years of her life holed up inside with only a platoon of mangy cats and totem-height stacks of newspapers to keep her company. In the four years since her death the property had sat fallow, its shrubbery, vines, and overgrown tree branches taking on a more active occupancy than the widow had in her final years.

The movers began the process of unloading furniture. They were soon joined by the incoming residents, who arrived in a shiny grey sedan of domestic make. My new neighbors revealed themselves in short order, the father and mother slowly unfolding themselves out of the front seats, their children, a boy and a girl who both looked to be in their early teens, streaming out of the back seat like greyhounds at the beginning of a race, the boy’s attention fixed on a handheld game console, the girl making a beeline for the house, presumably bent on exploring.

I took a close look at the father as he stretched his limbs and gazed at his family’s new digs with a look of satisfaction. His bearing and controlled physical rigidity was an immediate sign of a military background, an impression that was quickly confirmed when I overheard one of the movers call him Colonel.

I watched them for several more minutes before turning my attention to the day’s college football schedule. Later in the afternoon, as Michigan was holding off rival Michigan State for a 12-10 victory, my doorbell rang. Reluctantly, I rolled off the couch and went to greet my visitors who were, following antiquated protocol, the new neighbors, come to call and introduce themselves. All four of them stood on my doorstep like a technicolor Rockwell painting. The father’s name was Bruce, or “Colonel Bruce” as he chummily greeted me. The mother, Anne, and their two kids, David and Nancy, greeted me as well. The only factor besmirching their otherwise perfect appearance was David, who’s eyes and attention were still glued to the game console, the entire affair barely registering in his consciousness.

We spent the next few minutes engaging in the usual mundanity, discussing origin stories and the impetus for their move (the Colonel had been reassigned to a nearby base). He obfuscated a bit when the subject turned to what exactly he did for the Air Force, but that was something I found to be common among military men. Anne, on the other hand, made up for her husband’s circumspection by prattling on about their road trip and the fact they’d eaten at Waffle Houses in three different states along the way. Throughout the interaction the son’s attention to the game console remained rapt, to the point that he didn’t even offer a passing nod as the family took its leave, throwing out a dinner invitation on their way back to their new abode.

I hesitated in accepting the invitation, taking a couple of days to decide whether I wanted to become one of those neighbors who actually cared about or had any interaction whatsoever with the people in their neighborhood, a role I had previously avoided. But eventually I figured it was better to be on the right side of a military man and I relented, scheduling something for the coming weekend. Still, when the designated evening arrived I walked over with great trepidation.

Anne answered the door, Nancy close at her heels, while the Colonel was sitting in the study sipping a scotch, an activity I soon joined him in. David was nowhere to be seen, something I commented on after a few minutes.

“David is a very special boy,” the Colonel told me (Great, I thought, yet another parent who ascribes a level of talent and importance to their child far beyond what they rightfully deserve). “In fact, at twelve he is already working on a project for the Air Force. But I probably shouldn’t get into that. It’s all very hush-hush.”

For the first time since my new neighbors arrived I was intrigued. “What kind of project would that be?” I asked.

“Excuse me, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” he replied. “The scotch must be loosening my lips a bit. Suffice to say, it’s very important work.”

Just then David came down the stairs, game console in hand.

“I would hate to give offense,” I said, “but it looks to me like all he does is play video games all day.”

For the first time I heard David’s voice. “What did he say, dad?”

“Oh, nothing, son. Just go about your business.” As the Colonel gave his response he flashed me a look of dread, then whispered to me under his breath, “My advice to you is to leave David be. You don’t want to be on his bad side.”

“His bad side?” I retorted a bit too loudly, “He’s twelve, he shouldn’t even have a bad side.”

“What did you say, mister?”

Before I could heed the restraint that was implied by the Colonel’s astonished, horrified look, I came back with, “I said, what could a twelve-year-old possibly do to me if I ended up on his bad side? Hell, you aren’t even five feet tall. I can’t say you’ve got me shaking in my boots here, kid.”

Apparently, Anne had overheard this last bit and came rushing into the study. “Please, stop. For your own good you must stop right this moment.”

Now the scotch was loosening my lips a bit. “Come on, why are you all so afraid of him? He’s just a kid. Maybe if you didn’t let him spend all his time playing video games he wouldn’t be such a terror.”

“Now you’ve done it,” came the Colonel’s response.

I looked over at David, who was rapidly punching a set of directions into his console. “We’ll see who isn’t to be feared.”

“You better leave,” the Colonel informed me. “We’ll do dinner some other time.”

I didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, Anne’s cooking didn’t smell all that good anyway. So I took my leave, walked back home, parked in front of the TV with my own bottle of scotch, and proceeded to nod off a couple of hours later. I awoke sometime in the middle of the night to a faint buzzing noise that sounded as if it was coming from above my house. It grew louder by the minute, to the point that I decided to go outside and investigate. My wildest paranoia hadn’t prepared me for what I saw there, hovering a few hundred yards above my house. The outline of the thing looked like an oversized hawk, but I knew immediately what it really was.

As I stood there, deep in shock, I looked across to the house next door. Staring at me from the second story window was David, game console in hand, apparently directing the Reaper Drone that was targeting my back yard.