Traveller’s Twisted Tales: Short Stories to Make You Think

By Alistair Pope

The book was designed to be enjoyed according to the readers mood and available time s it contains entertaining stories that range between the true, through the ‘factional’ (stories containing at least some element of truth), to others that are pure fiction. It is up to the reader to decide which is which …
The aim was to provide ‘intelligent’ enjoyment by encouraging the reader to think ahead and predict the twist in the tale.
This book of short stories allows the reader to enjoy its range of options as while traveling or relaxing at home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669888222

Book preview

The Devil Car

This is the story of the spontaneous actions of a devious mind when presented with an unexpected opportunity for a bit of fun. The temptation was just too great, though the dark side is that the ‘victim’ of ‘The Devil Car’ probably needed extensive therapy to recover from this experience …

At some time over the years most of us will have seen at least one bad B-grade movie about an evil car that comes to life and has its own dark personality. Three such films that come to mind are ‘The Cars that Ate Paris’, ‘Christine’ and ‘The Devil’s Car’. The Devil’s Car is a gory horror film about the devil coming to Earth in the form of a cannibalistic black car that eats the souls of those who try to drive it. Curiously, it has a conscience of sorts and mainly devours car thieves who think they are stealing it, when really, it is the one stealing their lives. Naturally, it is eventually defeated by a ‘pure’ soul, so we know it is not a documentary ...

In our fascination with the car we have even had good cars with a personality and an artificially intelligent mind of its own. The most memorable vehicle of that ‘good car’ genre was the intelligently computerized super car in ‘Knightrider’ – a TV series about a crime fighting car that guides its inept Kung Fu Master driver to outsmart and outfight the criminals.

Well, there is one Indian fellow at the local car wash who really has experienced just such an evil, deep black, ‘black-magic’ car first hand. I hope he is not superstitious or overly religious as his recent frightening experience would have seen him smoked to death in an inferno of incense-burning if he tried to appease the gods to save him from an evil black car that recently persecuted him.

My wife has a black BMW Convertible that is her pride and joy. Sometimes I think she prefers it to me … well, more than sometimes, but that is another story. Anyway, ordinary $10.00 carwashes are too rough for her saturnine pampered poodle of a car so she takes it to the local $44.00 carwash for a delicate hand wash, scrub, tub, polish and a massage rub down to soothe and calm it after a week or two on the road. Not so long ago she took the car in for its twice monthly manicure, but as there was a long queue she was told it would take them at least 90 minutes before they could properly finish the job. With a couple of hours to kill, like any good wife, she called me to come and buy her a coffee, so she could then criticize me for wasting my time drinking coffee instead of working … but that is another story.

Having been summoned (I know better than to make excuses that I am busy and not obey), I drove to the shopping centre and went straight to the underground car park where the carwash is situated so that after our coffee, we could leave together when she went to pick up her now sparkling black beast.

As I was parking my car on my way to meet her I noticed that her car had just been driven into the Wash Bay. The Indian carwash attendant got out and closed the door leaving the keys in the car while he went to fetch the vacuum to clean the carpets and upholstery. How could he know that the temperamental black brute would not overlook or easily forgive such carelessness? When he returned from fetching the vacuum cleaner he was horrified to note that the car was locked. He was so shocked that he stood staring at it for a full 20 seconds as he tried to grasp how this could have happened. Suddenly, as if someone had changed his batteries he sprang back to life, dropped his vacuum cleaner and tried to open the door. Nope, he was definitely locked out. He sat down on his haunches and tore at his hair in despair, when suddenly, the door unlocked!

He stared at the car for a single second then leapt at the door, but he was too late. Just before he reached it, the car door locked itself again. He jumped back in shock staring at it like a rabbit in headlights – and the door unlocked. He moved forward – the door locked. He moved back – the door unlocked. Three attempts, same result. As he stared at it the door manically locked and unlocked, but if he moved closer it locked – and stayed locked. He whimpered as he went off to find the Carwash Manager.

I knew my wife was waiting, but I was having too much fun to stop now as I had the spare key for her car with the automatic door opener on my key ring.

The attendant returned without the Manager and stalked the car like a tiger. He crouched down and crept up from the rear - and he had almost made it when the unlocked door locked itself again. He stepped back, it unlocked. He moved closer and it locked. I thought I might have gone too far when he dropped to his knees and held his head in his hands.

Just then the manager arrived to check out the problem. They both approached the unlocked door. The manager stepped forward and opened and closed it several times without a problem. The manager was obviously not pleased and said a few strong words to the cringing attendant before he returned to his office muttering something about his deranged employee. The poor attendant turned round to get on with his work, but the door was locked. He dropped to his knees again in despair just as the door unlocked. I thought he was going to try crawling to it, but I suspect he just said a prayer at this point because he got up and walked boldly to the car and opened the unlocked door. He jumped back, shocked, and then gingerly approached the car again; tempting fate … but the door was wide open and stayed unlocked. He paused for just a moment then, like a man possessed he made a frenzied leap into the car and scrambled over the seats to find and take the keys from the ignition. He emerged triumphant, the victor of good over evil as he held the keys above his head. I did notice that several of the other workers had stopped work and were looking at him rather strangely, but I did not understand the language in which they were commenting about his special approach to his car cleaning work.

I don’t know what happened after that and whether or not he was the one who dared to clean the inside of the car, as I had gone to have coffee with my wife. She did comment to me that I had taken a very long time to arrive … but I made no excuse.

I suspect nothing unusual happened while I was away as no comment was made to my wife when she picked up her clean, shining black beast, but she did note that all the staff stopped work and watched her intently while she collected her car. To drive out of the car park she had to drive around in a circle and back past the carwash. As she did so, she noticed every member of the staff lined up at the edge of the roadway to watch her as she drove past.

When she got home she was very chirpy and upbeat and commented to me, I’ve still got it, you know. Just driving that car makes people stop and look at you …

I agreed, she really does still have something, but I just haven’t had the heart to tell her what it is ... at least, for the sake of my health, not yet.

The Story of Q

The ‘Story of Q ‘was written many years ago. When it was first drafted, Ha Noi was as accurately described in this story, though it is no longer true today. In those days Ha Noi was still a city scarred by the evident signs of the relentless bombing war inflicted on the city by the United States Air Force over many years. Yet, despite the damage, Ha Noi still retained many of the colonial French villas and elegant buildings reminiscent of elegant bygone days during the period of French colonial rule. Curiously, what I liked most about these graceful, if slightly decrepit old buildings was that they provided a kind of ‘authenticity’ to the living history of Ha Noi as all of them had a musty smell of decay that I found captivating. It was like the fetid incense of a past era and one that spoke of French chic and olde worlde charm.

Times change and Ha Noi is no longer quaint as it is now more or less just another modern city with new buildings and skyscrapers everywhere. For the ordinary people life is now economically, socially and culturally much better. Memories of what used to be and how people lived back then are fading. The years of deprivation and the poverty they endured are mainly forgotten, but sometimes events and stories can bring those long lost days back to life. In this case a chance meeting I had with a beggar I nicknamed Q was truly a life-changing event for me.

Throughout our life we learn many lessons, sometimes from the strangest people and in the most unusual places. This is the story of one such incident, a small event, but one that set me thinking about my own life and the values we hold. What happened many years ago in Ha Noi profoundly changed me and continues to influence my outlook to this day. It may sound strange that it was a simple beggar who provided the unusual foundation for the ethical standards that I came to believe are the core of who we are and make life worth living.

I have no doubt that what happened will stay with me for the rest of my life. Yet I would be the first to admit that the lessons I drew from this experience may be purely the result of my over-active imagination, a fiction caused by my seeing a mirage of what I wanted to see rather than reality as it really was. Here is my story recounting what happened so you can be the judge.

When I first went to the north of the forcibly unified Viet Nam all those years ago, their ‘American’ war had not long ended. Repairing the devastation of war was the focus of the economy. The work to rebuild just about everything meant that Ha Noi was one of the world’s poorest major cities with a run-down infrastructure, a growing population struggling to survive, slow economic growth, poverty, homelessness, hunger and every deprivation imaginable. As a foreigner working there I quickly became inured to the poor, the homeless and the many beggars. As time went by I noticed the poverty less and less: it was just there, part of the normal fabric of this society. However, unlike most third world (and many first world countries) I never felt that I was in the slightest danger while walking the streets either by day, or often late at night. Without exception the people were friendly, curious and cheerful, but never threatening.

My nocturnal strolls were usually in search of a street stall serving some supper snacks and local delicacies - with ingredients it was often best not to ask about, though I should mention that I never had any stomach ‘illnesses’.

Even in winter the cool Ha Noi nights are still relatively mild, so I felt little compassion for the myriad of homeless people settled down in their place on one of the ledges under the eaves of every building. There they were sheltered from the evening rain and the chill of the early morning dew.

As I was by now a regular passer-by, day in and day out, the motley occupants living in near permanent residency around my old colonial hotel’s ledge soon began to smile and wave to me and add a few incomprehensible words of greeting. From the giggling that generally followed some of the comments I presumed that the jokes were not always complimentary to me, but so what? Let the homeless have their harmless fun at my expense. Curiously, those tolerated to live and sleep on the ledge of the hotel obeyed an unwritten rule of never begging from or harassing the hotel guests. It was a more than fair exchange for both sides.

One night, quite late even by my standards (as all restaurants in Ha Noi in those bygone days closed by 9.00pm!), ravenous and tired after a long day at the office, I prowled the alleys behind Thu Do St looking for a stall still serving their special fare of one of the popular local dishes. I was not quite at the stage of trying to catch one of the many rats scurrying along the gutters, but I had passed the point of worrying too much about the hygiene or décor of my eating place. Fortunately, by now my local knowledge of the area was quite good, so I was sure that down a nearby alley I would find a Phó soup-seller. By way of explanation, Phó is a large bowl of noodle soup with plenty of bean-shoots, fresh vegetables, herbs & spices and various meats. In my currency it cost about $0.45, yet it is a full meal in itself. This particular stall was unusual because it remained open until dawn because they provided a meal service to the night-shift garbage collectors. You cannot become more immersed in the local culture than to share your meal with the street cleaners!

These garbage collectors were in a special class of their own, and it is worth digressing for a moment to mention their role in an essential, if rather unpleasant and often aromatic cleansing process. These women (for they were all women) began at dusk each night and cleaned the entire city centre before dawn the next morning. They did so using no more than a reed whisk, a small domestic sized brush and an equally small shovel. They swept the streets, removed large rubbish bags placed outside homes, shops and offices and filled rather large 2-wheel barrows that looked more like rickshaws than the traditional western style of barrow. They covered every street and laneway as they pushed their barrow around in search of garbage ‘treasure’. Sometimes by working in pairs they would remove quite large and heavy bags from outside businesses. When their barrows were full they would trek back to a collection point and leave their carts to be emptied by others while they rested.

At the entrance to this lane was the collection point nearest to my hotel. Once the collectors had brought in their hand carts they would gather to gossip and share a frugal meal. What I found surprising was that while they ate or rested, each cart would be overturned and the contents spread out so the garbage could be classified by another group of expert scavengers. While the ‘collectors’ waited, ate or took some well-earned moments of leisure a small army of these ‘classifiers’, who would not have been out of place on the set of a "Star Wars" movie, rapidly sorted through everything, classifying, scavenging and selecting anything recoverable for recycling, reclamation, reuse or so useless that it would simply be sent for disposal at the city dump. Finally, when no more could be saved the utterly unusable was manually transferred by hand into a huge Russian Zil truck for transportation to some landfill beyond the city limits. The happy garbage collectors, chirping like a flock of birds, would rise as one and with much cheerful banter, would collect their tools and barrows and disappear once more down the dimly lit Hogarthian side streets. It was almost an operatic delight to listen to the sound of their trilling voices as they faded away. This was a ritual that strangely fascinated me and frequently made me shake my head in mild disbelief every time I witnessed it. By choosing my moment I could either eat with the collectors (something that enthralled them!) or I could eat alone between their shifts. As I was tired, tonight I chose to eat alone.

There were not many Europeans in Ha Noi in those days, but I would occasionally see one or two on the streets each day. Europeans per se were not particularly unusual and were therefore not much of a curiosity to the locals. This meant that I was rarely disturbed or stared at by an inquisitive populace, as often happened in the rural areas where very few Europeans were to be found. The exception of course, were the beggars: they did stare intently, disturb and gently accost me half a dozen times each day. Given the level of overt poverty I was surprised that I was not approached more often. The second thing that constantly astonished me was their gentleness.

Once, after a bad day at work and in a foul mood, I rather gruffly turned and told the grubby, one-legged man tugging at my sleeve to bug off! Shocked by my aggression, he immediately did - and justifiably left me with a sense of remorse and guilt at the rudeness I had directed against such a helpless person. He retreated, but stood nearby for a while looking hurt and embarrassed, but he steadfastly avoided looking directly at me. Unfortunately, I did not display the strength of character I should have as I did not correct my appalling behaviour. Instead, I compounded my lapse of character by shamefully sneaking away from the scene without a backward glance. My cowardly act and my assault on the dignity of such a hungry, powerless man haunted me all night.

The next day I consciously decided never to be caught out the same way again. My chosen answer was to fill my pockets with 1,000 Ðong notes (in those days’ worth about $0.04 cents!) and, if and when I chose, to hand out one of them to any beggar who approached me. By this simple means my conscience at the disparity between my wealth and their poverty could be salved in multiples of $0.04 cents! I figured that easing my conscience was worth the $1.00 a day I expected it might cost me.

As I sat on the low bench enjoying my $0.45 cent bowl of soup and a bottle of "Ha Noi Bia" I felt rather than saw a presence behind me. I looked at the stall owner standing by the stove directly opposite me and noticed that she was tensely staring over my shoulder. I turned and, six inches from my elbow was a dirty, smelly little man with very un-Vietnamese features. His face was disfigured by some scarlet, scaly, puffed-up skin disease and he was very dark skinned for a Vietnamese. I did not feel any fear of him, but I was caught off guard, surprised and rather repulsed by the smell and his ugliness. If nothing else, I was uncomfortable at this invasion of my personal space by this living horror while I was eating.

As the stall owner moved to chase him away the little man put one hand on his stomach and pointed the other at his mouth in a universally recognizable sign of I’m hungry, please feed me. Before I had a chance to dispense 1,000 Ðong of my wealth to him the stall owner had chased him away with pushes and some Vietnamese invective. He immediately began to flee down the lane.

I was not going to be shamed by overt meanness a second time so I called him back with a wave and a cry of "Hey, Quasimodo, c’mere!" He stopped, stood and looked sheepishly at the irate stall owner and then at me. Beggars are expert psychologists so it took him just about one micro-second to work out that I was more likely to have the greater authority in this situation than the stall owner. Ignoring whatever it was the stall-holder was loudly saying, he boldly strode back to the stall, and was rewarded with one of my 1,000 Ðong notes. A huge smile split his face, revealing a dental nightmare of blackened, broken teeth, beyond description. I smiled back, but only because I had been struck by the blackly humorous thought that a whiff of his breath could probably kill. We nodded to each other and he disappeared down the laneway leaving me alone contemplating whether or not to finish my soup while listening to the continuing annoyed mutterings of my chef. My conscience was clear once more and I felt good. As I resumed finishing my meal the next shift of ‘hunters and collectors’ began to arrive.

As I left my hotel the next night I deliberately decided to search further afield for a new epicurean experience. ‘Q’ (as I had nicknamed him) met me at the entrance to my hotel. The same signal for hunger was repeated and his eyes looked even sadder than the night before. He received his 1,000 Ðong note, thanked me with his hideous smile and a kowtow before turning and scurrying away. I amused myself by quickly calculating that, as this performance was likely to become a rite of passage I was going to be poorer by a further $1.60 cents by the time I left Ha Noi as my work there would soon be coming to an end! Sure enough, each day Q would find me and repeat his ritual no matter where I went, or whichever shop, café or restaurant I whimsically chose (sometimes quite far away from the hotel). It occurred to me that he must have had an efficient spy network to know where to find me, but that is probably just the onset of paranoia on my part.

On the sixth day, Q appeared in front of me as usual as I approached my hotel. I stopped, reached into my pocket and leafed through the crumpled bundle of notes for the usual offering. He waited expectantly, but my search was in vain. I had already distributed all my ‘beggar notes’ and no 1,000 Ðong note was to be found! I took all the notes out of my pocket and showed him that I had nothing to give him. Q did not touch either the money or me, but his eyes moved over the bundle at lightning speed looking for his quarry. Soon, he too admitted defeat and looked up at me with an expression akin to panic. Sorry; next time I said sympathetically in a language he did not comprehend, as I thoughtlessly brushed past him.

I had not gone five paces when my repeated insensitivity struck me. Not only had I not given him his daily allowance of a miserable $0.04 cents, but I had also proffered for his inspection about one million Ðong, probably multiples of the total money he would see in many a year, if ever! I cringed once more at my unthinking ignorance. I looked back and was embarrassed by the crestfallen look of utter misery on his face. His mouth hung loosely open and he dribbled as he honestly appeared to have lapsed into a state of mild shock. I found the lowest denomination among my currency and offered him a 2,000 Ðong note. The effect was immediate, his face lit up and he scampered over and took the proffered note. The sidewalk crowd who had been observing this tragi-comic melodrama derided my weakness and joked among themselves at what they saw as my bizarre western behaviour. Some incomprehensible comments were made directly to me, but I ignored them. It did not matter to either Q, or to me; honour and the universal order of society had been restored on both sides. I went on my way, feeling satisfied - and all the better for having fulfilled my part of our ‘contract; with a double dose of generosity.

The next day as I sat in the Sinh Café, which had a photo of Catherine Deneuve on the wall sitting exactly where I was right now. She had eaten here when she made the movie ‘Indochine’ in Ha Noi. Today I was having my favourite lunch of rice, grilled pork chop with egg and red-cooked vegetables, when once more, like magic, Q appeared at the entrance in front of me. He made no sign but stared intently at me until he caught my attention. I can assure you that being stared at by Q while trying to eat generally caused a sharp decline in one’s appetite. I reached into my pocket for one of the many 1,000 Ðong notes I had procured to avoid a repeat of yesterday’s embarrassing incident. Q became agitated and waved frantically at the café owner. Although the café was open fronted, Q knew his place and would not enter without permission.

Permission was not granted as his presence would have been bad for the reputation of the café. Any café in Ha Noi that has a celebrity photo of Catherine Deneuve is unlikely to also want someone like Q hanging around too. Mme Bao, the owner, came over to me and said, almost as an incomprehensible question, He says you have already paid him for today? I smiled at Q and shook my head in amusement. Q smiled back, waved his hand to me in a mock salute and shuffled on his way. Mme Bao observed our strange camaraderie then walked away muttering something to the other customers along the lines of: ‘Unbelievable! Amusing! Weird!’ I thought to myself, even the beggars of Ha Noi are different. Initially, I thought no more of it, but a short while later an idea struck me about an amusing game I could play with Q at our inevitable next meeting.

The next day, late in the evening, I was sharing my meal with a dozen of the hunters and collectors at the garbage-collectors laneway stall, when Q caught up with me. Perhaps it was the presence of so many people that caused him to hold back. I cannot be sure, but he waited until I was finished eating before approaching me. I was ready for him and pulled my hands from each pocket and offered him a 5,000 Ðong note in my left hand and a 1,000 Ðong note in my right. Q looked at each for the briefest of moments then, without hesitation he tugged at the 1,000 Ðong note. It was not until I had released the note that our eyes met. There was no guile, no recognition that he thought I had tried to trick him, just the usual twinkle that we were friends and he had received the agreed daily allowance that would guarantee his survival. He smiled happily and turned away to go about his business.

This time, I was the one in mild shock as I stood watching him as he shuffled off into the darkness as I was both perplexed and confused. My ‘trick’ game to test his character had been no contest. I now felt that I had foolishly attempted to betray him as I had tried to make him break his faith in our relationship for a fraction of a dollar.

I cringed as what I had actually done was demean myself by using my unlimited power to try to make him cheat. Instead he had not hesitated to do the right thing and I had utterly lost the contest. My test of his character had turned out to be, a one-sided contest that I had failed. I felt sick as it now occurred to me that perhaps it was Q who might have lost some of his respect for me. I had tried to use my wealth and power to measure his character, but instead he had measured mine – and I was the one whose quality of character was found to be wanting. I had humiliated myself by trying to be clever and demonstrate my superior character against that of a starving beggar.

My time in Ha Noi was almost over and I had only a few days left before I had to leave. I began my preparations for leaving with a quick round of present buying. Over two million Ðong boosted the local economy as I sought out the unusual things I felt were most representative of northern Viet Nam. Once more I returned to my hotel through the darkened streets, laden with my purchases. I had paid Q earlier that day so I had no expectation of meeting him at this hour. As I passed by one of the small hotels about a block from mine, with its row of homeless people sleeping on its ledge, barely protected from an unusual chill and a light, misty rain that had begun to fall, a cry greeted me and, zombie-like, Q rose from the ‘dead’ from under a piece of hessian sack. I was not particularly pleased to see him as I had done my civic duty for the day and no desire to be any more closely associated with Q than I already was.

However, there was no avoiding him and he quickly arrived by my side. I endured my fate as he happily chirped to his fellow ledge residents about me, with much pointing and tugging at my sleeve. I gathered that he was letting them know that I was his friend and that we were good mates. He offered to carry my bags, but they were light and I only had a block to go. I smiled and politely refused. We parted company and he returned to his spot on the ledge. Several times I looked back and each time I did he was dutifully still standing there, on his ‘bed’, waiting to wave to me, until I was finally out of sight.

On my last night in Ha Noi I lay awake thinking over the sum of my experiences in this, the cultural and spiritual capital of Viet Nam. The sights, sounds, smells, food, people, events - everything. Eventually I turned to the puzzle of Q. Here was a man with extreme disabilities and almost nothing in the way of worldly possessions, unless you call ‘something’ a plastic bag containing a piece of hessian for a bed sheet and a length of plastic sheeting to keep off the rain. He had no change of clothes and, as far as I could see, he possessed nothing else. Yet he was cheerful and irrepressible. Life had been reduced to its barest essentials, a dry ledge, a daily meal and a friend he could rely on to provide the 1,000 Ðong a day necessary for his survival.

Yes, I know, there are many millions of people in this world in exactly the same position, but what made Q exceptional in my mind were the incidents in which he refused to accept, or take more than his due even when it was offered. 1,000 Ðong a day from me sustained him and it would be unfair in his view, if that is how I understand it, for him to accept more from me than the agreed fair rate. From observing and interpreting the behaviour of Q, I learned a great deal about what real character is and also about the indomitability of the human spirit.

No matter how difficult or degrading his situation, no matter how close to the edge of survival he was, Q retained his self-worth and dignity. Despite his utter poverty, health issues and abject circumstances, Q never complained, nor did he ever compromise. He always did the right thing as he saw it within the rules he had set for himself to live by. He may have been hungry, he may have needed just a few extra Ðong for something - and he never hesitated to accept the agreed 1,000 Dong each day - but he neither expected nor accepted more from me than he thought was the amount agreed between us as his due. Despite his extreme poverty, Q remained scrupulously honest no matter how tempting or how great the opportunity was to increase his wealth at my expense. He taught me that there is no limit to which one cannot go and still not compromise, even when life and your very survival depends on it. It was an unfathomable conundrum for me as to how, despite being so permanently close to the edge of disaster, he was able to retain a sense of humour, a perception of self-worth that transcended his circumstances and with it all, his pride, his dignity and respect for himself as a man.

A good day was to have a full belly, a dry ledge and a reliable friend. With those few things Q was able to retain his self-respect and his humanity and in doing so he taught me more about life and the true essence of real character than any abstract management book or management seminar ever could.

Despite my best intentions, I missed meeting Q on my last day in Ha Noi as I left early for the airport. I wonder how he took my sudden departure, my disappearance without a goodbye or a last few Ðong? Would that be the final straw that broke his spirit? I doubt it, and I desperately hope not, because I owe him a lot more than any money I could pay him, though he will never know it. I know he would not understand the lessons he taught me even if it was explained to him. Q is just what he is, but by his unflinching and uncompromising ethical behaviour he taught me the value that exists in some inherently good people. I learned from him about the need to have a real pride and a respect for oneself. To achieve this you need to live by an ethical standard that you set for yourself without ever conceding your principles to life’s pressures and adversity. By living to such an almost unattainable moral standard, completely at odds with his economic and material assets he managed to retain a sense of personal worth. He was my teacher and I was his very slow-learning and uncomprehending pupil. As a result of our brief and very unequal relationship I now knew that there are lines that must never be crossed and some rules that can never be broken, no matter what the personal cost.

Q is a man who retained his dignity, without compromise in utterly adverse circumstances. He is a man for whom I have, and will always have, the greatest respect – and deservedly so. Q set an ethical challenge for me to be worthy of his respect – and it has not been easy. It is irrelevant that he will never know what he gave me, but he set me on a course from which I have not deviated since he taught me the things that really make life valuable and worthwhile.

What a wonderful place the world would be if only there were more people with the morality and strength of character of a man like Q?

Nemesis

The problem with living on the edge is that it affects your view of life and all the people you see around you. As you have to always be