Firsen's America: The Story of David Goliath

By James Vincent Kulis

I was tired of looking over my shoulder and tired watching what I said. I was tired of running and hiding. It sounded dramatic---lure a sitting United States president to a small African country. Little did Firsen and I know, that would be just the start of it. Again, I hesitate to write down any of what Firsen and I did. That was, after all, how Goliath found us in the first placemy writings. But the rule of law has broken down and, if anyone is looking for criminals, they are looking for bigger ones than Firsen and me. I guess you need to check with General David Goliath, the richest and the strongest man on Earth. This was really his caper. We were just along for the ride.

Detective Jimmy Feterello
Glendive, Montana
Radiation Free Zone

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496906748

James Vincent Kulis

Jim Kulis has traveled extensively abroad. He attended Xavier High School in Manhattan and obtained a Master’s degree in German literature from San Francisco State University in 1979. He speaks four languages fluently and served time with the State Department before retiring to the serenity of the oil fields 30 years ago. He enjoys writing in his spare time and presently lives in Houston, Texas. This is the second novel in the Fior Firsen series.

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Firsen’s America

The Story of David Goliath

James Vincent Kulis

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© 2015 James Vincent Kulis. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/23/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0675-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0676-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-0674-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014907230

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Epilogue

About The Author

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters, and incidents are entirely imaginary, and any resemblance to actual events, or to persons living or dead is coincidental.

PREFACE

Again, I hesitate to write down any chronicle of what Firsen and I have done-although I am not as afraid to do so as I have been in the past. At this point, the rule of law has broken down and, if anyone is looking for criminals, they are looking for bigger ones than Firsen and me. Whatever happens, I want you to know that Firsen and I were in it for the right reasons. We were in it to turn the tide back and make things right like they used to be. We are both old enough to remember smiles on the street and a golden time of promise. Howdy Doody, the Chevy and Bonanza. That is why we were involved and used our power to try and make things right. We might yet turn it around.

PROLOGUE

George Washington Relocation Center

Langley, Virginia

Mommy, where are they taking us?

Sally looked at the scene before her. She kept blinking her eyes. The scene should have been in black and white. The young mother had seen the scene before. The dark black railroad track lay in stark contrast to the cold white snow blanketing the quiet field of Central Virginia. The camp lay before them–red brick with the cold wrought iron arching sign.

Mommy, where are they taking us? the little girl asked again.

To our new home, said Sally to the child. The words rolled out of her mouth and were, for a moment, a hollow comfort to herself. All the signs and billboards said they would be going to a new home and from the commercials, it looked nice. But this wasn’t 1941 and cell phone calls and text messages had betrayed the fact the homes were death camps and the ancient ritual was again alive. The door of the box car flew open the rest of the way and the president’s guard began barking orders.

Women this side, men that side, growled the angry voice.

You supposed to be a fuckin’ American, shouted a big man in the box car.

The scene looked familiar to him also. They were being taken to the gas chambers like the Jews in World War Two. Most people had promised, in more tranquil times, lit up with expensive wine and full of spaghetti that they would never be taken alive. This was the man’s moment. He was making good on the boast he had made at Pizza Hut. He rushed from the box car and jumped toward the guards.

It would have been easy to shoot him. There were high powered rifles trained on the crowd from the towers near the George Washington Parkway. The guards grabbed the man. The guards were big-bigger than the man. They were the impassive pea coated barn door mother fuckers always involved in this type of thing. There were many more of them than there were of him too. The hero’s mind had been deluded by the easy battles he had seen his heroes wage in the movies-of girly superheroes sliding headfirst down the elevator shaft and not getting a scratch. A crushing right hand to the solar plexus bent the man over double in the snow. He had given his wife his coat and now the cold wet snow was barging in through his Homer Simpson tee shirt.

Is there anyone with him? asked one of the president’s guards–one of the Internal Militia.

There was the wife and the two kids.

Others in the train car answered, Yes in unison. They saw which way it was going. They saw the writing on the wall. They betrayed him.

Get the wife. Get the kids

Cut his fucking eyelids off, barked the sergeant.

The guards held the man. He attempted to struggle. He didn’t see the steel toed boot rocketing up between his legs. The toe landed. It crushed his testicles up against his body cavity. The boot landed again. The blinding pain resonated throughout his body. He couldn’t move.

The sergeant pulled out his pocket knife and advanced toward the man. He was really going to do it. The guards held the man’s face. The sergeant embraced the lid of the man’s left eye between his thumb and forefinger, pulled it forward and sliced it off. It was harder to cut then you would imagine-like vinyl. The crowd in the box car watched. They were better off for the moment. The pretense of a hot shower and a new home suddenly seemed wildly inviting. The crowd in the box car watched.

The wife and children were tossed out into the open. The guards were careful not to get in the line of fire. It didn’t matter if the citizens in the herd got shot. They would all be dead soon anyway.

Fire, said the sergeant. Fire slow at the extremities so that they don’t die right away.

No, screamed the loving father who could not look away.

The guards fired winging the children in the arms and legs. A howl rolled up from the mother. She directed her eyes immediately at the father, not the guards as it was he who initiated the slaughter.

Let them bleed out, said the sergeant. And let the woman keep looking at him like that so the others will learn.

The prisoners slowly marched under the wrought iron gate. The President’s slogan and theme of the new world order was featured above the gate. It stood in foot high wrought iron welded gothic letters. Sally read the letters:

One Big Happy Family

CHAPTER 1

March 18, 2016

George Washington Relocation Center, Langley, Virginia

Firsen shuffled in the line with the rest of the prisoners. The recollection of the family he had just seen slain was vivid in his mind. Firsen was sorry that he couldn’t do anything to help right then. But there were many who were dying. That was why he had allowed himself to be captured and brought into a camp–for the fifth time.

The nine inch pearl handled switch blade slept in his stomach. He could feel it leaning slightly and banging against the side of his esophagus. It was a pleasant sensation knowing that the blade would soon be in his hand and working it magic. He felt the electromagnetic pulse emitter resting in his stomach as well. Some of Goliath’s miniature magic. It was a good sensation.

The guards didn’t bring any food. It was a logical decision. Why waste the food on a pack of people who were slated to be gassed in the morning anyway? Firsen was glad they didn’t bring any food. He smiled. He didn’t need any mashed potatoes or pumpkin soup lying on top of the blade when he began to regurgitate it.

It was two AM. Perhaps he had dozed a little. Perhaps he had lain a little while, mouth open, like the rest of the wailing corpses. There was nothing wrong with that. It was good to be rested. He felt refreshed and ready.

The angel inside him stretched its wings and he felt the slow dripping of saliva into his mouth. The fluid cascaded down his throat and kissed the hilt of the blade. Firsen closed his esophagus voluntarily and grabbed hold of the blade. Snake like he worked the muscles in his throat and gut giving birth the blade. The hilt felt smooth when it passed his rounded lips. He kissed it pearly and ready. The electromagnetic dampener was smaller. That he vomited and spit out into his hand.

He could hear muffled crying in the darkness around him. He had always been able to hear that…the low moan–the hurting of others. He nodded his head and the angel wings spread further in his head.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the quickly fabricated six man ply wood bunk. It looked like a chicken coop and still smelled like knotty pine from Home Depot. There was saw dust and brads still rolling around. The bunks had been quickly made.

Don’t, said the man next to him. They’ll come.

Don’t worry, said Firsen. It’ll all be over soon. You’re gonna come out of here swinging someday.

He walked quietly across the floor in the dark.

There was one guard outside the door. Not smart even considering these were starved middle aged citizens.

Firsen tried the door.

It was locked.

He tapped the emitter. It emitted a soft red light. The latch on the door snapped out. In an instant the guard charged into the room. He tried to fire his rifle. The EM pulse had knocked that out too. Firsen’s arm rocketed toward the young guard’s face. Firsen stood absolutely still. He didn’t dare take a chance of hitting himself. The razor sharp blade caught the guard in front of his ear but behind the jaw. Firsen’s hand was moving at close the 300 miles per hour. His full weight and experience were behind the strike. The blade seemed to meet no resistance at all. Half the guard’s face bounced off Firsen’s wrist and tumbled down his arm. It was quick. The guard reached up. The teeth on one side were gone. The meaty nostril sucked in juice. Firsen caught the severed jaw and cheek before it hit the ground. He calmly showed it to the young man. For whole seconds Firsen looked into the guard’s eyes. He would not kill the man. He preferred to see him suffer as the guard had made others to suffer.

Firsen brushed past the guard and walked into the dark courtyard. It felt good to be in action again. He looked around the yard.

Cold air.

Cold night.

Round mouthed moon looked down in horror and it was delicious.

It was dark and the camp not that well lit. He walked through the shadows and found his way to the infirmary. With all the prisoners locked in cells, the keepers became a little lax with their own doors. Firsen turned the knob. He wasn’t that surprised when it opened.

There was a doctor on duty and several nurses and guards. It was the night shift. The animals worked better at night. The doctor turned toward Firsen.

Can I help you? he asked.

Yes, said Firsen. I would like a quarter pound of hamburger meat you fucking butcher.

One of the guards laughed and nodded his head. He had seen what went on in the infirmary.

In an instant Firsen rocketed across the floor. He hit the EM pulse emitter to deaden the rifles of the guards. As he moved, he noticed that they still were not reacting. They had not yet keyed on his motion. That was comforting. He hit the doctor in the side of the face with a closed first. He took a lot off the blow. He wanted the animal alive. It made for a better show.

To his surprise the nurse rushed him.

Firsen glanced around and saw a name plate on a door adjacent to the reception area.

Nurse Avery

Nurse Avery, shouted Firsen as loud as he could.

The nurse’s eyebrows rose high and wrinkled her forehead indicating he had guessed her name right.

Don’t, Nurse Avery, said Firsen and dropped his right shoulder closer to the floor so that his hand was closer to the ground.

Nurse Avery stopped for a moment.

Firsen rammed his hand up under her skirt and thrust his thumb deep into her vagina. She recoiled. He used the momentum to ram his middle and index finger up her ass.

One of the guards dropped his rifle when she screamed. It was a loud, piercing world ending scream. The other nurses stood still. Anything was better than what was happening to Avery.

Firsen swept her off her feet and swung her toward the sharp corner of the 1980’s style mahogany desk. Her head cracked. Again, he took a lot off the blow to make sure she did not die. He had a plan for the medical staff.

Whole seconds had passed. The guards were gathering themselves and attempted to fire. The electronic weapons had been deactivated. They didn’t work. The weapons didn’t work and the resolve of the guards had been destroyed. Firsen was blossoming. You could feel the focused rage rolling off him. It made it difficult for the guards to breathe. It was paralyzing. One of them attempted to rush him. The switch blade flashed and bit deeply into the man’s side. Again, not to kill. The man fell to one knee. Firsen hit him in the back of the neck and knocked him out. The others stood still. There didn’t seem to be any hope. Firsen saw their will crack. He breathed the air and tasted the atmosphere on which the essence of their crushed will floated. He motioned toward the area where surgeries were performed.

I am going to free the camp, he said. That’s all.

The guards nodded.

Free the camp, they thought. It sounded plausible. There were only a limited number of prisoners. The George Washington Relocation Center was close to town. The real killing went on out in the country.

There was a wash basin in the center of the lavatory. It was the circular kind your dad used to use at the mill when he washed up after work. He tied them to it with extension cords. It formed an O.

He dragged the doctor and Nurse Avery over to the fountain. He splashed water on them to revive them.

Why are you doing this to us? asked the doctor.

Cause you’re a fucking animal.

He took the carpet needle out of the seam of his pants. It was a long needle, the kind you could push through a two- inch deep shag carpet. It was curved and hungry.

He had found enough stitching material in the infirmary. He was glad of that. He thought he might use copper wire if he couldn’t find the right stuff.

You are fucking animals, he said to the group.

He let the words hang in the air.

You are fucking animals, he said again. One of the guards began to struggle and activated the little round bar at the base of the wash fountain–the thing you step on with your foot to make the water come out of the fountain when you are washing your hands. A tiny blast of water squirted out of the fountain. Firsen ground his molars together. He walked over to the guard. The man was on all fours. Firsen kicked him as hard as he could between the legs. One of man’s testicles exploded. He began screaming and drawing even more attention to himself. Firsen didn’t like that. He kicked him again and made sure the other ball exploded. The red-brown stain fanned out and blossomed down the legs of the man’s pants. Firsen kicked him once again. That was to show the resolve. There was going to be no mercy here. There had been no mercy shown by them. They would be shown no mercy.

Firsen took the carpet needle and threaded a three foot long piece of horse hair through it. The doctor would be first. He approached the doctor. The guard on all fours next to him remained still. Whatever was going to happen, he didn’t want to get kicked in the balls like the first guy. The guard remained still.

Move over next to the doctor and put your face against his, said Firsen.

The guard did as he was told.

Firsen rammed the needle into the side of the doctor’s face. The needle did its job. It dove beneath the surface of the skin and turned right back around and poked out. Firsen aimed it at the side of the guard’s face. The man flinched but stayed put. Whatever was going to happen was going to be easier to take without a set of crushed balls.

This time the doctor began to protest.

Firsen left the needle sticking in the guard’s face.

You can’t do this to us, said the doctor and began trying to get up off all fours.

Firsen extended his thumb and jammed it into the doctor’s eye. He drove it deep and got behind the eyeball. He curled his thumb and ripped forward. The doctor’s eye came free and bounded down his face until the nerve pulled tight. Again there was screaming. The screech blended with the howl of the guard–the ball guy–in an unhappy harmony.

Firsen began stitching again. The other victims could see what he was doing. They saw his skill with the needle and the way he handled the flesh. This was no small thing. The sides of the faces quickly became one. The two men tugged and pulled at each other a little causing the stitches to raise up into dripping red tents. They pulled terribly.

He worked quickly and one by one sowed the people’s faces together cheek to cheek. He had judged the number correctly and matched the size of the wash fountain. The chins rested on the edge of the basin. There was no room in between them and they went all the way around.

Did you not read your history books? he asked. Did you not read about Hitler?

There was no answering him. There was no explaining how the horror of the camps has again arisen.

This was America, said Firsen and shook his head.

Firsen left the room. They heard him rummaging around in the facility. They vainly hoped he was gone. He was not.

He returned with a pair of heavy gloves he had found in a small garage next to the infirmary. He didn’t want to get aids. There would be blood. He hammered them. He hit them as hard as he could between the eyes and on the bridge of their noses. He hammered them with the visions of operating tables he had just seen fresh, fresh in his mind. With the visions of Mengele.

I had known Firsen for a long, long time. I had fought beside him