"Just listen."

  "Everybody needs to stop blubbering.  That's number one." 

  People couldn't.  Wives and husbands smacked each other in the face.  Some couples followed suit on their individualized ways of helping each other focus, (i)right here, right now(i). 

  A person tapped into the Morse Code apparatus, "Our Editor has been shot in the knee with a poison dart." 

  Morse coded back was a question: Was it a tranquilizer? 

  The tests on the editor's body which had to be done by the editor using the one hand not paralyzed were not a match to any of the known "tranquilizers".  The apparatus coded back that the editor would be put on "the list".  The editor declined.  A taped-together walkie talkie informed everyone that the editor was not allowed to decline services. 

  "But then I met Melinda and I knew I was in love," the Cyborg explained to people missing limbs awaiting prosthetics.  Many had driven from several states away to wait and wait in a low profile, long hallway'd building rented by the CCP.  And it was many of these people who jumped off gurneys, benches, chairs, and in one case onto a Construction Site pole when what-looked-like "robo cops" entered the building with machine guns.  They formed two rows of threes as Asian men in underwear and not and shackled, were marched into the building.  

  The TV with the friendly cyborg changed into a static circle and that blew up into an angular faced black man.  The TV told, "These are defects.  Let them pass through to the Inner Chambers." The beings with the machine guns broke into in front, in behind, still at the door.  

  "Don't get sucked into the worm hole people," a white coat admonished the people sitting in the chairs seeming-to-be watching the television. 

  "Now everybody's pissed." 

  "I really could care less right now." The Team Lead stayed resolved.  Crunched more aspirin, gnawed on Beef Jerky, and drank black coffee.  "I need an update," he told the air.  "It's a wireless bubble," his good assistant explained.  The "bad assistant" had trashed his office, cut the lock on a file cabinet with a "finger nail", and stolen the Classified folders after a blanket "re-ghosting". 

  The update revealed all temps had left the building.  And both the Cultural people and the Military people were greatly annoyed.  Mostly because there wasn't enough time to keep abreast of (i)fluid situation(i), let alone hope to re-boot strategy. 

  The team lead tried to beep into a room.  The voice attempt was blocked.  He tried his swipe card.  That didn't work.  "They've already re-coded those."  

  "Kay.  This is a decision point.  And I need the team of teams to understand that there are currently instances of sistering programs.  That is being done so we can get a grip on what we don't know." 

  "Oh.  OH.  Can you leave this on.  She's a new chef the big wigs hired." 

  "No prob.  Here's the remote but it doesn't make the worm hole disappear." 

(p1)"The man came out of the building."

  (p2)"The man came out of the building." 

  (p3--the writer)"Got it." 

  (p2)"Did you find your mother?" 

  (unsub)"No.  Just this." Man started to hold up a three pound roll of bologna, person two: (i)Whoa, whoa(i). 

  (Team 1) "Okay, we're going to send in a Social Worker." 

  (Team 2)  "We wouldn't until the area is cleared of the ghost gun." 

  (T1) "Okay, where is it?" 

  (T2) "Believed to be in the bologny." 

  (P2) "There are robots heading down the back slope." 

  "Mrs. Potholder.  What are you doing behind the bookshelf?  Oh Lord." 

  "Put unresponsive but still breathing." 

"Who wrote that?"

  "Kurt Vonnegut for all I know, it's been a hundred lifetimes since I've been in school." 

  "Not the quote, the program." The person put in place to "co-exist" with the paid people blinked as if trying to wake from a dream.  "And, by the way, they are eliminating redundancies by the end of the week." 

  "So?" 

"I really don't know. You

  can prolly find out with your drones." 

  "Not sure either.  There was a routine campfire, everybody ate their one egg, and when I woke up this morning, just gone." 

  The camp counselors looked at each other, (i)truth(i)?  Truth. 

  For several days the salarieds wondered out loud.  Shock at the size and scale of the Forest.  The pounds and pounds of papered policy was undisturbed and left where it had been secretly (at great cost) delivered. 

  Shrugs and less snides by the few that had somehow kept their jobs. 

"Knock, knock, can we come in?"

  "They're the first guys!" 

  "Yeah, we're done discussing rape, breast cancer, lactating, and monthlies." 

  "Is this the writing workshop?" 

  "Yeah, the real life womyn's group is over." 

  "Be brave!  Cross the threshold." 

  "Hi." 

  "Whatcha studying this semester? Technically?" 

  "Writing.  Literary Journalism.  World Affairs.  And you?" 

  "Cyborgs." 

  "Why does the big tablet out there ask, (i)What is art?(i)" 

  "I think because it's a good question.  Plus the MFAIA had been in here.  And they are sort of torn and exploded on this whole life is art, art is life thing." 

  "And then mix in activism." 

  "That I don't do.  Getting up in the morning is as willfully active as I get." 

  "Did you go to the panel discussion?" 

  "The human rights thing?" 

"IT WASN'T OUR GOVERNMENT,"

  (p2)This is a group satellite chat, so be careful what you say.  Hi mom.  Here we are in the Space Age!  Yeah, yeah, it's beautiful here.  (i)chairs scraping across floors(i).  Aw, now everybody want to talk to mommy and daddy.  We're getting image.  Oh, you look nice.  Yep, dressed up for a kind of house meeting of wayfaring travelers STUCK HERE AT THE MOMENT because of the travel shut down.  (i)gun butt smashing nuts into another metal chair(i)  Nope, don't need any money wired, it's not hard to save money in times like this.  (i)a hand closing a lap top.  a gun placed between person and lap top.  a person getting up and dragging metal chair shackled to.(i) 

  "Put in pile." 

  "Scorned women.  You don't have to be that." 

  A kicking in of a door.  

  "You're right.  She doesn't." A drop kick.  Face punches.  Two not very big guys.  A pistol shooting out the door lever on another door.  "Get them up!" 

  "Women.  Always laying around in their underwear.  But what good fortune, so many."  The women struggling to get unpiled.  "OW!  This one bites." 

  A hallway.  Man with bloodied boxers, hands behind back following along.

  Laptop on lap, chair with shackled woman being carried.  Another room.  

  Hours go by. 

  Voices.  "We found them in there." Door being opened.  A man in a doctor's white coat and two women nurses with loose fitting street clothes over uniforms.  "Let's get them upstairs." 

  Days go by. 

  A familiar face.  But with bulky eyeglasses and a briefcase.  A note pressed to glass.  

          MY CLIENTS. 

  Let in. 

  "First question.  Where are their pants?" 

  Barely a glance at them sitting in chairs.  "Why they need pahnts?" 

  "Ok.  Next question.  Who are they?"

  An unenergetic shrug.  "Maybe you find out." 

  A wander towards.  A comparison of faces to paperwork.  "You there." No one looked up. "Why is your hair singed?" No answer. 

  "Right then.  I'll need to go to a store.  I'll be back." 

"It was right here."

  Desert all around. 

  "The bomb landed and we, we," she shook her head a little. 

  "Did you bump it?" 

  "No, I, we, I can't hear yet." 

  "We'd run along the barricade on the road until it bottlenecked.  People with rugs and goats.  We sort of spilled into the desert." 

  "There it is!" The car had been pulled and then pushed into a line of (i)leaving(i).  "I can get it open." A man in Afghani clothing and boots opened a hatchback.  Broke a tripod into two parts and used the single leg to pry open the door.  A sachel was retrieved.  And a light sweater. 

  "There's no place to go! Go home! The road is ruined!" The man shouted in three different languages to all the people just waiting.  He got quiet as we approached a pick up with surface-to-air rocket guns.  People put whatever they could on their heads and formed wavy lines of stragglers on the other side of the cement.  Until nightfall. 

  Weeks go by.  Just chaos. 

  "Nobody cry or let on." 

  "We had to bring Pearlman home." 

  "And they went through his shit." 

  "You mean, his body?" 

  A slight nod and a hand involuntarily to cover a mouthful of response turned into a forehead scratch.  "We had to look in his journals.  No one knows where half of your stupid, stupid age group of people are." 

  "(i)That(i) is what you two should focus on.  (i)NOW!(i)"  Forcing the breath to breathe and the words to come out.  Curving the wills into orders. 

  "It's not that easy to explain.  What we know is that," eyes scanning passers by, searching for a Higher Power to help explain this and everything else.  "That it's more like a Corporation at the moment." 

  "That must be why.  Some diplomatic people were sent with Private Security." 

  "There's like a bend." 

  "Waxing poetic?" 

  A slight nod of the silk head scarf had it slipping to reveal trembling lips.  "I'm told there was in World War II." 

  "She's not a historian." 

  "As the Allies occupied on top of other layers of occupation, there was a bend of forces," choosing words like choosing the most delicate scallops in a potful.  "We have to be careful not to use military words (i)except(i) when quoting them." 

  "I must bring them now." 

  "Where?" 

  "You all stay here.  To the embassy." 

  "This is as far as I can go." 

  Blown out buildings, graffiti'd barricades, no people.  "Don't get out until I read this and pay." 

  "Why does this say Assistant?" Nobody responded.  Paper money pulled from a billfold with different currencies.  "What does it say?" 

  "How much?" Figuring with a pencil and paper. 

  "Why would an ambassador-type meet with me out here?" 

  "This much.  American." 

  "I don't have American.  You can take this money or nothing." 

  "I tried to schedule the photo op for earlier at the embassy." 

  "Everybody get out." 

  One person did.  Which brought people out to a street corner. 

  "Get back in." 

  Doors locked. 

  "Roll down the windows and (i)get out(i)."  She took the bills but for an adequate pile out of the billfold.  Reached it to the driver.  While the driver was counting the money, also reached up and unlocked the doors.  Badly jumped out. People also in the backseat pushed and the person who went out the window's pant leg was stuck.  "PULL!"  (i)Rip.(i)  "I can tell my tooth is broken." 

  More people.  Signs for "World Peace".  Beer bottles with ripped up fabric sticking out.  A torch thrown just as another vehicle drove up.  "Get in!"  Hand closed in door being pulled shut.  "It won't close.  Move over!" 

  "We are six ON ONE SEAT!" 

  Car squealing tires in reverse, back and back to a cafè'd sidewalk.  "Time for an espresso?" 

  "Get out!  Everybody out." 

  "Who's got the camera?" 

  "Hold on." 

  "Don't." 

  "Are you the defiant one?" 

  "Are you fucking serious?" 

  "Let's just take the picture right here," an arm waving at the people seated but then evacuating the sidewalk. 

  "We lost the camera." 

  "How was Beirut?" 

  "None of us would know." 

  "We saw you come from that side." 

  "We DID NOT." 

  "Take the money inside and get black coffee.  Go." 

  "Some writers have done research into the Beirut business." 

  "Not us.  We're academics." 

  One man from the front seats grabbed a guy from behind, twisted his arm up like a chicken wing, shoved his face into a table that collapsed, so he yanked the arm broken and smashed his face into a sandy wall.  People came out of the cafè with half a dozen cups of coffee.  These were thrown at the thugs. 

  A .9mm pointed at one of the women and a steaming faced man saying, "You're next bitch.  Don't think that's not a fact." 

  Spitting. 

  Driving off. 

  A cook bringing out a tray of just cooling chocolate croissants.  "Just in time for sunset mademoiselle." 

  "Oui.  And more coffee." 

"Are you gonna parachute out?"

  A hand squeeze.  "Not on this trip.  I've already lost my muscle mass." 

  "Maybe we will." Said a tall, muscled boy in a tight oxford shirt. 

  "Who are they?" 

  "We're all from the country," a ragged, short-haired girl said.  A guy leaned across three seats to shake hands.  "Come because we care about this Country." 

  "That's a common theme again." 

  "That's the good news.  But I read Sociology reports all night and there's still a lot about ourselves we don't all know." 

  A steward gave a "head's up" p2p...we were going to have to ditch our pillows. 

  "Like what?" 

  "Have you heard of rap music?" 

  "Sort of I guess." 

  "That's sort of influencing more music to speak truth to power." 

  "Not only power.  Or, it's about other stuff too.  Like, how we are failing to step into our own power." 

  A stewardess carted a steward towards the back of the jet.  "We'll be coming through for your reading materials." 

  "NO WAY!" Someone stood and declared.  "I agree," somebody else stood.  Others stood.  One guy shoved his down the ass of his pants. 

 

The TV crew threw it to an anchor, so

  the anchor could communicate with "above ground" general communications and LIVE NEWS. 

  "We're going from weather to sharks here on the West Coast.  Stand by." 

  An Aussie accent rose above the din of beachside cafe, "Did you say sharks?" 

  Women with microphones and mostly hair being shoved around by "breeze" stabbed at the air between the two men. 

  The anchor pursed lips together tighter as a sign language interpreter cussed and told the back up interpreter, (i)he's being close-lipped(i).  On video recorders in the round everything was happening like a silent movie. 

  "Hav-i-ee." An in-studio news crew answered a cue phone.  "An earful of voices," told an audience of locals.  "(i)SUPPOSED shark attacks.(i)" 

"I did. I ran the numbers.

  "Half the people are (i)garbled(i) and half the people are writing about them." 

  "God I love a DemocRACY." 

  "Gotta love it." 

  "I don't.  I don't have to (i)love(i) it.  I don't HAFTA love anything or anyone!" 

  "Bitters anyone?" 

  "Did you take my picture?" 

  "We're not even supposed to have that thing." 

  "Who changed the bike path?  Without my permission?" 

  "It just kinda happened." 

  "How (i)shorty(i)?" 

  "I thunk it was The People of The World Onsamble." 

  "And who gave the Junkies paper?" 

  "Did that start the bust?  Busting out.  The busting out of the Ice Castle?" 

  "And who is going to 'just float' out their and get those people?" 

  "Have I seen you on TV?" 

"Honey you can't be in here."

  "Okay, but don't say (i)can't(i) 'cuz then I'll want to." 

  "Okay, I'll say (i)shouldn't(i) but don't call me cuz." 

  "Why can't I?" 

  Before the woman in the flowy clothes could answer, a tall ebony-colored man in very shiney shoes stepped away from a box of rattles and looked down at the little women.  "Don't call us shorties," one said.  His voice was deep and rich but stuck in his chest.  "Because we're about to get (i)ethnic(i)." 

  "And you think we're 'too white'?"