Revolution Chronicles: The Head of the Snake

By Richard James Swart

.Two men rekindle their friendship after many years and discover they have a common conviction: the government of the Unites States is completely screwed up and there is only one remedy. Dan Mayhew runs a PR firm and e-Speak, an on-line magazine. He’s a gambler, a risk-taker, and a man deeply scarred by his past and thoroughly radicalized by the present. Jack Bowen, a retired one-star general, lost his only son to a corrupt and senseless war waged for corporate profit. He’s looking to save what’s left of the military and country he loves. They agree the real power structure behind the government needs to be taken down, and they plot a campaign of intimidation, blackmail and death to eliminate the influence of the rich and powerful special interests, the head of the snake. They recruit a financial wizard, military intelligence expert, internet genius and a black ops specialist. They call their group We The People.
After months of planning, they strike. The group publishes a Declaration of Revolution, a list of Demands and a Declaration of War. The first target is a man who “owns” many politicians, having forced them publicly to commit to a promise, but he also funnels money into their personal and political pockets and blackmailing many of them. The second is a powerful businessman, who, along with his brother, runs a massive super Pac and controls other political organizations. New statements from We The People follow, and two CEO’s of investment banks go down. Other will follow.
Meanwhile, Liberty or Death, a militia group, is also plotting to take over the government. We the People uses them to misdirect the government investigation. They have also infiltrated government offices, and their Labyrinth Technologies is conducting a fake investigation into the militia. Their final actions takes out the five most powerful men in the world. With the Feds closing in, Mayhew and Bowen make a run for it. .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard James Swart
• Release date: May 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9780692441954

Richard James Swart

May not be much to say here. I'm just your ordinary citizen who's fed up the way this country works for the wealthy and well-connected. You're probably fed up, too. I'm dead set against violence to solve the problems with our politicians. Not everyone feels the same about that, though. That being said, I sat down to write about the situation and the book came pouring out.

Book preview

Year Three

Date: March 8

Nice place, Detective Osterhoudt said, taking in the expansive foyer of the multimillion Georgetown Victorian. So, who’s the vic’?

Name’s Sherman Montrose, his partner Woznicki said, some kind of political big shot.

Aren’t they all, Osterhoudt said sarcastically as he checked his watch. It was 7:05 a.m.

Yeah, well, this guy’s the head of a group that calls itself Prosperity for All, Woznicki said, or at least he was. Owned most of the politicians in town. He backed them into a corner with some kind of pledge he made them sign.

Osterhoudt grimaced. Shit, he thought. Why in hell did I have to get involved in this case? It could be nothing but trouble. Yeah, well they’re all sold out to somebody, he said.

Woznicki saw his displeasure at having to deal with a high profile case.

Cheer up, Oster, he said. It looks like a straightforward case of accidental choking. Perry’s in the kitchen checking out the body.

Osterhoudt started to breathe a sigh of relief, and then caught himself. Nothing’s straightforward in this town, he said. Anybody else around?

Juanita Perez, the live-in housekeeper and cook. She made the 911 call at 6:12. Says she found Montrose unresponsive on the kitchen floor. He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb. I’m headed to the living room. Gonna talk to a family friend who stayed the night.

This family friend have a name? Osterhoudt asked.

Cherie Fredericks, Woznicki answered.

Osterhoudt raised his bushy eyebrows. She’s come a long way in the world since my days in Vice. So where’s the kitchen?

Woznicki cocked his head in the other direction. Take the second door to your right. You’ll get there eventually.

A minute later Osterhoudt stepped into the huge eat-in kitchen, stopped, and surveyed the room.

Jesus, I bet this friggin’ room cost more than my whole house, he said out loud. About as big, too.

Yours and a couple others probably, Jan Perry called back. Osterhoudt crossed twenty or so feet of stone-tiled floor, then bent down and peered between the island counter and massive stainless steel refrigerator.

So how long you think he’s been dead? he asked the diminutive blond Assistant ME crouched next to the body of Sherman Montrose. She looked up at Osterhoudt.

Good morning to you, too, Oster. About six, seven hours give or take. Rigor’s just starting to set in.

Osterhoudt studied the plate on the granite countertop with a partially eaten piece of prime rib sitting on it.

So, that’s it, right? Mr. Powerbroker here comes into the kitchen around midnight or so for a snack and forgets what his mother told him about chewing his meat thoroughly.

Maybe, maybe not, Perry replied as she studied the area around Montrose’s mouth. He choked to death, all right, but he may have had help. I’ll know more once I get him on the table.

Crap, I knew it, Osterhoudt said, disgusted.

He turned around when he heard Woznicki walking across the floor in their direction.

So what did the lady have to say? he asked.

Well, according to Ms. Fredericks, she arrived around 8:00 p.m. last night. They had dinner, just the two of them, brought in from Emilio’s, that high-class joint a few blocks from here, filet mignon. After dinner they ‘chatted for a while,’ her words, then Montrose made a few calls. It was late. Montrose suggested she stay the night, in the guest room, of course. Woznicki held up his right hand and twirled it around. And yadda, yadda, yadda, all the usual bullshit.

You haven’t heard the best part, Osterhoudt said. Tell ‘im, Jan.

There’s a chance Montrose may not have choked to death all on his own, the Assistant M.E. said.

Woznicki’s head went back. He rolled his eyes up.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Are you sure?

Not a hundred percent, but for now you might want to treat this place as a crime scene.

Osterhoudt made a face like he had something sour in his mouth. Well, the tape’s not going up, he said. The press is already going nuts with this. Did you see them out front?

Yeah, there’s gotta be at least fifty reporters already. They’re like hyenas going after a carcass. You think they’re making a connection with that We The People bullshit?

Osterhoudt’s face reddened with aggravation. If it’s not that, it’ll be some other conspiracy crap. Looks like I better call the Captain. We’ll need a CSI unit and at least a dozen uniforms.

You think Frederick’s had anything to do with this? Woznicki asked.

I doubt it, but you never know. Call for a car to get her out the back way and take her to the station.

Got it, Woznicki answered.

Year One

1

Date: September 10

Location: Fishing lodge, southern Catskills, New York.

There are friends, and then there are friends. And after not seeing Jack Bowen for almost forty years there was no telling which kind of friends we were, or if we could still be friends at all. Would it be like old times when we were kids? That was hard to imagine. Would it be more like we were strangers? That seemed more likely. Forty years is a long time no matter how you slice it.

Jack and I grew up together in a neighborhood a mile outside a small town in upstate New York. Up until high school we were almost inseparable. Chances were if you saw one of us you saw the other, too. Jack’s family was my second family, but more like my real family. My own family had too many dirty secrets to be a real family.

In grade school Jack and I spent every minute we could outdoors. We’d be fishing in the summer, sleigh riding in the winter, playing cowboys and Indians or exploring any time of the year. When Jack and I got to junior high school we kind of went our separate ways. Familiar story, I suppose. Jack got into sports. I mostly got into trouble. Just the same, on weekends we often spent hours together hunting, fishing, hiking or just shooting the breeze.

Jack tried to look out for me, tried to keep me on the straight and narrow, but a teenager has enough to do to look out for himself. Three weeks before graduation, I got involved in an incident which involved the Chief of Police’s squad car. Somehow, it ended up in the Hudson River. My old man and the local judge were drinking buddies. They struck a deal. If I signed up for the army and left in two weeks I wouldn’t get any jail time. I was on a bus to Fort Dix two days before graduation. It was probably one of the best days of my father’s drunken life. For years he’d been telling me and everyone else I was an embarrassment to the family. I didn’t get to see or talk to Jack again before I left. No phone call, nothing.

In the army I learned how to play poker, get seriously drunk, and not much more. I went through boot camp with Vinnie Mazzone from Brooklyn. I tagged along a couple times when he went to visit his family on leave. When we got out of the army he and his mother insisted I come live with them until I got settled. That’s when I learned what it was like to live in a normal family. All that hugging and kissing, the laughing, the arguing, the talking and yelling, eating dinner together- all that kind of stuff was great.

I slept in an oversized closet on the third floor of the Mazzone’s house. We both got second shift jobs at the meat packing plant where his father was a foreman. Vinnie Sr. also ran a card game in their finished basement Friday nights. I think he made more money doing that than at his regular job. That’s where I honed my poker skills to the point where I was making some serious money on a regular basis.

Vinnie and I were walking down a street in Queens one day when this martial arts place caught our eye. Master Soong Rhee had just moved his wife and four sons from Korea to the city and opened up this do-jang where they taught Tae Kwon Do. We figured, what the hell, we’ll give it a try. Almost thirty-five years later I still go at least once a week to another do-jang run by one of his sons. Now I mostly help out instructing kids and newcomers.

It was Vinnie’s father who got me interested in going to college. One day he put one of his massive arms around my shoulders, grabbed my upper arm with his huge paw of a hand, then waved a fat stogie stuck between two fingers in front of my face and said, Danny, you get your fuckin’ ass in college. Understand? Then he smiled and smacked me hard on the back, saying, I’m glad we had this little chat, son. He said the same thing to Vinnie. The next semester we were both signed up for a couple classes at City College. They were willing to give me a try despite the fact my high school transcript did not exactly make me look like college material.

I was almost thirty when I got my MBA. My specialty was public relations. I ended up at a firm with Lew Mattheson, a guy I met in grad school, and after working together three years we started a PR firm of our own. With a lot of hard work and lucky breaks, the business took off.

Then I met Ellie. What a lady with her brains and personality ever saw in me I’ll never know. For me it was love at first sight, her not so much, but finally I won her over. We were married three years when our daughter Allison was born. Life was great, or at least it was until two years later when a drunk driver plowed into them on the Cross Bronx Expressway. That saying about what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger is bullshit to me. It’s more like what doesn’t kill you leaves you half dead. Then there’s that crap about closure.

What I had left was my work, so I buried myself in that for years until the pain went somewhere where I could deal with it. It’s hard to explain if you haven’t been there. At least Mattheson and Mayhew thrived. I was looking for something new to try out, and close to three years ago I started e-Speak, an online magazine. I hired Asha Malik, a twenty-five year old kid, as editor. She was working as a free-lance journalist and helping out at her parents’ restaurant in the Village. At the time, it was the best move I could have made. Now I’m not so sure, at least for her sake. Then we took on Liam O’Connell as a second editor. He’s about the same age as Asha. Born and raised in Ireland, Liam moved to the U.S. to finish journalism school. The two of them run the blog, too, and do all the social media stuff that doesn’t interest me because I’m too much of a dinosaur in that respect. e- Speak covers mostly social and political stories, the kind the mainstream corporate media never dream of doing. It’s amazing what these kids can dig up. It’s like they have a network all over the world. Well, actually, I guess they do. Anyway, my foray into the publishing business is where all the trouble started, on my end anyway. After a couple years of getting immersed in stories about the vile and corrupt things the politicians and corporations get away with, how they chew up and spit out people like they’re not worth jack shit, how everything works against most people having a real future, I understood what it meant to become radicalized. Me, of all people. I came to the conclusion that the only way to bring about real change was some kind of revolution, that with political and government systems being as thoroughly corrupt as they were, there was no other way around it.

Of course, I had no plans to go anywhere with this crazy thinking, especially with everyone’s privacy shot to hell and rights like habeas corpus basically being suspended by the Homeland Security Act. And in New York City you got a double dose. So I walked around with the images of revolution in my head until I was living two realities. It started to consume me. I became like a character in an Edgar Allan Poe story, harboring my obsession while trying to appear normal to everyone else. I was always on my guard, but always tempted to use e-Speak to vent my thoughts and feelings.

I first got in touch with Jack five years ago when I heard his son was killed in Iraq. Our phone conversation was brief. His pain was palpable, especially since I knew what he was going through. I told him about Ellie and Allison. He said he was sorry, he had no idea. I told Jack to call if he ever wanted to get together. He said thanks, and that was pretty much it. I wasn’t surprised when I didn’t hear from him again. After a while, I figured I never would.

Then a couple weeks ago Jack called and asked if I wanted to do some trout fishing. He said if I was interested he’d book us a place in the southern Catskills, and we could fish the West Branch of the Delaware. What could I say? I said sure. I reserved a rental car for the drive up Route 17 the coming weekend.

But then I wasn’t sure at all. The idea of seeing Jack again after all these years both intrigued and spooked me. Except for our losses, what could I have in common with a guy who was a retired one-star general and now ran some sort of private security agency? Or a guy who was obviously a by-the-book patriot, and a guy like me with crazy subversive thoughts running through his head all the time? Then, I thought, maybe getting together with Jack would help me get grounded again. Maybe I’d get back to a better place and time and get some peace of mind. Mostly, though, I was curious to see him again after all those years. Would we even recognize each other?

I took Friday off and was out of the city by 7:00 a.m. Three hours later I turned off 17 at the exit for Hancock, New York, wound my way along a series of narrow roads lined with trees showing the first touches of fall color, and pulled into the driveway leading to Anglers’ Lodge.

The main lodge was a sprawling log building set in a mountain meadow that bordered the upper West Branch creek. There were porches on three sides and an entranceway with eight- foot doors in the front. I parked the car in a small gravel covered lot to the right of the lodge, got out, stretched, and started to feel the weight of the world slide off my shoulders. I’d been holed up in the city and inside my own head for way too long.

Any doubts I had about getting together with Jack again vanished the moment I saw him coming down the path from our cabin. We were both grinning like fools as we shook hands and slapped each other on the shoulder.

You’re looking good for an old guy, I said. I’d have sworn Jack had the same broad shoulders and ramrod straight stance he had when he played high school football. He had the same self-effacing smile as he did then as well.

I see you work at it, too, Jack replied. Doesn’t get any easier, does it?

No, it sure as hell doesn’t, I said. Well, let’s see this cabin you got us.

We can grab lunch at the lodge and get some fishing in this afternoon, Jack replied as we turned and walked towards the cabin with the sign Tranquility on a post near the porch.

Sounds good to me, I said, eyeing the Lincoln Log structure where we’d be spending the night.

On their website Anglers’ Lodge describes their cabins as rustic. Outside and inside you immediately realize it’s the kind of rustic that takes a lot of money to make it look that way.

My tiny apartment in the Village was a hovel by comparison. Everything was wood from the wide-board oak flooring, to the tongue-in-groove pine walls, to the stair railings made from three-to-four inch saplings with the bark removed.

I stored my bag and gear in the other bedroom and we headed for the main lodge.

Once inside, the lodge opened into a huge great room with fireplaces on the left and right walls and one in the middle of the room that was open on all four sides. The massive leather couches and chairs made me think of small, cushy islands. The log walls were covered with mounted trout, mostly huge browns, and a few rainbows.

One wall of the dining room was stone, with a massive fireplace in the center. We sat down at one of the two-dozen solid pine tables and looked through the menu.

I think I’ll just have a cob salad, Jack said.

That’s what it’s come to? I kidded him.

Sad, isn’t it? he replied good- naturedly.

Yeah, I’m having the grilled chicken salad, I told him.

While we waited for our salads we did some catching up.

You been back home lately? he asked me.

I shook my head. When I got out of the service they made it pretty clear to me I wasn’t welcome back there. Not that I gave a crap. I’ve kept in touch with my aunt, that’s all. I go see her a couple times a year.

Sorry, Jack said. I knew it was bad. Never imagined it was that bad.

I shrugged. You and your family were great. You guys made up for a lot of it. I’m just sorry I let you and your parents down by screwing up all the time.

When I realized you weren’t at graduation, I felt lousy I hadn’t even called you after what happened. My parents said stay out of it. I knew I let you down. I should have at least called.

Hell, no, I told him. What could you do? You kept my dumb ass out of plenty of other jams. That one you had to stay away from, I said.

All the same, I’m sorry I never called, even later.

It was all on me, buddy, I said, all on me. I was just a total asshole, an angry kid pissed off at the world. That’s all, nothing no one could do about it. Once I got my head out of my ass and got on with life, I thought about you a lot. I should’ve gotten in touch with you. I raised my water glass. Here’s to old friends, I said.

To old friends, Jack said as our glasses clinked loudly.

As we left the dining room the door to another room opened to our right. A meeting inside was apparently breaking up.

Jack mumbled something as we passed by. He didn’t sound pleased.

We retrieved our fly fishing gear from the cabin and made our way down to the stream. The day was warm, near sixty, and big cotton balls of clouds drifted slowly by overhead.

I sat on a rock next to the water and attached a fly to the leader.

What are you using? Jack asked.

A slate drake, I said. I’m trying a 12 first. You?

Jack was attaching his fly. I thought I’d go with a BWO, he said.

If that’s your choice, I said.

Why, you know something I don’t? he asked.

Maybe I know what’s hatching right now, I told him. You want to go first fish, biggest fish, most fish, just like the old days?

You’re on, you son-of-a-gun, Jack replied grinning.

We worked our way up the stream, taking turns dropping our flies into rapids and pools. After I caught two nice browns Jack gave up on the BWO. I held my pole up to him.

You take mine while I put a drake on yours, I said. I took his pole, held it in the crook of my arm, and took out my box of flies. Jack worked my pole and dropped a fly perfectly into a pool twenty feet upstream. A large brown rose for it. He set the hook and artfully played the fish the better part of two minutes before landing it. He turned towards me, holding the trout up in the net.

Got to be four pounds if it’s an ounce! he called out beaming. I watched as Jack bent down, placed the net in the water, removed the hook and released the fish.

It couldn’t have been a better day if it was scripted. We caught our share of trout but spent more time sitting and talking. Well upstream from the lodge we sat on the trunk of a fallen tree that spanned the stream. Jack took out two Cuban cigars, cut the tip off one and handed it to me. He put the other between his teeth and lips and held out a lighter. The years and cares fell away as we smoked the cigars and talked about the old fishing holes, the places we explored and adventures of our childhood together. The shadows of the end of the day were getting long by the time we got done talking and made our way back to the lodge.

After dinner Jack and I hung out in the great room of the lodge. We parked ourselves on one of the ten-foot long couches. No sooner did we settle in then a waiter appeared from nowhere and asked if we’d like a drink.

Do you have St. Magdalene? Jack asked him.

I believe we do, sir, the waiter said.

"We’ll have two, doubles, on the rocks. And do you have today’s Times and The Wall Street Journal?"

Yes, we do sir. I’ll bring them right out.

Jack looked at me and grinned. Figured you for the Times, he said. No offense."

I’d have figured you for the Wall Street Journal, I shot back.

St. Magdalene’s is the best damn Scotch you’ll ever have, Jack added. That is, if you like Scotch.

We East Coast liberals only drink wine spritzers, I said, but for you, I’ll make an exception.

We no sooner got our scotch and newspapers when four guys wandered into the great room from somewhere back in the lodge, probably from the bar. They were part of the bunch that we saw coming out of the meeting room earlier. The guy in his fifties was obviously the leader of the pack. His gray hair was clipped short. He swaggered like he owned the place. They were all dressed the same: designer jeans, plaid cotton shirts, expensive loafers. Uniforms, formal informal uniforms.

Two were in their forties. One guy didn’t look so good. He had the complexion of an alcoholic, like my old man. The other guy about the same age sported a crew cut. He grinned way too much. The youngest was in his thirties. He gave the impression he had the world by the tail, or at least pretended he did. I could picture his big house in the suburbs, the Mercedes SUV for his wife and two kids, and the big mortgage and car payments. Between being a PR guy and poker player for years it wasn’t hard to size them up.

They weren’t just wandering. They were hunting, hunting for other guests they might be able to do business with. For people they could impress with what hot shit they were. You see it all the time in places like this. Right away I didn’t like them.

They ended up standing in front of us, acting like it was a big surprise. The boss tried to start a conversation. Jack wouldn’t even look up from his paper.

We’re having a little friendly poker game tonight, the boss said. He checked the time on his Rolex just to make sure I could see it was a Rolex. Starts at eight sharp. You boys are welcome to sit in.

Thanks, I said, more to get rid of them. I just might take you up on that offer. I shot a glance at Jack. He was scowling.

The boss looked at Jack, then back at me. He smiled smugly.

Well, maybe we’ll see you later then. Just talk to the young lady at the desk.

The foursome left with the boss in the lead.

Jack looked up at me. That’s some pack of scum, he said.

I take it you know them.

He put the paper on his lap.

You ever hear of Martindale? he asked.

Sure, who hasn’t? I said. They made a ton of money off the Iraq war. Still are. They’re in Afghanistan, too.

Yeah, they get rich while our soldiers get killed and chewed up. Corporate wars for corporate profits. They run the whole show, them, a handful of other corporations, and the goddam politicians they pay off. That’s why I got the hell out. They’ve ruined the government and they’re ruining the military. My company won’t even work for the government any more. We won’t work for anybody that has anything to do with those bastards. I just wish I’d been able to get Jack junior out before it was too late. I could feel the blood rushing to my face from the intensity of Jack’s anger.

"In that case I think I will sit in on the game. If you don’t mind me being gone a couple hours."

What, you’re some kind of hotshot poker player?

Something like that, I replied. It’s about the only thing I learned when I was in the army. It helped pay for college and grad school. Jack looked at me like maybe he believed me and maybe he thought I was full of shit. Hey, I added, I’m a hell of lot better than any of those jerks. I’ll clean their clocks.

* * *

I knew the routine. Just before eight I went to the desk and pushed a Ben Franklin in the direction of the attractive brunette on duty.

I’ve been told there’s a card game somewhere around here, I said.

She smiled and replied, Come this way sir. Funny how when someone in their twenties or thirties calls you sir it makes you feel a whole lot older. She showed me to a room on the second floor. When I stepped inside the Martindales were all sitting around a plush poker table. I thought maybe I should mention to Vinnie Mazzone it was time to get a new one at his place. Even though he was a lawyer now, he still ran a poker game every week. His father died two years ago, and Vinnie keeps up the family tradition. He could afford a new table.

The Martindales were dressed in L.L. Bean sweaters and slacks this time. A fifth guy was with them. He didn’t look like part of the gang. We made introductions.

One of them, the guy with the crew cut and nervous grin said, It’s ten thousand to sit in. He tried to look cocky, but he didn’t pull it off too good. He was in way over his head. Still, he pissed me off for trying. The lodge manager was standing behind a small counter to the left. He motioned me over with a nod.

Mr. Mayhew, my apologies, but since you’ve never been a guest here before you’ll need your American Express Platinum card to sign for a line of credit. I made myself look a bit surprised. It may have been my first time at Anglers’ Lodge, but it wasn’t exactly my first time sitting in on games like this.

Of course, I replied, smiling, as I handed him my card.

We take 10% from every pot. That covers food and drinks and a gratuity for Jorge and the kitchen staff. He nodded towards the thin Latino looking guy in his sixties at the bar in the far corner. Jorge looked our way and smiled. Yeah, I thought, Jorge and the staff are going to get squat. When you’re ready you can exchange your chips for cash or a direct deposit to the account of your choice, if you win, of course, he added, smiling again. He handed me back my card. Jorge will bring the chips to your seat, Mr. Mayhew.

I sat down at the table and took in the room. Four chandelier lights hung from the twelve- foot high ceiling, one over the table. The floors were wide-board oak, dark-stained, like they were reclaimed from an ancient castle. Heads of dead animals adorned the paneled walls. No fish. This was apparently the hunting room.

After the first dozen hands I was about even but had picked up on how most of the guys played and little things they did to tip off what they were holding.

Bruce, the thirty-some year-old next me to my left won one of the hands and thought he was a hot-shit player, which he might have been if he was playing Go-Fish. If he got what he thought was a good card the right corner of his mouth raised making it look like he winked just the slightest bit. The next guy, Ed, hadn’t won a hand and was probably down close to a thousand. The boss was next from my left. He was a VP at Martindale. Hank, they called him, was way too aggressive. He’d won a couple hands bluffing, scaring the rest to fold early. I guess it worked for him in business. The guy with the crew cut was next. I couldn’t tell much about him, except he was easy to bluff. Then again, maybe he just caved to the boss. The player to my right wasn’t part of the Martindale crew. He was short and balding, maybe in his early fifties. The kind of guy you wouldn’t notice in a crowd, even a crowd of two. He definitely led a sedentary life. His name was Wes. He was down around fifteen hundred. I couldn’t read anything into his facial expressions or movements. It made me wonder.

The boss finished shuffling and set the deck on the table so Ed could cut. Ed passed.

Let’s play a hand of draw, the boss announced. We put in twenty each.

By the time the deal had circled the table two more times, I was up some. Wes had won three hands and played some losing hands well. The boss won three more hands but chased people out with badly timed raises and didn’t have much to show for it.

A few hands later he tried to bluff again, this time with Ed dealing seven-card stud. After four up-cards I had two pair, aces over tens. With the boss’ crazy raises three guys dropped out, leaving me, him and Bruce to my left. I knew I had both of them beaten, but I didn’t raise back. Ed dealt the last hole card. The boss had a two of hearts, nine of clubs, three of clubs and Jack of spades showing. Whatever help he needed he didn’t get with the last card. Bruce took a look at his hole card and did that thing with his lip. Two pair I figured.

I think I got you guys this time he said. The boss smiled and bet forty. I called. The boss grimaced and tried to hide it with a smile. Bruce saw and raised forty. The boss’s face reddened. He was in it now and couldn’t get out. He raised forty back. I called again. Bruce looked at his boss. The boss’ face and neck had turned a nice shade of purple. Bruce realized he was screwed one way or another. He’d made the boss look like a fool by not folding sooner, even though he probably had a better hand. There was only one choice left for him, cut his losses. He folded. The boss put his cards on the table, two Jacks and a King high.

Couldn’t catch the straight on the hole card, he said lamely, like he ever had a chance. I put down my full house with trip tens. Wes, to my right, didn’t change his expression, never moved as much as a millimeter. I pulled in the chips. I knew if he and I didn’t get into a personal battle we could both take these guys for a bundle.

That’s pretty much how it worked out. The young guy, Bruce, and Ed were the first to drop out. In my book, four isn’t enough to play poker, but Wes didn’t seem to mind so I didn’t say anything. Wes cleaned the boss out on a really well-played hand, beating his straight with a flush. Instead of figuring it out, the boss took another five thousand in chips. The crew cut guy dropped out next. With three of us left, we started playing Texas Hold’em.

When the deck came to me, I dealt myself a deuce of spades and a Jack of diamonds. I never win a hand when my first two cards are like that. The first up-card was a King of hearts. I had a feeling if Wes was holding much better cards he wouldn’t play them until the end. I decided to stay in to raise the stakes for the boss and help him lose the rest of his chips. He obliged by betting twenty, Wes passed, and I raised twenty. That didn’t set too well with the boss, but he was forced by his ego to stay in. After the second up-card, I bet twenty and the boss raised me twenty to show he wasn’t going to get scared off. Wes saw both of us and raised us back. I looked at Wes. For the first time that night he made just the slightest gesture, raising his right eyebrow about a quarter inch. After I dealt the third up card I was sure Wes had me beat. I bet twenty anyway. The boss raised twenty. Wes saw him and raised back twenty. I dropped out. The boss looked confused for a second, then smiled and raised Wes back. I dealt the fourth card up. The boss hesitated just the slightest, and then bet another twenty. Wes raised him back. The boss took a deep breath, cupped his hands around the chips he had left, and announced he was going all in. He was sure he was going to scare Wes out, like he thought he did me.

Wes had hardly said ten words all night or made eye contact with anyone.

Count your chips, he said, looking the boss in the eyes. The boss swallowed hard and began counting.

Twenty-eight hundred, he said, sounding sick. Wes counted out twenty-eight hundred in chips and pushed them in.

Let’s see what you have, he said. The boss laid down two pair, queens over. Wes put down a straight flush. The boss looked like he was going to puke. He never saw it coming, the straight or the flush.

Jorge gave me a small zippered leather bag. He opened a wall safe, took out a couple tall stacks of hundreds and counted out my winnings. If he and the rest of the crew were making $10.00 an hour it was miracle. I pushed thirty bills his way.

For you and the rest of the guys, I said. Take care of them, okay?

I waited for Wes. When we were in the hallway outside the room I took out a business card and handed it to him.

Wes, if you’re coming into town some time and want a game, give me a call, I told him. He looked at the card and then looked up at me and smiled.

Thanks, Dan, he said.

* * *

When I got back to the room it was just before 1:00. Jack was awake, lying in bed reading a magazine. I tossed the black leather pouch onto the bed next to him. He sat up and looked at it, then looked at me like he was totally puzzled.

I’m sure you can find some soldiers who could make good use of that, I said. It's just shy of 12,000. You could have pushed Jack off his bed with a feather. There would have been more, but another guy sat in on the game. He got most of it. The sonofabitch could play. My guess is he makes a living at it. I sat down on the edge of my bed, facing Jack. Now tell me what the hell’s going on. Are you just as fed up as I am with the way this country’s turned to shit or what?

Jack tossed the magazine to one side. He looked to his right, down at two objects on the night stand between the beds. One was about the size and shape of an old style Zippo lighter, the other the same shape but about twice as large. An LED on the face of each one glowed green, and a second LED was dark red.

What the hell are those? I asked.

Jack pointed to the smaller one.

That one tells us if there’s any eavesdropping devices inside the cabin, he said, or within a 100-foot perimeter of the building. If either one was the case, a red light below would come on. This second one, he said, is a signal jamming device. I must have looked at him like he was nuts.

What the hell? I said. Are you serious?

Jack looked at me, grinning just the slightest bit. Dead serious. I don’t leave home without them, he said. A place like this is ideal for intelligence gathering. If someone wanted to, they could have recorded every word those guys from Martindale said at their meeting today. Hell, maybe someone did. There’s all kinds of espionage going on all the time.

Holy shit, I replied, shaking my head.

Welcome to my world, Jack replied. He leaned back on his pillow with his hands behind his head. Okay, I’ll tell you what’s going on Dan. The way I see it, the international corporations call all the shots these days. They run the country, most of whole world for that matter. It’s their own private fiefdom. Most of the goddamn politicians are completely sold out. Plenty of judges too, and bureaucrats. They do what the corporations want done. Nobody else really means squat to any of them, not your average citizens, not soldiers, nobody, except as mindless consumers and pawns, of course. Money and power are the only things that count, and more money and more power. It may sound crazy, but that’s the way I see it.

I took a deep breath. Here’s what I think, I began. The whole system is corrupt and fucked up. There’s no such thing as a free market economy. It’s all rigged. And working people are rapidly losing ground every day. They’re already powerless to change things. Voices of dissent are ignored or silenced. The magnitude of the destruction the corporations are wreaking on the planet is beyond imagination. And every day we’re losing more and more of our liberties. They may not have planned 9-11 or let it happen, but it made for a good excuse to suspend the Constitution whenever the government wants to keep down serious dissent. Your vote doesn’t mean shit any more. Most people in office are in it for themselves and to do the bidding of special interests. There’s no way the system can be changed except by… . I hesitated to finish.

By what? Jack asked.

It can’t be changed except by revolution I said, by war.

Jack rolled over and looked at me. He’d always been one to cut to the chase.

Government of the rich and powerful, for the rich and powerful and by the rich and powerful, Jack said. Nothing else matters to them, except their own hides, of course.

Exactly, I said.

Let’s order something from the kitchen, he said. It’s open all night, and this could turn out to be a long one.

Jorge must have spread the money around. A guy was at the door with a plateful of roast beef sandwiches, some chips and six bottles of Dos Equis a few minutes after I hung up the phone. We began scarfing everything down like we hadn’t eaten dinner.

So, how would a revolution work? Jack asked. What would it look like?"

I shrugged. I have no fucking idea, I said.

Well, let’s throw it around for a while and see what falls out, Jack said. First, what would you hope to get out of it?

Are you serious? I asked him.

Jack shrugged. I’ve given it some thought, he said.

Well, okay, for one thing, get the money out of politics. No more catering to the special interests. Get rid of the bullshit about corporations being people. And get rid of the state laws that are just meant to keep honest people from voting.

Okay, what else? he asked.

Real financial reform. Go back to the Glass-Steagall Act. Break the stranglehold of the investment banks. Since the financial collapse they’re bigger and more powerful than ever.

We need tax reform. Everybody pays their fair share. Jack shook his head. It’s ridiculous the way it is now.

Couldn’t agree with you more. I waved my bottle of beer as I spoke. And another thing, all the lobbying crap –gone. And that bullshit where the politicians make up Congressional districts just so their party stays in power. No more.

I hear ya, buddy, Jack replied, getting up from his bed. And another thing, what Eisenhower said about the military-industrial complex? He knew what the hell he was talking about. Only he couldn’t have imagined how bad it’s gotten today.

Yeah, to the point where we fight wars for international corporations, like going into Iraq for the oil companies.

Jack pointed in my direction with the hand holding his beer bottle. And Martindale and whoever else, he said. Damn, it’s unbelievable how bad it’s gotten.

There’s almost no end to the crap that’s going on, I said, taking another swig of Dos Equis. As far as us doing anything about it, that’s just a lot of wishful thinking.

Jack raised both eyebrows. Yeah, we’re just full of shit, he said. But let’s suppose, just hypothetically, that you wanted to do something, something to really shake this country up, try to set things on the right course. What would you need to do it?

You’d need your head examined, I said. Jack laughed. But I guess, I went on, you mean what kind of a plan would you have to have? And how could you pull it altogether?

Right, Jack said, keeping in mind it would have to be a completely asymmetrical kind of engagement.

No kind of direct attack on the government, I added.

No, of course not. So what’s the first thing you need for a revolution? he asked me.

I hesitated. A core of totally committed people, I said. Two would do for starters.

It was just after 2:00 a.m. when we ordered more sandwiches and coffee. It was going to be a long night.

Jack and I agreed completely. The kind of changes our country needed to make before going completely down the tubes just wasn’t going to happen, not with the strangle hold large corporations and politicians had on everybody. And elections weren’t going to cut it, not yet, anyway. So many people didn’t even vote anymore, and when they voted, it didn’t really matter anyway.

Just think, Jack said at one point, "about the magnitude of the corruption. Let’s say I’m running for the Senate or the House of Representatives, even a state or maybe local office. Big Business foots the bill for my campaign. When I’m in office I push all the money I can their way in the form of government contracts, subsidies, tax breaks, or no taxes at all. And it goes on and on. Now let’s say as a senator or representative I know legislation is about to be passed favoring a certain business or business sector. I know it’s going to be passed because I’m on a committee, like the Senate Banking Committee, and I’ve taken a shitload of money from the banking industry. So I conveniently get a big loan and invest heavily in stocks. The legislation is passed, my stock goes up, and just like that I’ve made millions.

Add it all up and it comes to hundreds of billions, hell, trillions of dollars in corruption a year. And what does the average guy get? He gets the shaft over and over again."

"I’ve got someone writing an extensive series of articles for e-Speak about the various free trade agreements that’ve been implemented so far. It’s not pretty, I said. They mostly just allow corporations to exploit people all over the world on a massive scale. The destruction is incredible- to families, to villages, to social systems, and to the environment. It’s not just people here in the U.S. that are taking a beating. What passes for prosperity is more like a tree that looks green and healthy on the outside, but it’s hollow and rotten on the inside. People are surprised when it keels over onto the ground. Then they see it was doomed all along, but it’s too late. And it’s always the little guy that gets screwed."

It was close to 2:30 a.m. when Jack and I got back to what turned out to be the point of the whole conversation.

So is violent revolution the only answer? I asked.

Jack didn’t hesitate. He nodded. No doubt in my mind, he said.

Yeah, I know, I said. The idea’s been eating away at me for a long time now. I’ve made myself half crazy. Now it turns out you of all people have the same idea.

Trust me, Dan, a lot of people are thinking that, Jack said.