U-582 ½ - The Reb & Yank Series

Notes for the Screenplay/novel by SMJ 

Circa 8.21.03, Philadelphia, PA 

Casting Thoughts: 

Johnny Depp: Yank aka, me 

Matthew McConaughey: Reb aka Webb 

Joe Peschi: voice of Slappy 

Danny Glover/John Goodman: voice of Wilford 

Listed on Ebay: “Slightly used WWII German submarine. $1mm or best offer.”  

***

(Background/Soundtrack: Bruce Springsteen – Devils and Dust) 

Bridge of the nuclear attack sub USS Woodbridge. The boat is on maneuvers in the North Atlantic, running deep off the N. Atlantic shelf. First Officer Matthew Emmory Stephens a.k.a ‘Yank’ is at his post at the fire control console. He’s in full DressWhites. A mock attack drill is under way. Scene shifts, Yank is in his quarters reading a ‘Dear John’ letter. Reading the letter, Yank’s voice comes through, but to the audience, emanating from his mind. Camera pans back. Brutally honest, the woman comes far too clean, revealing a 20 year history that would make Linda Lovelace blush. Emotionally the dominos fall. Yank is now questioning everything he has ever known or held dear; 34 years of Arthurian Legend and Traditional Roman Catholicism blown to hell. How could he have been that fucking naïve? Christ, his heart is torn strait out of his chest, his soul stripped bare.  

(Music: John Prine, “All the Best”)  

His thoughts dart to his two young daughters, probably playing innocently on playground with the nanny somewhere south of Richmond, innocently awaiting his return. The professional in him chokes back the overwhelming and conflicting emotions. He sits on the edge of his bunk, staring blindly forward. “Fuck me” are the only two words that utter from his lips. He crumples the letter in tight right fist, then drops a crumpled picture mindlessly onto the floor. He then at the picks up the crumpled picture from the floor, carefully unfolding it; a picture of a beautiful young woman moments before drawn from his wallet, and stares at it. A tear forms in his eye. He again crumples the picture in his right hand, again letting it drop to the floor. He hangs his head and silently begins to cry… 

Scene shifts: a man in his late 70’s is running for his life, holding on tight to an old 12 gauge shotgun, wearing bib overhauls and soiled baseball cap, running frantically through the woods, deep in the North Carolina Hills. The fog is still thick, as the first rays of morning sunlight begin filtering through the hollow. The fog closes in behind him as he runs, out of breath, cussing and muttering about how if only Andy Jackson and Robt E. Lee would have agreed in Richmond, non of this bullshit would be happening. Fucking Feds... 

(Music: Lynard Skynard: Sweet Home Alabama) 

Looking over his shoulder, the man stumbles, nearly running into a tree, then trips over a  massive root and tumbles to the ground. An inadvertent blast rings from his gun. He’s curses as leaves and twigs shower him from above. In the background can be heard the voices of men yelling “Federal Agents! Do not flee! Federal Agents! Stop where you are!” Several gunshots ring out. ‘Whamp! Whamp! Whamp! Several high-velocity Government-issue .40 caliber Smith and Wesson slugs smack a tree limb just above the old mans head, showering him again with shards of splintered oak bark. Another explosion. Shrapnel rains down through the mist. Jumping to his feet, he takes off running again. “SonnafaBitchin’Yankee Bastards!” he cusses again as a branch catches his shirtsleeve and tears a hole in the worn fabric. He holds onto his baseball cap onto his head with in right hand, shotgun in the left, and runs like hell, cussing all the while. 

 (Music: “Devil went down to Georgia” – CDB) 

Scene shifts: 7:35am. State Senator’s office of D. Webster Michaels III, PhD, MBA, Esquire and Sr. Republican Senator from the State of Virginia. His secretary, Miss Maggie Barnsworth, a shapely and dangerously attractive 26-year-old post-Doc in International Affairs from Georgetown, is wearing an equally dangerous low-cut, tight red dress that could for all intents and purposes, almost pass pass for being lethally painted on.  

She is standing in front of the Senator’s desk, trying to appear inconspicuous while covertly emphasizing her voluptuous, pouting cleavage. The young woman’s oversize preppy glasses, tight hair bun and honed tip #2 Conestoga pencil behind the right ear seem out of sync with her 5-inch stiletto heels and noticeable thong line, further accentuating her God-given gifts.  

(Music: Lynyrd Skynard, “What’s your name?”) 

Miss Barnsworth held a steamping cup of coffee in her left hand, a clipboard in the right - far too cheery for a 7:15am briefing, as far as the Gentleman from Virginia was concerned. ‘Humm’, he pondered. Under different circumstances, like for instance soaked to the gills with dark Jamaican rum somewhere just slightly northwest of conscious on a deserted beach of some nondescript atoll south of Fiji while listening to Buffett tunes, well, yes, she would indeed be very attractive. But here, today, with her overt, head cheerleader-esque disposition, well, hell, she just wasn’t helping to turn down the heat on his world-class hangover - which was threatening to severely boil over momentarily – by one friggin’ iota. “Wow that was an amazingly creative, almost covetous and virtually complete thought. Fuck my head hurts.” He holds down the urge to belch, not wanting to contemplate the pending possibilities... His eyes begin to water. He reaches in his top desk drawer and rummages through it and finds the aspirin bottle. Pouring a handful into his left hand, he downs them with his now lukewarm black coffee. He stares at the Dartmouth College Crest on the mug. Michaels was now uncharacteristically oblivious to the beautiful young woman who was not-so-overtly competing for his attention along with the morning's agenda. He now stares out the window, daydreaming. He snaps out of his daze. “Oh, good morning Maggie. How we doing this morning?” “Busy day senator,” she snaps. She sat her coffee cup on the desk, pulled the pencil out from behind her ear just for effect, and began rattling off the day’s agenda with the accuracy, speed, and efficiency of an Uzi sub machine gun. Webster could almost sense the hot shell casting bouncing off of his forehead, and for a moment wished he had a flak jacket and helmet. How he wished either the aspirin would kick in two minutes ago, or the building would collapse on him, offering a quick and merciful death. He forced back a swallow in a hopeless attempt to quell the fire in his gut, trying to contain yet another belch, and motioned for the young woman to proceed. 

She continued: “The Senate Committee on Ethics subpoenaed you, again. Wow! Four times in 7 months. That’s gotta be some kind of record, huh?” He just winced, all the while imagining a mini neural meltdown approximately 10 centimeterssouthwest of his central corpus callosum. “Wow, so this is what three day old musty, cigarette smoke-laden Agave laced with perspiration smells like: me” he pondered. “Sorry”, she said. Seems the committee has additional questions with respect to your family’s involvement relative to our fair state’s Liquor Control Commission, Lottery Control Board, Tobacco Council, Horseracing and OTB enterprises and most recently, numerous dabbling in various NASCAR-related ventures. The editorial police from Naval Academy called about your proposed commencement speech next week in Annapolis. They want to discuss certain aspects of the speech with you - in particular your position on ‘Rising tensions and proposed solutions relative to the Middle Eastern conflict’ Whereas they appreciated, even sympathized with the ‘spirit’ of the draft, they would like you to tone down the ‘tripling of foreign aid to Israel, hell let’s give Puerto Rico back to Cuba (as we haven’t been able to buy a good triple-tax free municipal bearer bond in twenty years anyway), annex Cuba, bring our Heb pals into the Union, then we can in good conscious ‘nuke the sand turd rat bastards back to the stone age where the flea-bitten sonsabitches belong anyway. After which, we annex Saudi Arabia and back up the Oil tankers then give the Rebel Yell: ‘You pricks want some more of this or what???’ part. They think that might be a bit what, too hawkish, diplomatically insensitive and overall, what was the phrase ‘prodigiously inflammatory?’ insulting the Arabs, Israelis, Europeans, Chinese not to mention about 20 million or so American voters” The President got wind of it too, and agrees that a revision is and I quote “damned well in order”. Michaels reached for the trash can, his stomach churning; this could get ugly.  

She continued “The Big Guy is meeting with the Israeli President next week at Camp David and said, and I again quote “Please tell Webster to try not to step all over his friggin’ dick next week in Annapolis”, and that he doesn’t need your Redneck assupsetting his legislative applecart, a-gain. For a Rhodes Scholar, the man sure does have a way with the King’s English, huh? Oh, and you’re still on for golf with him at the Greenbrier week after next, and he asked that you bring along a jar or two of your Daddy’s ‘sweet down home elixir’, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. And that he was sorry he ordered the Still blown to hell, sending it to Still Heaven, but knowing your Daddy, he figures production should be back up and at full production capabilitiesshortly. And next time you out-bluff him with only a pair of 5’s at Senator Jeffrey’s summer place, well perhaps you’ll reconsider. You know how he hates to look bad in front of the Joint Chiefs. So I guess, all things considered, he’s over you calling him – my, he does have a head for quotes - “a hopelessly uninformed, intelligence-siphoning, reverse vortex-induced carbon based life form; a stupid, insensitive and most likely drunken sod, and part time prick whom Darwin himself would have out of pity and in deference to real research most likely thrown back onto the rocks of the Galapagos en lieu of better quarry – and stomped on his spineless ass into a less affable grey paste - and that you’d start impeachment hearing, but the stupid Oakiewould probably confuse it with summer cobbler and ask for a spoon” on national television last week during the debates.” Reb winced. “Guess I lost my head”, he mumbled, as his intestines threatened to explode. Reb winced, taking his raised right index finger, drawing an imaginary ‘One’ on an imaginary blackboard. 

To some people, pain is simply a response; to others, an end in and of itself. Still to others, prophets, martyrs and such, it was a cleansing en route to a much larger endgame.  Reb wasn’t quit sure which camp he and yank fell into. ‘C’est la Vie’ he thought, ‘what the hell. Perhaps some things are better left unknown…” These thoughts and considerably greater ones were interrupted by…. 

(Music: The Allman Brothers, Jessica) 

She took the obligatory sip of coffee, nodded, and continued: “Dale Ehrnert’s Jr’sJ lawyer called. Something about a celebrity endorsement check due the family for putting the State of Virginia’s Crest – with your face superimposed over it I might add - on number 3’s hood last week in Talladega.  And said that your argument that since Jeff cracked it up in lap 140, destroying ‘your anticipated and highly anticipated marquise value in the winner's circle’ thereby nullifying the endorsement agreement, well, just doesn’t hold water, and to and again I quote: “go to hell and pay up, you cheap bastard’. He also requested that you kindly return Jeff’s toolbox and the spare engine that you ‘borrowed’ shortly before the last race. And if you do this by noon tomorrow, he’ll drop the lawsuit, and all will be forgiven.  

“Your fiancée called. Seems the wedding dress will need to be sent back to Paris and refitted. Said to tell you the alteration would only run about $21,000, give or take a few thousand. Oh, and she mentioned something about ‘the dammed dot turnedblue’... You’ve got lunch at 11:30 today with the State Finance Committee to review next year’s budget. You’ve got dinner tomorrow evening with Fred Thompson. You might want to send his wife some flowers and a bottle of wine to soften things up a bit – especially after that Christmas party incident and all. Oh, and I almost forgot: your Daddy is holding on line one. He’s outta breathe and Lordy is he Up-Set! Keeps yelling something about ‘the end of a fucking era’; that the family’s production facility has gone up in Fucking’ flames, and that all Yankee Revenuers, and Yankees in general, well Y’all just plain suck!” Well, that just about covers it. Have a good day, Senator!” She smiled an over-perky now 7:35am smile, turned on her left 5-inchStilleto heel, while purposely exposing a well-tanned and shapely upper right thigh and calf.  As she walked out, she gave him a flirtatious glance over her right shoulder, then closed the door behind her. 

(Music: John Prine, ‘Picture Show’) 

Reb continued to stare out he window. Leaning back in his chair, he sighed heavily and picks up a model of a British Corsair from the windowsill. Reaching in his desk drawer he grabs a pack of contraband Sobriani Black Russian cigarettes, lights one, and takes a long, slow drag. Exhaling a bluish cloud, he half mutters “Argh Mattie. The winds of change be a blowin’. The Jolly Rodger will again fly. This I vow”. He picks up a framed picture of himself and his pal Yank on a sailboat (which was later impounded by the Syrian Government, for various unsundry reasons, he reminded himself) in Greece taken years earlier, when the two were juniors on spring break while at Dartmouth. Yank double majored in Electrical Engineering and Astro Physics, Reb in Ancient Mesopotamian poetry and 7^th dynasty Chinese anthropology. Setting the picture back on his desk, he picked up a letter opener, and baring it between his teeth he laughs: “It’s time Yank. It’s time amigo. It’s time.” 

(Music: Emerson Lake & Palmer, ‘Hoedown’) 

***

(Music: The Police, ‘Bombs away’) 

Scene shifts. Webster Michaels walks out into the bright sunlight outside of Chicago’s O’Hare International airport, sporting a pair of severely worn and faded blue OP sailing shorts, a virtually spent Sobriani Black Russian cigarette defying gravity by hanging on his lower lip. A baseball cap sporting the crest of the Milwaukee Athletic Club go with the Black Wayfarer sunglass, flip-flops and worn T-shirt complete with a picture of Glenn ‘Fireball’ Roberts (opening scene quote) on the front, on the back is written “Stand on it and turn left.” He heaves a military gunnysack over his right shoulder. Hailing a taxi, he says to the driver “Science and Technology Museum, my good man. I hear they have that old Kraut Sub U-505 on display”. “Sure do,” answers the cabbie. “Ten-minute cab ride. It’ll cost ya six bucks. “A bargain at twice the price” grins Reb. “Make it so.” he replies, doing his best Patrick Stewart Star Trek immitation; the joke being completely lost on the Indian cabbie. Reb just shrugged. Camera pans on Rebs face. His eyebrows raised, he looks over the top of his Wayfarers. He pulls from his gunnysack a 65-year-old German Military tech & repair manual for MANN diesel engines. He pulls the headphones of his IPOD over his ears. Clicks ‘play’. Nick Drakes ‘Time has told me’ begins to play. He begins to flip through the manual and grins, picks up a congressional memo on ‘Federal Grants for restoration of historically imperative projects and renovations’…”Here we go, Yank. We’ll probably get strung up from the yardarms, but what the hell., we lonly live once..”, he mutters to himself. 

(Music: The Clash, ‘Career opportunities’) 

***

The flotsam and jetsam of the outgoing tide washed over Yank’s partially buried right leg and arm. Matthew Emory Stephens a.k.a. Yank managed to lift his aching face out of the warm sand just enough to keep from the deluge of another oncoming wave. He looks much the way a piece of 2-day old stale cinnamon toast looks with several big bites taken out of it. Opening one eye, Yank finds himself face-to-face with a cross-eyed sea gull and massive bull sea lion. Yank try's unsuccessfully to clear his vision before ultimately giving up, and dropping his head face first down into the sand. Ughhh, Jamacian Rum... 

(Music: Jimmy Buffet, Son of a Son of sailor) 

"Wow. Guess they let anyone in this club. Which brings up the point: would I want to be a member of a club that would have me? Yeah, well, Groucho I ain’t. What the hell is a pasty, sunburned white boy doing this far south, this time of year?” mused the sea lion. "And the bright yellow OP sailing shorts defiantly clash with the German U-boat Commanders leather acket and hat, too. What a fashion disaster. Should we eat him?", mused the gull hopefully.  

Wilford and Slappy had been the best friends since childhood. Wilford really did care for the bird, but as his mother was apt to say ‘Nice gull, that Slappy. Comes from a good flock too. But that boy is fucking dumber than a day old conch shell stuffed with whale shit.” A tear came to the sea lion’s eye as he pondered his saintly and late mother’s words.  "No you stupid fuck, we're not going to eat him," barked Wilford. “By the way knucklehead, he's got a healthy handful of tail feathers - yours”. "Take me to your leader!” shouted Yank, half conscious, springing to what could loosely be referred to as an aggressive Lotus position. Spitting equal parts sand and sanity, he unconsciously twirled the gull over his head, in a mock sword parry and thrustmanuver. The shrieking bird responds immediately, squawking wildly, trying to take flight, the process of which caused the ripping out of the majority of its tail feathers.  

A stunned Yank and amazed Wilford sat and watched as the bird managed to get about 2 feet into the air, sans rear stabilizing tail feather which then due to lack of yaw and pitch control caused by it’s now missing tail feathers, forced a complete 360 degree mid-flight barrel roll, achieving just enough lift to fly headlong into a three foot oncoming wave. Crashing and tumbling into the surf.  The bird washed up on the beach, and landed upside down and backwards right next to Yank. "What anfriggin’ idiot", barked the sea lion, tears of laughter rolling down his snout. The sea lion couldn’t help but roll on his back, and laughing so hard, began to hyperventilate. The sea lion reached into his beach bag, pulled out a small brown paper bag, and put it over his snout, and attempted to equalize his own carbon dioxide levels. "What did you say?” asked a very astonished Yank, still attempting to open his sand encrusted right eye while directing the question at the 500lb sea lion. Speaking thoughthe bag, the sea lion said "What an idiot”, pointing his large right front flipper at the cross-eyed, drenched and coughing seagull. "Like my old mamma used to say, damned bird is dumber than conch shell stuffed with three-day-old whale shit”. The sea lion, huffed, still attempting to catch its breath, then took two hits from an asthma inhaler. “I’ve been asthmatic since childhood” noted the sea lion. “Is that so?, asked Yank rhetorically, who then proceeded to pass back out and fall backwards into the sand. 

(Music: Ry Cooder: 634-5789) 

Well, hell, pondered Yank; Reb was right, again. Too much stress coupled with the incorrect implementation of Reb’s ‘universal theory of offsetting penalties’ – one of Reb’s many “theories but in all probability just axioms yet to be proven” – ultimately leads to disaster. This particular axiom postulated that the universe was comprised counter opposing forces, and that one had but to consider the force/counterforce calculus, and alter ones action accordingly, thus flowing with and neutralizing as opposed to against the Chi of the matter (Sort of a Newton meets Confucius meets Oscar Wilde), thereby moving the negative to a neutral, or neutral to a positive, thus de facto transforming the vice to virtue, or at least to lesser vice. Example: the sublime and calming effect of drawing on a Sobriania Black Russian while simultaneously sipping Tennessee sour mash while listening to the Allman Brothers ‘Eat a Peach’ record is proportional to and will equally offset if not commensurately nullify the stress which lead to that particular vice. And, in doing so, the vice actually becomes a de facto virtue, or at least lesser vice. Yank had once witnessed Reb, at a bar in Hoboken, stun several Kabalistic and Zoroastrian practitioners with this one., “Closing with that famous Rebism ‘Well hell yeah, it works. Just watch this…”, which ended up with several Kabalistic Rabbi’s and Zoroastrian High Priests waking up in Sedona Arizona, with hangovers beyond their wildest dreams, having absolutely no memory of how in the world they had gotten to Sedona, Arizona, and why their heretofore firmly sound minds were full of doubt and confusion. For his part Reb only mused, “Welcome to ‘Shine Central boys. Adios and don’t forget to record this in your history books’, after which he then jumped on a world class Quarter horse, waved goodbye and headed alone across the canyon floor, leaving behind several very green and very onfused clerics. The theory further proffered that most of life’s disasters - strokes, heart attacks and even worse, the inability to live a happy, guilt-free, prosperous and party-fill life, were pretty much the result of not applying this one simple principle. He had to admit, lying seemingly half dead and apparently hung over on a deserted atoll was one hell of a way to prove Reb correct, again. 

(Music: ELP: Touch and Go) 

Now here he was, which was where, by the way, talking to a sea lion named Wilford and some cross-eyed gull named Slappy. He absently-mindedly reached into his pockets finding several crimped Iberian beer bottle caps, a cocktail napkin with a Portuguese waitresses name and number scribbled on to what looked to be an abbreviated version of colloquial Armenian, three waterlogged Ace of Spades playing cards, a bag of wet peyote buttons and a ruined pack of Sobriani Black Russian Cigarettes. Confused, he looked at the parcels of only-the-Lord-know-what-and-from-where, now laid out in the wet sand beside him. “Wow, three Ace of Spades”, nodded Slappy approvingly, “You don’t see that everyday. And pre-shucked oysters too! What luck” cried the gull, as he began greedily nibbling on the soggy contents of the plastic bag. The sea lion picked up the Sobriani’s, nodding approvingly. “Mind if I take a couple? Probably dry out o.k. Good smokes are hard to come by down here, you know,” mused the sea lion. “Help yourself. Probably taste like pickled herring anyway,” acknowledged Yank. “Excellent!” Barked Wilford. Yank reached in his coat pocket and unconsciously grabbed his lighter, handing it to Wilford. “I suspect you’ll need this too”. “Wow. A limited edition, commemorative John Wayne Zippo! Thanks Brother! Dude, for a bi-ped, you rock!” said the sea lion, gratefully accepting the lighter too!” Wilford immediately clicked the flint, nodding approvingly at the spark, flame then waft of lighter fluid. Yank had to admit; he had no idea where he was, had been or for that matter, where he was going. He simply fell back into the wet sand and resigned himself to the obvious: he had lost his mind. 

(Music: Boy George: Karma Chameleon, then record scratching. Music cuts briefly to Marachi music. Record scratches again, then cuts to: George Thoroughgood: Bad to the Bone). 

About 500 clicks SE of the atoll, a very hung-over Reb peered through vintage German WWII fire control binoculars, one lens cracked, arms haphazardly swung over the conning tower railing of a 65-year-old German U-Boat. Engines at idle, the boat gently bobbed in the calm ocean. Sweeping the binoculars north and south (and a more appropriate east and west just because he’d once seen Kurt Jurgins do that in ‘The Enemy Below’), he combed the beach of the small island. “Damnit Yank, where are you?” he mumbled. “You better be alive, moron. Too much moonshine to drink, Swiss bank accounts to crack and a whole lotta philandering yet to be done. And, I still need to get to the bottom of that Sheiks daughter thing; you’s got some ‘splanin’ to dooo ‘ol buddy,” mumbled the obsequious and de-facto U-boat skipper.  

Then Reb spotted him. “I’ll be a son.of.a.bi… What the Hell? It’s worse than I thought. My boy is talking to a sea lion and what, a seagull too? I’ve never seen a stoned seagull, but that damned sure looks like one, wobbling around, no tail feathers, ass all hanging out”, growled Reb through clenched teeth. Between which was also gripped a three-day old, foul looking and even worst tasting cigar stub. For his part, the gull starting to wonder why he had an uncontrollable urge to laugh, why Wiford’sface was melting and why the sun and clouds were beginning to talk back to him… 

(Music: The Allman Brothers, Jessica) 

Glad his pal was alive, Reb stretched, scratched himself, and took the last swill of his breakfast beer. He crushed the can on his forehead, then returned the worn and worse smelling German U-boat captains hat bill forward. Barking down the conning tower hatch, he yelled “Ernesto! Wake up you Mexican!” To which came a muted response, thick with a unique French/Latin/Pyrenees accent. “Not Mexican, Senior Reb, A Basque  Nationalist, actually. Although I was born in Argentina, my mother was French, from Alsace Lorraine. Which makes me more or less an Iberian hybrid”. Reb squinted a rather incredulous, pissed off squint: he was in no mood for a genealogy lesson much less a geography lesson. He wound up and hurled a crumpled beer can down and into the darkness below. “Ouch. That’s not nice! That hurt! Senior Reb, I’m going to report you to the Union! “Shut the hell up Ernie! We’re all Mexican’s this morning! And I lied about the Union part of your contract”, doing his best Robert Mitchum, getting ready to depthcharge Kurt Jurgins. A quiet whimpering came from below. “Round up a shore party, son. You and the boys go fetch Yank. Silly bastard’s now communing with the local gentry”.  

(Music: Tom Cochran, Life is a highway) 

"...The sun was cresting over the eastern horizon. After raising a war-torn stars and stripes to the top of the mask, saluting the country he so loved but might not touch native turf again for quite some time ‘because of that minor Reb incident’, Yank reached down, smiled at his pal and removed an hours old beer and Harvard Medical Journal from a very unconscious Reb’s still firm grip. Subconsciously Yank put his two right forefingers to Reb’s throat, checking for pulse; “Weak but stable. That’sgood” he muttered, then applied the same test on himself, just to be on the safe side. Confident that both he and his compadre were indeed alive and overall, probably more so than most, he then turned and somewhat ceremoniously poured the stale, day old beer on a collage of Sadam Hussain, Osama bin Laden, Joseph Goebels, Benito Pinochete and Al Sharpton; where the hell that came from no one knew, and certainly no one was talking. But what the hell, that was SOP on this cruise. Yank next managed to the rouse a drunken Mexican musician - who moonlighted as a combination brain surgeon and moped mechanic somewhere in the Yucatan; but more on 'Pedro the Blade' later - who then somehow figured out how to fire up the diesels using a classic Tequila primer and Senior Reb’s recently acquired vintage German Mann Diesel tech manual...viva la Deutcheland!... 

The explosion was enormous. The concussion knocked them to their knees. “Holy Shit Reb, that blew my fucking sunglasses off. What the hell did you put in that thing?” asked Yank, his eyeballs spinning and his ears ringing like the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral. Reb was looking for his hat and beer, both of which had just moments before the ignition been squarely in his hand and on his head, but were now both conspicuously missing, along with what was left of his reason and common sense. “Don’t know. But Daddy used to say ‘add a bit of diesel to the nitrogen fertilizer and hop it up with a bit ‘O double aught hooch, and well, ‘Ker-blewy’. “Hop it up a bit hell you shithead! You damned near blew us to hell and back!”, quipped Yank.“Can’t argue that point”, noted Reb approvingly, still sifting through the sand, still searching for his sunglasses and common sense, which moments before had been squarely embedded somewhere amidst his now ringing ears, brain and what was left of his reality...  

Reb, soon to be reeling from another galactic-class hangover, woke, smiled, groped cautiously along the deck of U-538 much the way a neutered and emaciated chameleon crawls along a hot desert rock, wishing it still had a pecker to ‘feel the heat,’ so to speak. Leaning over the side, he looked up, waved at Yank and then, in a most unceremonious manner, fed the fish. Yank, never one to miss a bit of sport, and seeing the straits his pal was in, ordered full speed ahead, then hard to port, driving the boat headlong into a massive oncoming rogue wave. The Boat reeled right, bow planed up at a 25-degree angle, then crashed down into a trough. A massive wave rolled across the deck, washing Reb overboard. Coughing, cursing and flailing, Reb then realized that at some point during the night someone, probably Yank, strapped a life vest and zip line to him, just for good measure. He had to admit it was funny, but quickly realized that, at this very moment, his head really hurt. And fuck, he was being towed behind the sub, again.  Damn that Yank. The vintage MANN diesels growled on, acknowledging yet another day of adventures in the making. Yank barked down the hatch “North by Northeast. 10 degrees right starboard rudder. Boys, we’ve heading for the Azores. Oh, hell. I almost forgot. Someone fish Reb out.” 

(Music: Rush, Closer to the heart) 

Yank was lying on his bunk, reading St. Thomas Aquinas’s “Summa Theologica” when Reb walked into his cabin. “What ya readin’? Yank hold up the cover. “You?’ asks Yank. Reb hold up the latest edition of Playboy “Miss November”.  Yank shakes his head. “High School senior year: independent studies in physics, in particular, rocketry and Ionic propulsion. Magna Cum Laude, Harvard in Economics. Rhodes Scholar. London School of Economics. Senator from Virgina. House Appropriations Committee. And still a Fucking Virginia Cretan Redneck”. “Hope Thomas Merton’s ‘7 stories mountain’ keeps you warm at night. On my tombstone there’re not going to write all of that. But you can write ‘A rack, a rack, my kingdom for a rack’; may Willy S. forgive me”, noted Reb, taking a hit from a flask that no doubt contained vintage Geo. Dickel from Tullahoma Tennessee. “Would you just for once stop to ponder ultimate reality?” quesstioned Yank, incredulously.  “Son, I’ve lived and diedmany, many lifetimes. And one thing is for certain: life is for the living. Do good, be good, and have one hell of a good time in the process.  And, I might add, something that you’re in terrible need of. A good time, that is…” 

The day passed without mishap or mayhem, which was indeed very unusual. Everyone thought this odd, and quickly got drunk to celebrate their lack of ill fortune (fortune-neutral status, in ‘Reb Speak’). Though to the man, everyone wished the mariachi guys would learn some new fucking songs. It was even suggested they throw in Polish or Slovak polka, just to mix it up a bit. Yank pointed out however, that as the band was in a very real sense and recently shanghaied ‘down Venezuela way,’ versus Central Cambria County, Pennsylvania, where several of the officers hailed from, and thus being, literally, ‘just off the boat’ from Caracas, anything other than Spanish was very unlikely. A vote was taken, and it was unanamously agreed to let the mariachi continue in their native tongue. Fate was to shine on our heroes later that evening however, when Reb, attempting to sneak off for a quickie with the 26-year-old co-ed from Romania, who just so happened to be a stowaway, sleeping in the aft port torpedo tube. Go figure... 

(Music: Jimmy Buffet, I heard I was in town) 

The man was sleeping, surrounded by several cases of Crystal Rose Champagne, two cases of Napoleon 1862 Brandy, several cases of fine Russian beluga caviar, and many, many boxes of Melba Crackers. As fate would have it, and after very modest interrogation, Ivan C. Gredanko, a Serbian-born Ex patriot, nuclear physicist, poet and mystic, just happened to know all the words to La Bamba in Slovak; again, go figure. Beers popped and tequila shots went round the boat. All were pleased. “Well hell. La Bamba sung in Slovac. Now you don’t hear that everyday on a 60 year old Kraut U Boat,  I’ll tell you,” mused Reb. “Hey Ivan. Do you know the words to ‘Stairway to heaven? The boys and I have been working on a great Flamenco rendition.’ In far away Coventry, England, Robert Plant felt an eerie chill run down in spine immediately followed by a wave of nausea; and the band played on... 

(Music, Scottish Bagpipe music) 

"...The combined smells of diesel fuel, soured guava fruit, rum, suntan lotion and perfected Weiner Schnitzel was almost overpowering. Then there was the now annoying ships broadcast system playing a scratched and skipping vintage 78rpm record of "Deutschland Deutschland Uber Allas". Reb had to admit, those Germans knew how to write and sing an anthem; perhaps rivaled only by Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Why don’t we get drunk, and screw’. Such thoughts and considerably lesser ones ran through his blistered mind, as he with the greatest of difficulty, nearly achieved the opening of one eye. An hour or and several attempts later, he pulled himself to his feet, stumbled over several soon to be severely hung over, snoring Mexican mariachi musicians, reached down and ripped a small decorative ball off of one of the sleeping musicians sombreros (he always wanted to do that), and peered up the vertical tunnel of the ships conning tower. Slowly he began the climb the ladder, trying to shield his severely bloodshot eyes from the imposing enemy sun.  

Reaching into the breast pocket of his now remarkably ripe Hawaiian print shirt, he found his Wayfarer Sunglasses, now mysterious missing it’s right temple stem, and boasting a thoroughly cracked left lens. In the process of attempting to place the glasses on this face and for the first time noticing his severely sunburned feet, he slipped off a damp steel ladder rung, his St. Christopher medal clinking on the ladder, as he crashed back to the deck of the coning tower. Muttering an incrediably brillantlitany of muted curses, he somehow managed to make the top deck within the hour. He made a mental note to have all the Red lights replaced with Black lights, as “the Red lights just don’t do the Hendrix posters justice.”  Nursing the obligatory hangover, a 2^nd degree sunburn and now a busted lip, he managed a chuckle: there was Yank, suspended on makeshift scaffolding atop the conning tower, boom box sitting beside him, soft wisps of a Mozart Minuet wafting about. With a can of paint in one hand, paintbrush in the other, Yank was hard at work. Circa '39 or so, the crew of U-505 had originally adopted a Skull and Crossbones insignia which included the Nazi slogan "Arbiet macht Frie". Yank was, however, putting the finishing toucheson his 'updated' version: a large yellow smiley face complete with black eye patch and red bandanna now replaced the ominous death skull. Yank did keep the original crossbones for effect, and in place of the "Arbeit" phrase over-painted "Baby, why can't we all just get along?" Then, as a finishing touch, he added a “1/2” behind U-505. “Damn! I like it!” snorted Reb; “It’s beautiful...” 

(Music: Kid Rock, Cocky) 

Reb & Yank stood on the deck of the boat, both sporting a pair of Berretta custom over under shotguns. Reb also has an Uzi slung over his shoulder, Yank a .45 caliber Mac 10. “Pull!” yells Yank. A beautiful Iberian Princess wearing virtually nothingyanked the pull rope, launching the clay bird into the sky, some 120 ft. off the bow of the boat.  Boom, “22 for 22”, old chap, mutters Yank. “You might want to try lying off the sour mash before breakfast there, old friend…”, mused Yank. Grabbing a snort of Dickel strait from the bottle, Reb repliced: “Remind me to take it up with my doctor in the morning, old boy...” 

(Music: The Ranch: Walkin’ in the country) 

Whistling softly, Yank sipped a cappuccino double latte, bare feet swinging off the scaffolding. "Ahoy Mattie, ARGHG! Hey, Morning Reb! How’s the head? Velvet hammers or what?" he yelled, rather loud, just to be annoying. Reb just shook his head. Climbing down off the tower, he pulled a chase lounge and a Coleman cooler out of the foredeck torpedo-loading hatch and stretched out beside two beautiful copies of Iberian womanhood, who immediately offered him a rubdown and medium dry martini. ‘Why yes, I do believe I will”, he replied. “I fear I’m beginning to sober up.” Yank lowered himself down from the scaffolding and looked up. He admired his handiwork and noted with growing approval ‘Reb’s Harem’ – as the crew had come to call them. “Where the hell did he get ‘em”, wondered Yank as he walked over to the boats deck cannon. Removing the safety, Yank cocked the beast and proceeded to unload multiple 40mm rounds at a coconut tree on a small atoll some 400 clicks starboard. “Dammit Yank!” Growled Reb. You’re bustin’ my grove here! Cut that shit out, ya damned retard! A little to the left, darlin’. Ah, that’s it.” The gun jammed. Shrugging his shoulders, Yank walked over, sat down alone, assuming the Lotus position on the boat’s bow. For the briefest of moments, his mind wondered, and a sullen look happened across his face. Reb noted the moment, felt a minor pang of guilt about yelling at Yank about the cannon - after all, it was Yanks turn this week to be captain, and pirates were after all suppose to commit spontaneous acts of senseless hell raising. True to form, Reb looked up, staring through the busted Wayfarers and said “Aw hell Yank. Come on now. Forget it. She’s a turd with ears. It’s been 5 years now son. Let it go. Now pull ya up a chase lounge. Here, have ya a martini already, huh? Lighten up bro. We’ll fix the gun later. Hey Pedro. Do you guys know any Jethro Tull?” Immediately the band broke into ‘Aqualung, accompanied by Ivan’s impeccable Slovak vocals; Reb simply had a way with such things. Yank was beginning to see an odd yet complex, almost universal order to Reb’s chaotic ways. Yank grinned and pulled up a chair, graciously accepting the martini; indeed, time to let it go. Yup. He sat back, and took a quick, trusting the drink. Immediately gagging, he yelled “HEY YOU BASTARD, THIS AIN’T NO MARTINI!” spitting out the questionable now obviously warm yellow liquid. Reb just grinned: “That’s for washing me overboard yesterday, jerk. Now we’re even. Here’s a toothbrush and the real Martini.” Sometimes, it was really hard to hate Reb - he was just too good.  

After about 25 minutes and three martini’s later, Reb was again fast asleep. Yank grinned, asking the girls if either of them has a couple of Q-tips. Esperanza reached in her day bag, pulling out a container filled with Q-tips. “Here, Senior Yank. But what do you want with them?” Grinning, yank then picked up a bottle of Bullfrog sunscreen. “Excuse me for a couple of minutes, ladies.” Yank dipped the Q-tip in the sunscreen and began writing in what seemed invisible letters across Reb’s bare back. Trying hard not to crack up laughing, Yank completed the mission in about 20 minutes:  in about 3 hours written across Rebs now noticeably sunburned back in white letters read “Gay Virginians for Domestic Partnership Equality,” complete with a heart containing two universal male symbols. “Now we’re even, pal” sniggered Yank, and he sneaked away. One of the Mariachi, Enrique, would several hours later take a new and heightened interest in Senior Reb…. 

The massive MANN diesels droned on into the evening. Reb had to admit, did like the peacefulness of sunsets from atop the conning tower; watching the stars and moon come up over a peaceful and reflective ocean. And since Yank had repainted U-528 – against his will - an off eggshell white, he had to admit, she glistened just beautifully in the moonlight. And, he and Reb had finally made up after the fight concerning the sub’s paint job. Reb wanted to paint her in a color scheme reminiscent of the nose cowling of a vintage P-51 Mustang, a traditional black and yellow checked motif. Yank on the other hand, demanded basic Eggshell white, operating on the premise that a neutral mauve-colored sub “ just goes better with everything in the fucking harbor, dammit!”.  In the end, Yank won the heated debate because the damned traitorous mariachi always sided with him on matters of taste and design, especially Enrique. Such thoughts and much lesser ones ran through his head as Yank contemplated the future of the ‘Uzi Boozi Cruisi, as it coming to be known.’  

Where he did indeed dig wearing the vintage German captains' hat, graffitiing-up antique German U boats and not having to shave, even he had to admit the U-boat thing was getting old. After all, how much mariachi, rum, beautiful half naked Spanish woman, caviar & champagne and magnificent sunsets could one guy take? And the mariachi guys were really starting to get too him. Always so fucking happy; and how did they manage to keep those uniforms so neatly pressed, out here, at sea and with not a dry cleaner within 1,000 miles; talk about enigmas. And Reb, hell, Reb had been drunk now for at least, well, since they left Lisbon harbor 5 weeks ago – not that there’s anything wrong with that. The incident with the Mayor of Madrid’s daughter was at first, well, fun. The part about the military escort out of the country however, was not. Fortunately, Reb had the foresight to always pack a few extra grenades, a bottle of Geo Dickel, a bong, a CD of Frank Zappa's 'Joe's Garage', and a bag of Alien Glow Pop lollypops – just in case. All of which was, in the end, very impressive, and ultimately saved the day. Then there was was that incident concerning the trading of ‘6 torpedoes’ for 4 cases of rum and 7 liberal professors from La Universidad de Madrid. Whereas that too was fun, the Bolivian warlords weren't laughing when, after forking over 4 cases of vintage rum and 7 vixens, no M6 torpedoes, cash nor gold bars were to be had. But even he had to admit that perhaps Rebscrowning achievement to date  was the "we'll race our U boat against your U boat for pink slips, you Nazi Rat bastards!", the result of which was stealing from the Nazi Rat Pack one of it’s last serviceable boats, U-435... 

(Music: Steve Earle, hardcore troubadour) 

Unbeknownst to anyone, Reb had the night before the race and, after the Hitler Youth accepted the challenge, sneaked out, dawned scuba gear and chained old miss U-435 to the dock. The following morning, a very large crowd assembled on the dock to witness the event. There was a moment of silence as the local Cardinal blessed the event, then everyone cheered. Reb with much panache and after wrestling the captain's hat away from yank, shouted into a megaphone the obligatory “O.K., on the count of three”; “1, er, well, fuck it, ‘GO!’” U-435 momentarily surged forward then stopped dead in the water, allowing U 505 ½ to fly by. The confused Nazi crew looked at each other for answers as their boat proceeded to simultaneously list to port whillripping the dock off it’s pylons, dumping the mayor, the cardinal and a local high school marching band directly into the harbor. The chain then proceeded to wrap around the rudder and the twin props of the sub, shredding both. The end result of which was an emasculated sub running in sputtering circles around Madrid harbor. Whereas the Bolivian warlords not only enjoyed but also actually applauded the tactic with a standing ovation – as such things were completely acceptable in their world and they hated fascists as well - the Hitler youth weren’t impressed and immediately opened fire.  

(Music: Grand Funk, Shine On) 

Considering discretion the better part of valor – not to mention a minor come to Jesus moment that occurred just moments before when a rogue 9mm slug blew the ear off the left footed-head of his favorite fuzzy pink bunny slippers, Reb yelled “To the open sea, boys! STAT! These guys are damned serious! Very much unlike us!” That same afternoon and if it could indeed be called reflection, Reb would temporarily rethink both the pirating and the ‘let’s fuck with the Hitler Youth’ strategies, at least when drinking. Historians would later credit the days events as actually laying the seeds of what was to be later called by many Yank & Rebs greatest hour: to give up pirating, shave, buy silk Armani suits, slick their hair back, go strait and take the Betty Ford Clinic public - while installing themselves as board members Emeriti. It should also be noted that Reb was however subsequently and scandalously removed from the board when it was later discovered that he had violated his fiduciary responsibility by investing the Clinics entire pension fund in the stock of Phillip Morris, Seagram’s, and the Dickel Distillery in Tullahoma, TN. Reb's self-defense at the trial was to be called stellar by those in the know. When asked during the trial why he would enter into such an obvious and protracted conflict of interest, Reb calmly replied: "If you're gonna dance with the devil, always lead." This brilliant retort would actually be credited 100 years later for the establishment of several religions, the dissolution of several others, three cults espousing the used of Tennessee sour mash in their religious ceremonies and a re-released version of Plato’s ‘Republic’. All of this notwithstanding, and completely unbeknownst to Reb had it been, while transcribing his memories many years later, he would recall with teary-eyed fondness: "The U-boat years were fun, but the Betty Ford years were simply an absolute fucking Hoople." 

(Music: Bon Jovie, Lay your hands on me) 

"...'If you're gonna dance with the Devil, always lead." Absolute, unadulterated brilliance. Half a world away, President of the United State of America Preston Thurston Whittaker III had just been handed the most beautiful punch line to a congressional address, in well, hell, history. Whittaker and his Spin Doctors had been for the last two years trying to come up with something catchy, plausibly deniable, yet authentically subliminal. Hell, if you've got to take on an insane section of the world and plan a typical Marshall-esque recovery program, well, the lines better hit hard and stick. Whittaker’s ratings were down big time; the most recent Marist polling data sucked, and the Senate wasn't exactly eating out of his hand. His predecessor had left Whittaker with one hell of a deficit, and an economy in shambles. Time to kick ass and take names. That’s what Lincoln, Truman and Patton would do; hell, did do. Question was, who the Hell were Reb & Yank? And what on God’s green earth was a ‘Hoople’? What was this tattered and torn notebook, smelling of rum, diesel fuel and suntan lotion, with the handwritten title "Reb's Twainism's: soulful reflections of a secessionist reprobate during the Hoople: by Yank", doing on his mahogany desk, here in the oval office? He randomly flipped through the notebook, arbitrarily landing on page 64. He read with interest what appeared to be drunken scribbling: “Reb’s way or the Highway: Succession made simple, deniably prudent and profitable.”Whittaker had enough to worry about, now this. He instinctively reached for the red phone on his desk and dialed up Winston Elliot, Deputy Director at NSA. Were Reb & Yank Seditionists? Operatives? Mercenaries? Political powerhouses or vagabond reprobates? Were they on our side, their side or some other side? Hell, given the contents of this notebook, should they be in his cabinet? He had questions, damn it! And he wanted answers. “Elliot!” he barked into the phone. ‘It’s Whittaker. Get over here. Now!” 

"...Badwolf Longclaw woke up in a bad mood. Looking more like a disheveled sumo wrestler than a Native American Shaman-in-training, he managed to raise his 6ft. 7in, 325lb. hulk of a frame off the creaking bed, and then unceremoniously,collapsed immediately back onto it. Fuck his head hurt. Born some 43 or so years ago the son of an Arapaho warrior chieftain and Jamaican barmaid, 'Wolfie' loved his liqueur and ‘happy’ smoke. Unfortunately, he also inherited a genetic predisposition against both. Hence, this morning's world class hangover. Last night prior to the annual spring Moon Dance & Virgin Dispensation Ceremony, he stopped by the local watering hole “just to calm his frazzled Shaman nerves a bit.”  Longclaw was at the time in the throes of a substantial anxiety attack brought on by fear over the evenings coming events, which included seeing for the first time since his divorce his now influential and tribal leader ex-father in law, Simon Edward Sharp Arrow. Badwolfshuttered at the thought of the 4ft. 11in. pit bull, and feared the 105lb.Tasmanian devil of a man would again go ballistic, again kicking his ass into the middle of next week. Closing his eyes, he shuttered at the thought of the last beating; and promptlyordered yet another double round – George Dickle on the rocks. A second wave of terror set in as he contemplated tomorrow tonight’s requisite peyote tea ceremony. That shit just sent him to the the fucking moon; he began breaking out in hives, simplyat the thought. After a few more belts, now feeling calmed and what could be construed as liquidly confident, he was off to the tribal sweat lodge...   

Badwolf was in all thing, a pragmatist. After the requisite “Ho Ho Haya’s and stomping around a fire a bit, he spun up his courage, drank the Kool-Aid so to speak, and was off to the races. Which shortly thereafter resulted in a very confusing vision quest concerning very petite gay Asian men, in Speedo swimsuits, reciting what seemed to be some Mandarin dialect of Chinese poetry, while merrily frolicking about and singing Streisand show tunes. As this was not the first time such visions occurred, Wolfie worked hard to choke off the lucid dreams, and managing with difficulty to push the frightening thoughts out of the way, and tried to continue on with more appropriate visions of ancestral ghosts kicking the hell out of the Apache's, the Arapahos, the Navajo, whatever; fine by me. Later that evening, back home on the porch, still shaken by notions of happy little gay Asian men dancing around his ceremonial sweat lodge fire, he filled a water glass with a new favorite poison, George Dickel. As the oak colored, sour mash elixir took effect, the nasty show tune dreams gave way to, well, more soothing thoughts of Civil War Battles; Franklin Tennessee? Where the fuck is that? Again, confusion. He closed his eyes momentarily. Strange thoughts flooded his already over flooded mind: ‘Fireball Roberts? Tullahoma?  But the Dickel did its job. He was numb, and getting number by the minute. He nodded off, dropping the empty glass to the floor, as his now limp left paw bounced of the porch of his New Mexico double wide.. 

(Music: Toto, I’l be over you) 

Fuck, it was sure was hot in the trailer this morning. Badwolf yelled for his squaw, Margaret, asking her to mix up a batch of bloody Marys, turn off ‘The Price is Right,’ cue up Mozart's requiem on the 8 track, and to please hand him his tribal medicine rattle and his .50 caliber Desert Eagle. His monthly copy of ‘Mercenary Man’ had suggested that all real man should invest in a Desert Eagle, as the Mossad certainly had ‘em. And well, Badwolf wasn’t about to be left out... 

Clearly, there was a ripple in the force this morning, and as one who knew all about ‘the Ripple’, well, he knew that this one was going to be a showstopper. Still, what the hell was with last night’s visions? Tiny gay Asian dancing men? And this latest, most confusing fire vision: a white, or was it eggshell and cream colored WWII German U-Boat? With a large yellow smiley face painted on the conning tower? And two drunken white men, apparently idiot’s both, staggering about the deck, covered in tequila and suntan lotion, unsuccessfully trying to play hide the weenie with several scantily clad Spanish co-eds? Then what, President of the United States of America? Something about a handwritten “notebook of Secrets? “Wolfie began to doubt for the first time in his life that, just perhaps, he wasn’t cut out for Shaminin’, as his grandmother called it. This was all just getting a little too weird for a common kid from the Rez. And yet, his dear friend Hunter S.Thomson warned him these weird dayswould come; and Wolfie was no longer certain that he had the stuff to go pro. Margaret, sensing his pain, dutifully handed Longclaw the Tribal rattle and hand cannon. Herself no stranger to battle, and unbeknownst to the Arapaho behemoth, 5ft 2in. ripped statue of a woman was a world-class Ace, having spent time in the Columbian air force,  once downing 7 enemy Mig’s before ultimately buying it herself, and crash landing on a beach near Rio, where she then spent 8 months in in prison; followed by a stint with  the CIA as a special Ops agent in Laos, and later resumed her Religion studies at the University of Tel Aviv. She was fluent in multiple languages, including multiple dialects of Ancient Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek, Hungarian and of course, Navajo. While finishing up her PhD at Cal Tech, she decided on a post doc to study Native American cultures – which brought her to New Mexico. During a wild night in Clovis some years back, while getting kicked out of the only respectable bar in town for dancing drunk on the table while simultaneously unloading her Colt .45 on a Madonna poster hanging over a pool table, Margaret fortuitously fell into Wolfie’s waiting arms. Now, several years later, the Federal witness protection program afforded Margaret a new beginning.  

(Music: The Ranch, Just some love) 

All of these things Margaret kept secret in her heart; hell, she he loved the big lug. In fact, for the first time in over 20 years she actually felt and even knew real love. She was finally getting over that relationship so many years ago now, back when she was left standing at the alter by the love of her life during her senior year at Oxford. And, try as she might, she just couldn’t bring herself to hate him. “Oh Vlad. How I loved you so. And you broke my heart…” 

(Music: Chris Ladoux, Springsteen’s “Stronger than the rest). Ladoux is playing the tune on stage at a cowboy bar. Reb is at the bar. He comments to the guy at the stool next to him “Hey, this guy ain’t half bad”. The guy next to him turns to Reb/the camera. It’s Bruce Springsteen. He says “Yeah, I hear he’s got good writers.” 

Longclaw finally got moving around mid-morning. A time-honored mix of Aspirin, psuedofedodrin, 3 bloody Mary’s &1 and half pots of black coffee were finally allowing his mind to peer through the previous night's haze. “Woman! My ceremonial mojo rattle! Time to Pray!” he bellowed.  Steadying himself as he went, he walked onto the front porch. He took a long, deep draw of the hot and dry morning desert air. He bowed his head, silently said good morning to The Great Spirit, and then proceeded to empty his Desert Eagle by blasting holes at a passing clouds - just to chase away any remaining evil spirits. It’s worth noting that Longclaw had a few months earlier taken to, at the suggestion of the tribal rabbi Benji MoonDanceRabinowitz, and after a re-reading a Richard Bach’s ‘Jonathan Livingston Seagull’, came away with the therapeutic and slightly metaphysical idea of ‘vaporizing clouds with one’s mind’. His therapist agreed that this practice would indeed be a good exercise for Wolfie; he simply had to get more in touch with his feminine and spiritual sides. After several frustrating weeks and failed attempts, resulting in many cloud un-vaporizations later, and after ‘I’ll give this one more fucking try’, Wolfie calmly walked into the trailer, reloaded his Desert Eagle, walked out to the front porch, looked to the sky, and muttered ‘Richard Bach my ass. Eat lead, you cloudy sons-a-bitchs’, and emptied the weapon one more time. Ok, fair enough... 

(Music: Dave Matthews, I did it.) 

Benji MoonDance Rabinowitz aka Benjamin Jochim Rameriz Rabinowitz was born the third son of a Hasidic Jewish father, and Puerto Rican Catholic mother from Brooklyn, NY in 1951. After a minor diversion on a cross-county trip in 1968 and an acid trip or two later, he had a vision. And as he tended to mutter somewhat incomprehensible musing and both in Aramaic and Yiddish, the locals considered him a man, well, somewhat possessed.  

Now Benji, unbeknownst to himself, was descended from a long line of ancient Kabalistic practitioners. Thus, things just seemed to ‘happen’ when Benji got around to thinking about them, or more or less muttering them, out loud. And as the tribe’s previous shaman had recently had an unfortunate incident involving peyote and attempted flight off a high canyon wall sans wings, well, the team needed a spiritual director. And as no one really knew what it meant to be a Hassidic Jew, Benji was, well, more or less elected, maybe even defacto appointed... 

Feeling better by the moment, Wolfie cleared his throat, and began to chant a traditional shamanic morning prayer, to which Wolfie dutifully added “…and in addition, merciful and all knowing Great Spirit, please help me not to fuck up too badly today.”  As he thrust the rattle ceremoniously to the east, symbolically tracing the path of the rising sun and recalling the history of his people’s ride through the universe, the gourd loosed from the handle, empowered by Wolfie’s massive right forearm thrust. The thing snapped off, and proceeded to draw a high, textbook parabolic trajectory, which upon reentry crashed directly into the skull of Wolfie’s sleeping Bernese Mountain dog, Hoe-Tai. Now, Hoe-Tai who was himself just moments prior to the intrusion very content, and fully in mid-career of a long overdue and very deep REM sleep concerning a dream where he was just about to have his way with a pack of four very willing and finely groomed female French poodles, when ‘WHACK!” the wayward rattle slammed directly into his head, immediately rousing him from his virtual nirvana. Instinctively the dog leaped to all fours and broke into an immediate reactionary sprint, ready to kick someone’s ass. This would not have been a problem, except for the fact that he was about at about 19 feet when he realized that 21 feet of rope was about to make his life very ugly; 179-pound dog just doesn’t stop on a dime. And unfortunately, he noted with horror, that his leash was simultaneously looped over the front forks of Longclaws vintage 1973 Honda 350 Scrambler, which was parked directly next to Wolfie’s 1974 Ford pickup – the one badly in need of an emergency brake repair. ‘This is gonna hurt’, thought Hoe-tai; “TWAING…” 

Badwolf had for many, many moons put off the simple brake repair, opting instead to use a more traditional tribal automotive repair technique, the tried-and-true cinderblock under the left rear tire. Wolfie had the previous evening thrown the block rather haphazardly under the left rear truck rear tire, during which time, and after his first dance with strait Tennessee sour mash, he had unfortunately caught only the corner of the vehicles badly worn tire with the edge of the cracked cinder block; the value of which was precarious at best. Then, when struck at precisely the right angle by the falling motorcycle, had the combined effect of completely dislodging the cinderblock, allowing the truck to inch forward, running over and crushing the front tire & wheel of the 350 Scrambler, while snagging Hoi-tai’s leash in the bumper. This should have been the end of the mishap, were it not for the fact that Wolfie’s trailer sat atop the only hill on the reservation, located directly above the U.S. Air Force’s last remaining Titan IV missile silo, which workers – one of who was Wolfie’s 1^st cousin, Isaiah-Jamal Storm Cloud IV - were that very day, and more importantly, very moment, in the process of decommissioning. This in and of itself would not have been a particular problem, except for the fact that the guidance and control systems were the first systems to be taken off line, which in turn required dismantling numerous other instruments and control panels, which in turn required links to a certain mission control vehicle; the overall choreography and nature of which now resulted in a perfectly and precisely, interplanetary aligned moment, which placed the entire cacophony of disaster at the exact right place at the exact wrong time in history.  

Wolfie watched with horror at yet another unfolding scene that his personal history had shown time and time again to be yet another example of self-imposed, stupidity based-karmic hell; the realization of which then precipitated a blazon litany of profanity so distinct, so impressive in its overall magnitude, duration and scope, that, had Aaron Copeland or George Gershwin been in the business of writing symphonies about expletives, ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ or ‘Hoedown’ would have taken on completely different meanings. Beaten and spent, he looked down with forlorn fondness at the now gourdless handle of the sacred tribal rattle, still clenched in his right hand, the superglue repair of which by the way, he had meant for some time to get around to. “Aw shit” was all he could think to say. 

The pickup - with a now very pissed Hoe-tai running, skipping and bouncing in tow - gained speed, with a dust cloud building, careened chaotically down the hill. Wolfie snapped out of his introspective busted rattle moment. Looking up, he watched in horror as with almost mystic guided precision, one very upset Hoe-tai and the ’74 Ford pickup together drew a final crosshairs on the classified Air Force mission control van. For the briefest of seconds Wolfie fancied Hoe-tai as the Slim Pickens character riding the nuke in the 1960’s ‘Dr. Strangelove’ flick. Damn it, he loved that dog, and for a moment found himself wishing that it was his ex-wife Blanch at the end of that rope - a thought that made him smile. Still, if he has a beer at that moment, he would have most certainly raised it in Hoe-Tai's honor. For his part, little could Hoe-tai have imagined that in virtually seconds he would be united for eternity with the Great Spirit, in total bliss, soon to be locked in an eternal love-fest with the pack of waiting and very willing French poodles, all together, forever, in the happy hunting ground. That notwithstanding, what followed could be explained as the high-tech equivalent of simply hotwiring a Titan IV Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. Before the Air Force technicians could react to the oncoming Armageddon disguised as a pilotless ’74 Ford dragging a kicking and cursing 170lb Bernese Mountain dog - due to a more immediate focus on donuts and coffee - the pickup slammed into the van; a perfect T-bone. What could not quite be called a minor explosion ensued, followed by a slow yet growing rumble deep within the Desert below. A series of red lights ensued, sirens blared and technicians scrambled through escape hatches from within the silo - much the same way ants scramble from an anthill upon realizing that they’re just about to be scalded with a kettle of boiling water from a really pissed off farm maid.  

On a small screen in faraway Cheyenne Mountain, a barely coherent 1^st Lt. watched with a combination of confusion and horror as an ICBM launch sequencing code bleeped across his screen. Springing to life, he barked into his headset: “Mayday One, Mayday One. I’ve got launch confirmation. Navajo Rez 1. Repeat. Navajo Rez 1. I’ve got launch confirmation. What the hell is happening here? Someone get Langley on the line!” 

Reb had for sometime now kept a fairly tight lid on one of his most closely guarded personal secrets: he was the lost 11th son of the Romanov’s – the one that got away. Family legend on the matter had for years vacillated between ‘drop your sword, run away and live to fight another day’ to ‘go on, take the money and run.’ But more on the secret Royal Lineage of Webster Michaels IV – a.k.a. Vladimir Rasputin Rominov III, a.k.a ‘Reb’ in my next book. Anyway, equally closely guarded was the fact that a immense personal fortune had mysteriously made its way into the 1^st Royal Bank of the Cayman Islands, account number ‘EAT*3328*ME* 432*123987*YANK’. When the Algerian bank officer received the wire instructions from Zurich a few months back for what was surely the largest personal fortune transfer in history, he looked at the account number - which these days were now ‘personalized’ by the patrons – due to the banks new advertising campaign touting ‘your kinder, gentler stealth bank’. The jr. officer just shrugged: rich folk... 

The Iranian Navy was in hot pursuit. Seems a certain sultan’s daughter squealed. Reb guessed by now that the lie had not taken. “Take her down NOW DAMMIT”, yelled Yank, a 40mm shell whistling across the bow, exploding less than 10 meters to port, creating a massive water-mushroom. “Bow planes down 10 degrees! Starboard planes, up 5 degrees! Level out at 15 meters! Up periscope!” commanded Yank, arms swung over the periscope handle slides, swinging the pariscope left to right. He took aim, plotted the ried control solution in his head, and yelled: “Fire!” Reb had to admit, the boy looked the part and he was obviously in control, but ultimately Reb had to admit: “Can’t, exactly.”  “Excuse me?” noted Yank with astonishment, looking out around the periscope tube. “Well, last night when you were passed out, and after we taped your eyes shut, stuck straws in your nostrils as not to suffocate you, then covered your body with ‘Nair’, we filled the torpeado tubes with hash and rubies from the sultan’s palace. My guess is that the hash will when exposed to the seawater most likely expand, pushing the rubies into the pipes, jamming the pressure control valves. We’ll go down but won’t be able to blow ballast to resurface ‘causethe tanks won’t seal, and we’ll be sleeping with the fishes for a long, long time. Not to mention losing a fortune in rubies, a portion of which I was counting on to pay back the Bolivians. They were really good sports when I toasted the Nazi Rat pack back in Lisbon. Hell, I ‘sorta owe ‘em, and think I’m starting to like ‘em.,” continued Reb. But missing was his characteristic emotional swagger: he had that look in his eye, the same look that an un-housebroken puppy has when it knows it missed the newspaper by about a foot.  

Reb set perched on a case of Ivan’s Rose Crystal, pretending to be engrossed in the examination of a priceless Toledo Salamanca, turning the thing over in his hands. “And where, may I ask, did you get that?” inquired yank incredulously, pointing at the priceless sword. “WalMart?, replied Reb, half questioningly. “Unlikely”, muttered yank. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight: I’m bald as a clue ball – very damned funny by the way (the crew was by now sniggering; suppressed laughter is always difficult to suppress) - we can’t submerge because you rocket scientists also filled the ballast tanks with more hash, gold and rubies. We can’t fire aft torpedoes because Ivan’s ‘survival stash’ has the tubes full 200 year old brandy and Russian caviar. The Iranian Navy is trying to blow us out of the water, and last but not least, let me guess, we’re almost out of diesel, due to the fact that when you morons were supposed to be refueling, you were raiding the sultan’s palace?” “Oui, mon captain! C’est Vrei! C’est la Vie! C’est la Guierre” grinned Reb, snapping to feigned attention and giving a half-hearted salute. Yank just nodded than said “Reb, can I have the captain’s hat back, please? You’re a real dope sometimes”.   

In the 70’s, Yanks father had been the diplomatic attaché to the Shah of Iran. The Shah and Yank’s Dad had been good friends, the result of living through hellish times together – both seeing very eye-to-eye on the treatment of the ingrates who would later run them both out of the country on a rail.  When the lid blew in ’79, the Shah’s parting act of gratitude was to offer a letter to Yanks father, and proffered “if you every get into a shit storm in this part of the world again, here’s an umbrella. Take this to the palace of my cousin Sultan Abdullah Omar Sheik Hussein. We go way back, and he owes me. You know, life-blood-forever-Persian-boozing type of thing. However, do not break the seal on the parchment unless absolutely necessary, and only in front of the sultan himself!” Or so the story went. 

The parchment had long since been relegated to a historical conversation piece, displayed under glass in the personal library at Yank’s Dad’s house in an affluent suburb of Arlington, just outside Washington, DC. Having been swindled out of the family fortune by his father's 4th wife, a 36 yr. old cross between a minx, kimono dragon and the Princess of Darkness from Hacketstown New Jersey, during the reading of his Dad’s will, Yank’s final act of defiance against Queen of Mean was to smash the glass on the display case, take the parchment, throw it in his gunny sack, tell her to kiss his royal ass, and headed off to seek his fortune. Staring at Reb this particular moment well never once for an instant did he stop to consider how this particular heirloom might one day save his life. “O.K., everyone, here this. Hey, mariachi’s, Ivan please no more Slovak ‘Tull’. That’s shit’s giving me a headache. C’mon, pipe down: rip this tub apart and see if we can come up with an Iranian flag, fast”. Reb and his womanizing. Someday he was just going to have a serious talk with that guy. Sooner or later, that shit was going to get them all in a lot of trouble. Above and through the open hatch he heard the sounds of what he assumed to be something in Iranian, someone angrily yelling over a bullhorn: “All stop! Or we’ll send you to the bottom. The sultan would very much like to have his personal stash, his daughter’s honor and the state’s Royal Ruby treasury collection returned immediately!. Comply and you will receive a quick and merciful death!” – or something to that effect.  

For his part, Reb was already over it. He knew Yank would figure this one out, as it was his turn to be captain and all. More importantly, Reb sure liked his new hookah; lots of tubes to share with your pals, and much more stylish than bongs made from small flexible copper tubes, tin foil, duct tape & coconuts. Just then, Reb noticed with interest and growing concern a very subtle inscription, engraved along the bottom of the massive water pipe: “To my good friend & cousin Sultan Abdullah Omar Sheik Hussein on his 29^th birthday. To your health, You old Scorpion! Your pal ‘The Shah-ster’ P.S. The curse of a slow and agonizing 1,000 year death by ingestion by a thousand flesh devouring scarab beetles to he who desecrates this most sacred of hookahs. Worse if you be a white boy…’Ugh oh’…” murmured Reb, choking on the draw in mid-inhalation while simultaneously blowing smoke out through his nose and what appeared to be his ears. Reb was this very moment regretting his fluency in several Persian tongues, the result of a Rhodes scholarship, graduating Magna Cum Laude, Oxford, class of ’71, double majoring in Ancient Mesopotamian Cultures and Astrophysics. Some damned things are simply better off not known, and this curse thing was damned sure one of those things. Maybe this would be a good time to invoke and test his theory of karmic ‘offsetting penalties’ by returning King Tut’s headdress and sarcophagus to the Cairo Museum of Antiquities. Hell, he’d meant to give it back for some time anyway. It’s just that those Egyptians are just so touchy at times… 

“…’Simpson here’, growled. Col. Walter P. Simpson into the phone. ‘This had better be damned important’. Simpson was in the middle of a heated Joint Chief of Staff meeting. The Langley crew wasn’t happy, and he was getting an ass chewing of biblical proportions. ‘Sir, it’s Major James Wilson, NORAD. We’ve just detected a ICBM launch out of New Mexico. There was an ‘incident’ prior to the launch. We’re trying to get to the bottom of it. Not sure if we got the warhead deactivated or not. We’ve tried the self-destruct sequencing code; it’s not responding. The bird is in the air, and the last programmed target was the Russian sub base at Murmansk. Calculating impact in T-minus 16 minutes and counting. The Russians are screaming. We’vetold them it’s just a glitch on their satellite tracking system.”  

Standing on the deck of U-528 ½  Yank, Reb and the crew looked more like the aftermath of a Jimmy Buffet concert than a tribe of wanna-be marauders. Admiral Muhammad Gahlil peered through his binoculars at the band of misfits, just shaking his head; Hawaiian print shirts, busted sunglasses, empty booze bottles, bunny slippers, beautiful scantily-clad women, Mexican musicians; and a repainted WWII German U-Boat? What a circus. Incredible. But, as they were technically flying the Iranian national flag – and playing the Iranian National Anthem over the ships PA system - he could neither by law nor in good conscious blow them out of the water; he had to stand down and salute. Bright captain on that boat, he thought to himself. And, he did have to chuckle at the sight of the pirate smiley face painted on the conning tower – what a freak show. Weapons trained on the sub, the Iranian commander called over the loudspeaker “U-528 ½! Prepare to be boarded!”. Resisting an urge to break into a riveting folk tune, the mariachi laid down their instruments, and for the first time in weeks looked upset. “End of the line or what Yank?”, whispered Reb. “If you’ve got any collateral left with the man upstairs, I’d suggest you use it”, answered Yank. “It’s gonna take a bloody miracle this time pal.”  

From deep within Cheyenne Mountain, an army of technicians worked feverishly to re-establish contact and detonate or redirect the ICMB, which was even now arching over the top of it’s trajectory at Mach 6. After 4 very long minutes, miraculouslycentral command received acknowledgement that the warhead was deactivated, and its flight path was being redirected. To where they could not tell, but it appeared to be heading to desolate spot in the Gulf of Oman. A water splashdown; deactivated war head. Just perhaps they could just manage to avoid an international incident. Chances of hitting anything out there had to be one in a million; hell, just sand, bedouins, camels and water in that neck of the woods. 

Admiral Gahlil’s launch quickly crossed the 100-meter gap between the Frigate and U- boat. The Admiral stepped foot on the deck of U-528 ½ , accompanied by several soldiers whom Reb was quit sure he had once seen in an old ‘Ali BaBa and the 40 thieves’ flick. As the Admiral stepped up to address the mob, he was immediately overcome by the pervasive aroma of tequila, suntan lotion, beer, Old Spice aftershave, potpourri and diesel fuel – the totality of which virtually knocked him to his knees. Reb, noting the admiral’s flared nostrils and obviously now churning stomach chimed in: “Know how ya feel, Admiral. But ya sorta just get used to it after a while. Hell, we even kinda like it,” grinned Reb. The Admiral, knees straitening a bit, spoke: “His most Imperial Lord Sultan Sheik Hussein formally requests the return of his rubies, hashish and demands blood for the dishonor done to his daughter.” “Dishonor hell, she said it was the best time she’d ever had. Poor kids just gotta get out more. All that royal crap is killing her.” “Silence Dog!” snapped one of Gahlil’s men, pointing a very menacing AK-47 at Reb. “Done, amigo”. Incredulous, thought Gahlil. Damned Yankees. Or was it cowboys? Immediately picking up on the Admirals thoughts – as he was also somewhat of an amateur psychic – replied calmly “And, I ain’t no damned Yankee. I’m a homegrown Confederate. South of the Mason-Dixon. Born and breed in the hills of deep southern Vir-ginny. You know, Jefferson Davis, corn whiskey, Crimson Tide. Any of this sinking in General?” “That’s ‘Admiral’ you ingrate”. “Sorry. This clown is the damned Yankee,” pointing to Yank. “Throw me under the bus. You’re an idiot, Reb.” quipped Yank. Reb just grinned, and nodded in agreement. 

At that very moment a hug BOOM! resonating then hitting and seemingly rocking the sub. Confused, all looked around questioningly. If curiosity killed the cat, it was about to rain hell down on the Frigate:  high above a Titan IV missile had just broken the sound barrier and was at that very minute screaming on a path directly at the Iranian Frigate. Within seconds the missile plowed directly onto the to deck of the boat, piercing it like a hot needle through warm butter. The cataclysm sent a shock wave of water that rocked the U-Boat, knocking all on the deck over, and drenching everyone with a falling mountain to splash water. Reb was lying on his stomach, his face just inches away from the Admirals stunned face, water dripping off his busted Wayfayers, having immediately picked up, and now holding the Admirals 9mm, pointing the barrel point blank at the Admirals forehead: “Don’t know what the hell just happened Admiral, but looks like you and your boys are hitching a ride. Now, I can shoot you ‘tween those Arab eyes, or, you can have a beer. Your call.”  

In far away Cheyenne mountain, the satellite recon photos were alarming, mutter the Captain. “Of all the luck: hundreds of thousands of square miles of open ocean, and we hit an Iranian military boat in the Gulf of Oman. Looks like the damned missile cut the Iraniian boat in half. Wait, what the hell? This is odd. Looks like a what, white U-Boat on the site. “Next time the bird flys over, give me sharper definition.” 

Whittaker continued flipping the pages with growing astonishment, looking at the chapters various themes: “Chapter 41 ½: Teflon Willie: A string of pearls: Vince Foster to Monaca Lewinski. A study in how not to give away top secret nuclear secrets to China; waltzing with Osama and picking up the dinner tab. How to neuter your military, decrease domestic security create a hyper-bubble investment climate and set up the greatest terrorist attack in history. And come away smiling and have everyone looking the other way. Machiavelli move over; Wyatt Erp hang up your guns: there’s a new sheriff in town. Move over Bill Gates – my VP invented the internet. Genius is not dead – just flapping in the wind down Tennessee way.”  Well that certainly defines and era, thought Whittaker. “What do you think?” the president asked Elliot. 

‘Darlin, we’re all just looking for someone to help us unpack our baggage,” Reb kindly mused to Carmalite. Clearly, she had fallen hopelessly in love with Reb. He knew the telltale signs; the look in her eyes, last night's romantic meal of Chateau Briand, spinach soufflé, all washed down with three bottles of Rose Chrystal in the sub's galley; followed by a full night of racous sex. Hell, he was exhausted this morning. And Ex-Miss Spain and Ms. Universe runner up just wasn’t backing off. At 34, her biological clock was ticking. Below deck, Yank was in the process of firing up the hookah, introducing the Admiral to his favorite Rock Opera ‘Jesus Christ Superstar,’ while singing along rather loudly and yelling “Ian Gillian Rocks, hey Admiral?” He and the Iranian quickly became friends minutes ago when Yank finally broke the seal on the 30 yr. old parchment. Seems the Shah’s Name and promise really did matter... 

To be continued...