Sandlot Investment Company

Standard Disclaimer: This is a mostly fictional portrayal based on mostly purely coincidental artistic license taken with a factual accounting of some brief events that may involve potentially explicit language and possibly graphic gay sex. If you are underage and/or offended by such, please exit now. You can email your critique to me at PointGuardMo@AOL.com (mailto:PointGuardMo@AOL.com) Reader's Comments from Second Posting:

Your lead in had me wondering what was going on. T'was so non-nifty! Then when you got into the meat of the story, I just read in amazement! I guess in my age slot [up there] i have become a bit on the jaded side. I still have a tough time with jimmy carter, since he scared the hell out of me while he filled the chair at the White House. If only what you write could come to fruition but one can only hope. {no holding of breath]. You've set the bar high for the other nifty writers, congrats and will be waiting for the "rest of the story". - A fan, jim

It is people with a capability such as yours that keep me focused. The power in your writing and your use of our somewhat confusing language is astonishing. True visionaries must be few and far between. People can't handle too much truth in a dose. Just the fact that this incredible tale is yours clues me into the wonder you must be! Bravo! Love Transcends. - dvldog

• • • * * * This is such an Excellent & Unique tale! You have touched me in so many ways. I have been reminded of my moral obligation to everyone! Thank you for sharing your Great spirit here. I am eagerly hoping there is more to come. - Gary ( Ontario, Canada )

I READ THE SECOND INSTALLMENT OF SANDLOT THIS A.M. AT ABOUT 10:00. IT'S NOW

6:08 P.M. AND I AM STILL IN AWE OF THE PEOPLE AND EVENTS IN THE STORY. I WAS ACTUALLY SOBBING TO THE POINT I HAD TO STOP AND COMPOSE MYSELF TO BE ABLE TO FINISH THE STORY. I'VE NEVER BEEN SO MOVED BY A STORY! I DO HOPE IT IS ALL FICTIONAL FOR THE SAKE OF THE PEOPLE INVOLVED IN THE STORY. I HOPE YOU CONTINUE TO ADD MORE INSTALLMENTS! YOU DEFINITELY HAVE A GIFT IN WRITING. I HOPE YOU HAVE MOVED OTHER PEOPLE TO PRAY EVEN MORE FOR THOSE LESS FORTUNATE SOULS HERE ON EARTH TOO, AS YOU HAVE ME. I PRAY A LOT FOR OTHERS AND THEIR NEEDS AND GIVE SOME TO CHARITIES BUT I REALIZE NOW I CAN DO MORE!! THANKS!! MAY GOD BLESS YOU AND ALL YOU CARE ABOUT. -- BEEZERBOY

• • • * * * Extraordinary. I have never seen the case for man's responsibility for his fellow man put so powerfully, except for John Donne's words, "The bell doth toll for thee." Beautiful work. I cried with the students. And I still ask myself why I am not doing more for others. - ciao, Bill
• • • * * * You did it again! I sat with tears running down my face making it very difficult to keep reading. I wonder how you are going move Kahlid forward. Chris and Trey are too young too adopt him yet he belongs in their lives. Thank you

for the power of your words. - Hugs, Eric

• • • * * * To sum it up in one simple three letter word.... WOW! -- Jim A.
• • • * * * What a wonderful story. It's sad that that not all of those figures you shared are not fiction. And you don't have to go far to find the hunger. I'm involved with a regional food bank here in the SW Missouri and the demand just keeps growing. Hope there will be more of this very interesting story. - Randy

SandLot Investment Company Part IV by Christopher Robin Chapter 7 There were a dozen well dressed men sitting around the large, rectangularly shaped, polished oak table there in that sixth floor conference room. On the glassy-looking table in front of each was a single beige folder, and stamped on the jacket of the folder in large bold red lettering were the words, "NSA CLASSIFIED: TOP SECRET". "Gentlemen, since we stumbled across this kid about a year ago, we've been keeping close tabs on him," said the well groomed white haired man, sitting at the end of the table. "We believe things are getting to the point where we have to act." "Has the National Security Administration found any more of those writings floating around?" asked a spectacle-wearing man seated midway down the left side of the grand table from the first speaker. "Yes. In fact, the most recent material, supplied to our Virginia Beach analysts from the NSA, have our guys convinced he's going to publish a document that will spell out the theory those people hold in such a way as it could cause us, potentially, some very grave problems." "Come on," disbelievingly said another man, puffing on a long cigar, sitting there, across from the second speaker, in the elegant conference room, there just two blocks down from Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington, D.C. "We're supposed to be a think tank, not some mindless worry warts. He's a kid, for Pete's sake, and he's posting this stuff on some off-the-wall internet site that not many people ever heard of in the first place." "The gentleman should be reminded that three-quarters of a century ago, another obscure young man wrote a book while he was in prison that, for a time, turned the world upside down. Another wrote from an apartment in London that basically gave us the birth of communism. Gandhi was an unknown young man who created upheaval in South Africa before returning to his native India where he preceded to precipitate the fall of the British Empire. When an idea that has appeal to a sizeable slice of the people hits the streets, it's like a wildfire, you'll have a major headache trying to get it contained," argued the well groomed white haired man, sitting at the end of the table. "Now, I don 't think we have to worry about a world war or anything like that, but the potential disruption in global commerce and perhaps the change in wealth distribution isn't something our donors want to even remotely sense as a possibility." The man was becoming aggravated. "What you're saying, Reverend," said another man, from near the other end of the table, "is that we need to come up with a plan to discredit this kid, his writings and anybody associated with him?" "No. I think we have to keep it quite. We need to get rid of this problem, completely. We need it never to have existed. Do you understand?" "Maybe I'm missing something here, "said the youngest looking man sitting there at the table, in his handsomely tailor-made navy blue suit, just beside the second speaker. "I still don't see the threat nearly as serious as our friend, the Reverend here, and his colleagues. I'm wondering if someone can explain to me what this, I guess, mostly tedious story, on some porno site, mind you, has to do with the security of the empire?" "This kid is really rather young," said the Reverend. "He has a whole lifetime ahead of him. He's a dreamer. He believes he can play a part in changing the world. He's already following in his damnable uncles footsteps, only he 's no where near as discreet as the older man was. We were able to take care of that problem with out any questions ever being raised. This kid, though, well, he is much more bold than his benefactor. This boy is a natural born leader. People flock to him; they listen to what he has to say; they jump on board any bandwagon he's leading. Now, he's pretty careful about not claiming any special insights but we believe he sees things we'd just as soon he not see, and can in no way, shape, or form, permit the possibility that he'll start running around the world preaching sermons that could jeopardize the very foundation of not just the infrastructure of religion, but perhaps the underpinnings of our entire nation and the nations of our closest allies as well."

"Reverend, I think you and your preaching colleagues are over-reacting," said the younger man. "I mean, we've been called bad names by millions of people and there's not really been any dramatic adverse effect, has there? I mean, anti-Imperialism is common throughout Asia, Europe, all over the world, even here at home. I don't see how it's inhibited, even remotely, anything we' ve tried to do." "Those millions of people, young man," said the Reverend, looking sternly at his colleague, "are growing in numbers everyday and they're just ripe for a leader. This kid could, if left unchecked, very easily, and doubtless, likely will, turn our world upside down in an irreversible way. We've studied his multiphasic personality inventory and what is statistically most probably to be the predominate psychological reaction from quite a vast number in our populations. All our models are very clear on this; There will be growing upheaval if he continues in his current pursuits. It is almost a certainty, strike that; It is an unquestionable certainty, he will do just that. Our analysts are convinced beyond a reasonable margin of error. He's committed. He's a

fanatic. This is the consensus of my brethren across the majority of all our leading denominations as well, and I'm stating our position quite clearly. He must disappear. The sooner the better." "Reverend, I've read this stuff," said the younger man, tapping the book-thick folder on the table there in front of him. "I think it's mostly just mildly entertaining, albeit, not too sophisticated. I agree that he seems to have some, at best, novel powers of reasoning, but I just don't see how this, I guess, mostly fantasy love story is such a threat. Why in the world should it matter, if a few hundred, even thousands of people, start doing more good deeds, even contributing more to others doing good deeds? I just don't get it and what's more, neither does the President. So tell me something I don't know, because as it stands right now, neither the White House nor the Vice-President's office are prepared to sanction what you're suggesting." "Mr. Gibbons, your boss and his sidekick are in office because we put them there. Don't forget that. Their replacements will be men of our choosing as well. So, whether you or the Administration sanctions what we decide here, is not my paramount concern. You can tell your boss that our allies in the c ongress can remove him and his associate any time we so request," the Reverend was glaring at the young man. Mr. Gibbons raised his hands in self defense, "I'm just asking for something to take back with me. I was told I needed to come back with a damn good reason why our agents should have to eliminate another one of your imagined, I' m sorry, I mean, another person your coalition has determined to be a catastrophic threat to the empire." "Mr. Gibbons, you have the folder on this boy's uncle. You know he seeded an organization that he hoped would one day turn the entire world's financial infrastructure on its head. He developed a plan and put it into action. His plan was achieving tremendous success. This young man, this boy, is continuing that plan, even as we sit here, not doing anything. What's more, we've confirmed that his uncle kept a detailed written account of all his plans, his thoughts and his dreams for basically putting most of us, and especially our donors, out of business, or at least he thought we were not the type of people that should be running our respective organizations. We had some occasions to do research by getting close to some of his associates and most of that, you and the Administration have already seen. What we've most recently learned, you and I, is that he kept this record, a journal, the kid called it, that' s over a hundred volumes. We believe, in those volumes, this kid is going to find the answer to the question he seems to pursue with all his efforts." "What's the question?" "Why things are the way they are." "That doesn't sound that harmful to me. What's the catch?" "Mr. Gibbons, I'm told you were in the top 5 in your class at Yale. What part of this situation, specifically, are you having difficulty grasping?" "Well, I figure everybody and his brother ask questions like that. Hell, I' ve often asked myself sometimes why things are the way they are. What's the harm in that?" "What answer did you come up with?" "Well, I guess I thought there were mostly a million different answers, so eventually, I guess I just came to accept that things are the way they are, and there's not much you can do about it." "Exactly. That's the right answer. Everybody comes to that conclusion sooner or later. That's the way things work. It's the way things have always worked. When someone gets the idea that there's another answer, we have a situation. Anytime, and every time, in the history of the world that we have had a situation, it's never been good. Sometimes, we've fought wars because of different answers. Sometimes there been non-violent revolutions, not always turning out the way we'd prefer. This kid's uncle didn't settle for the right answer either, though he was mostly discreet when he came up with the real answer. This kid won't be as discreet. We're convinced of that." "What's the real answer?" "Mr. Gibbons, you're wasting our time here with all these questions. We've collectively made our decision. You work directly for the President. Your job is to function as the liaison between those of us in this room and your boss. I want to restate our conclusion. The time to act is now, before it's too late. Your friends in the Administration are just going to have to trust us on this. We know what we're doing. Some of our best minds have spent weeks and weeks modeling different scenarios and I can assure you, not only were we frightened with the results, so were our donors, the same donors that put the members of your party into their public offices. Do I make myself clear?" finished the Reverend, the force in his voice drawing the acute focus of every man seated at that pricey conference table. Mr. Gibbons shrugged, "I'll pass the word when I get back." The meeting broke up and the men left the conference room, chatting among themselves. Bart Gibbons eyed the departing backs of his curious conspirators with a suspicious eye, wandering how his boss could have ever got mixed up with such a lunatic group. He walked out the door, took the elevator down to the garage and found his car. Getting into the Porsche, he started the engine and backed out of the parking space. He stopped. A frown covered his face. What's the Real answer? He sat there in his car for a few moments trying to determine what the hell that was all about. Another car coming up behind him forced him from his contemplation and he shifted the gears and pulled away, heading in the direction of the exit.

• • • * * * Chapter 8 It was a three day weekend and the football team had a bye week, so it had been decided that stretching the weekend by a day and a few hours would work just fine for certain high priority plans that had been looking for a window on the calendar. Trey descended the stairs leading from the yacht's upper deck to the spacious salon below. He crossed to the door opening to the passageway for the staterooms. He gently tapped before slowly opening the door to the owner's suite. "You coming topside?" he asked Chris, walking towards the bronzed boy laying there in his white cotton briefs, now looking up from the book he was reading. "How far are we out?" asked Chris. "Alan expects to drop anchor in about forty minutes. You should come up to the aft deck. Gigi has laid out an awesome spread. I think her plan is to feed us enough so we don't have to eat for the entire three days we're on the island. She's got Barbadian chicken skewers, Caribbean jerk pork chops, garlic

Cajun ribs, Grecian pork tenderloin, Cajun grilled corn, and so much other stuff that I figure we could stop in Freeport and feed half the city." "You been sampling the eats?" teased Chris, noticing the smudge just to the right side of Trey's mouth. Trey licked his lips, reaching just a bit further and finding the errant drop; his eyes went wide and he wowed, "She made this incredible watermelon salsa for an appetizer. You have just got to taste this. Come on," he said, coming to the side of the bed, reaching and grasping the blond boy's arm, pulling him towards the edge. Chris rolled his arm free from Trey's grasp, locked his own right hand firmly onto the outstretched arm of his friend, added an additional grasp from his left hand and yanked the brown haired boy onto the king sized bed. A fierce

wrestling match ensured, Chris in his briefs, Trey in board shorts, though, those multi-colored shorts were slowly, but surely, exposing more and more cheek as Chris and Trey rolled over and over, Chris tugging at the shorts, Trey

fighting to keep them on, giggling uncontrollably. Chris rolled to the top and stopped, looking down into the eyes of the brown haired boy wearing the wire frame glasses, "You're the most beautiful creature, I ever laid eyes on," he whispered to the warmly smiling boy lying beneath him, returning his stare with delight filling his eyes. Trey could feel the stiffness, his and Chris', as the pelvic regions of their bodies gently, yet firmly, massaged the other, both contributing to the effort. "That was quick," whispered Trey, grinning in an inviting sort of way. Chris lowered his face and found the lips of his friend, his love; he gently caressed those lips with his own and then the two were merged with increasingly aggressive passion as they again begin to roll over and over, from one side to the other, of the giant bed, their entire bodies parallel in their coupling. "We're not on the island yet," whispered Trey, coming up for air, both boys stilled locked in their shared embrace, their hips imparting an expressive energy into the other. "Close enough," whispered Chris, again melding with abandon to the soft sweet lips of his precious mate, this lovely gentleness that he had so deeply treasured since that first night, those many, many months ago, there on the farm, just beside the barn, when he first experienced the vision and touch of this angel, crossing time and space to rescue him there in the peak hour of his aloneness.

• • • * * * The two boys waved bye to the tender as Alan Mueller motored back towards the Sea Stallion, there, gently rocking on the water in this, the east side harbor. Chris led the way as they began the hike into the interior of the island

and onward toward the cave with the makeshift canopy, their island home they had simply come to call "the shelter". It was located just over three-quarters of a mile from the sands of this, the east side harbor beach, and almost exactly the same distance away from paradise harbor, their most favored sands, directly across the island on the other side. Chris turned onto the almost virgin path leading towards the north end of the island and they began the climb up the slope that would take the boys to the small clearing in front of the cave, the clearing which had become their "front yard". The island was a lush tropical paradise, with a variety of trees and a wide dispersion of flora. It was awash, all year round, in a sea of color: gold, yellow, pink, violet, green and many shades of red. The Yellow Elder, the Bahamian national flower, blooms on a tree that often grows as high as 20 feet. The evergreen stands out because of its clusters of brilliant yellow, bell-shaped blossoms. They are about an inch across and two inches long, with red stripes lightly etched in the corolla. The little bells are held in a five-point calyx, and there are nine to 13 leaflets composing the odd pinnate leaf. Just before the blooms flare open, bag-like buds pop noisily if squeezed, hence, its common name, "the plopper". There were also orchids, morning glory bushes, "monkey tails", "paper flowers", and many others; most having nicknames easier to remember than their official designations. There was also a large assortment of trees whose branches were filled with varying and vibrant shades of tint decorating this place, privately known as their isle of Eden. The richness of colors was breathtaking and the array of fragrances literally intoxicating, though the only poisonous plant on the island was the Oleander. The two boys reached the clearing and deposited their back packs just inside the mouth of shallow cave, casting a quick look around their undisturbed home, here in this wonderland of nature. They shed their clothes, and donned their standard attire for life on Eden, the beautiful and priceless wash and wear suits that can only be provided by nature and is unique to their own species. The boys left the clearing there in front of the shelter and headed west through the jungle towards the area just north of paradise harbor, the sounds of the ocean growing louder as they came closer to the Island shore. The first stop upon arrival here on their isle of Eden was always the same, a reverent visit to the only Frangipani tree on the island. Planted on this cliff just north of paradise harbor, looking out over the brilliantly blue waters below, the "temple tree", as it is commonly known, marked the final earthly resting place of the grand and majestic man, Robert Alexander. The " temple tree", the source of flowers for the popular Hawaiian leis, was surrounded with a carefully designed exquisite tropical botanical garden, painstakingly and lovingly crafted by the hands of Chris, that first summer, after the tragic passing of his beloved uncle. In those long endless days of unbearable grief, the, then, 16 year-old boy had brought plants, an awe-inspiring display of colors, from all over the island, each specially selected, and replanted here in this clearing, at just the right distance apart so that as you walked around the clearing, on the lush carpet of green, your senses would be inundated with first one fragrance then the next, in a veritable buffet of all the delights the island had to offer. It was the most spectacular, the most brilliantly alive place, Trey had ever, in his whole life, visited; and he didn't imagine he would ever find anything else, anywhere, on the entire planet, to which it could be compared. Chris softly stepped onto the lush green carpet and slowly paced the short distance across the grand beauty of paradise garden, stopping there just at the base of the flowering temple tree, his back to Trey, still at the edge of this clearing. He slowly knelt down; both knees resting on the soft verdant flooring, slowly and gracefully bowed his head until he tenderly kissed the living earth just in front of the stately base of the majestic tree. He held the kiss for some time before slowly raising his head to again look upon the beauty which is the Frangipani tree. After some long moments, the blond boy gracefully climbed to his feet and gently walked to the west side of the peacefully serene garden, there just back from the edge of the towering cliff; he lowered himself to the soft luxuriant cushion of alluring green grass, pulled his knees to his chest, and sat longingly gazing out over the luminous turquoise waters of the harbor below. Trey slowly made his way over to his friend's side, carefully, without invasion, lowering himself into the same position, there at the edge of paradise reunion, as the two boys sat there, side by side, breathing the exotic fragrances of the exquisite garden, listening to the lapping of the waves on the rocks below, and gazing into the distance, seeing an indescribable tapestry of magical dimensions, somewhere on the other side of the horizon, where the golden sun in the heavens journeyed on its gradual glide down into the ocean. As they sat, peacefully, there at the edge of the magnificently splendid garden, staring into the vast expanse between the turbulent ocean and the clear blue sky, Trey knew, more than saw, the occasional tear slowly crawling down his friend's adorable face. His own countenance was one of sad empathy as he joined his dearest companion in his moments of remembrance, a tribute to a love that time will never fade.

• • • * * * Chapter 9 "Ahoy, laddie," greeted the smiling blond boy to his brown haired friend as the latter woke to the warm rays of the morning sun and the smell of sizzling bacon. The waking boy raised himself up on his elbows, reached for his glasses, just off to his left side there, and looked out beyond the canopy as his friend busied himself over the small fire pit, preparing a breakfast for the two on them. The ahoy language signaled that this was to be one of those days when "Calico Jack" Alexander and "Blackbeard" Simmons would roam the island and swim the seas, engaged in mortal combat with one another and in search of the lost treasure of the former rulers of these islands, a virtual " Privateer's Republic" some 300 years since past. "Arrrgh," came the mumbled reply from the not yet fully awake boy Blackbeard. He crawled from his sleeping bag and made his way to join his friend, long since having lost any concerns about modesty around his "bosom buddy", even when parading about with the usual morning wood. He walked up behind Calico Jack and jutted out just enough to make contact as his wooden member slid along the cheek of the blond boy, there, now scrambling some eggs. "Blimey!!! Avast ye thar wit `at belayin' pin `ar I a' be havin' ter gives ye a taste o' der cat!" exclaimed Calico Jack. Blackbeard just grunted and slipped out of the clearing and down the path a piece to take care of some business. "C'mere, me beauty," said Calico, as Blackbeard stumbled slowly back into the "front yard", there in front of the shelter, "smartly, me lad, smartly," Calico urged. Calico handed Blackbeard a wooden plate filled with several strips of freshly fried bacon. "Has ye sum' crackle fruit wit' `at bacon," said Calico Jack, dishing the newly woken pirate up a serving of the scrambled eggs. "'Is'll jist cos' ye a mere 12 pieces o' eight," he said, smiling up at the boy Blackbeard. "Aye, an' ye's ken has a nipperkin of `dis clap of thunder as it's rightful ' yorn share of the booty," Calico said, pouring a cup of the steaming coffee for his friend. "Aye, me be thankin' ye thar Jack," managed the boy Blackbeard, "I were sorely needin' a splice in me main brace." The boy Blackbeard studied his friend for a moment, "Jack, me heartie, `tis `der sea it is what's callin' ye ` is mornin'? `at it?" "Arr, `at it is, me matey. `At it is," replied Calico Jack. The game had few rules, actually none other than the play clock. The first one of the two that woke on any given day, mostly always the farm boy, would signal if the game was on with his morning greeting. The game would continue, uninterrupted the full day, only ceasing after both boys had fallen asleep sometime late that night, usually in the wee hours of the morning. They always stayed in character for the entire day and the challenge was, among other things, to outperform the other, in character acting that is, the pirates role. Other things, such as the intimate encounters between two boy buccaneers, had created additions to the known pirating vocabulary, not yet recorded, but, the boys suspected, must have been the way it used to go, some few hundred years now past, when their namesakes had ruthlessly ruled these very same waters. "O' Calico be seein' ye've `a-cided to strike colors," remarked Calico Jack, noting some dissipation of the woodenness of Blackbeard's otherwise still very sizeable belayin' pin. "Aye, me lad, `at I did, `at I did," replied Blackbeard, "Ain't safe ` round `eer, wit yer cutlass next `o ye thar. I be lurnin' me mann'rs from `ast time ye `n me war' sailin' o'getter." "Tis' a fine mornin' fer ye `n me ta find sum loot ta fill aire bung hole back thar," said Calico, nodding toward the shallow cave in the rocks behind the boys. "Arr, `tis so," agreed Blackbeard, "a fine mornin', indeedy, me hearty." And so the game would go, around and around the island and in the waters just off shore, as the two boys, laughed, wrestled, giggled, climbed, swam, ran and played for hours on end, just as two best friends should; Calico Jack and Blackbeard did. There were the gentler moments during the day and in the evening when mostly the games involved a display of their true affections for each other, a soft sharing of tenderness that would include polishing a belaying pin or maybe just hiding it for some period of time. It was a game they thoroughly enjoyed with seemingly inspiration being generated from the other. The island, this isle of Eden, was their paradise and much more. Robert Alexander's spirit was on this island, of that the blond boy was confident, and he shared his memories of the favored uncle with his best friend as often as possible, something cherished by the brown haired boy in the wire frame glasses, maybe because of the closeness that it validated. This island was also their playground and the entertainment and amusement they shared amidst the pristine tropical jungle and in the seas offshore, raised their spirits to levels of ever increasing altitudes. It was an enchanting paradise; it was an amusement park filled with wonder; but mostly, it was home.
• • • * * * Trey walked into Chris' office there at the Concord Street offices, went over to the couch in front of the fireplace and sat down, just staring into the flames. Chris looked at his friend, slowly got up from his desk and walked slowly over to sit with him. Trey had just come from a meeting with some hospice and clinic workers in the city and he seemed well past dejected. "Hey," softly said Chris, gently reaching for his friend's hand. Trey turned to look into his friend's eyes and Chris could see the pain and tears discoloring the beauty most often seen there. "What's wrong?" he whispered. "It just seems so hopeless," Trey managed. The meeting must not have gone that well. "Want to talk about it?" asked Chris. "So many people are dying; so many others are going to die; so few people even care until it's too late. Those guys trying to help out are unbelievably overworked, underfunded and grossly underappreciated. I listened to their stories and not a single one of them could say more than two words without breaking my heart. It's so unbelievably unbearable. I cried all the way here from the city," he said. "Over 25 million people have died from this disease, over 40 million are living with it now and 5 million became infected just this last year. 46% of all known cases are women. 15-24 year olds account for half of all new cases worldwide, that's 6,000 each and every day, just in that age group. Of the 6.5 million cases in developing and transitional countries needing live-saving medicines, only 1 million receive them." Chris put his arm around his friend and pulled his head to rest on his own shoulder, gently stroking his lovely brown hair. Trey went on, "Every story they told was different and so painful. There's no easy solution. Sure, we can help out with some funding. Maybe even one day they'll get the full federal funding that has been promised to them year after year, but the number of deaths probably won't stop until we figure out a way to wake people up. There are so many people dying around the world from this disease, it's just unbelievable." Chris just sat there stroking the boy's hair as he cried on his shoulder, trying to unload some of the pain that he'd been trying to absorb from others.

"Some of their patients are really cases. I mean, some of the guys at the meeting were from the clinics in Florida and the stories they tell. It's like they don't ever expect to turn the corner because there's a certain segment of the community who doesn't have a clue what the words responsibility and gratitude mean," he continued. "How can we win when some of those we want to help are working for the other side, infecting others, knowingly, mind you? I just can't believe it. I know it's a small percentage but it's just, I don' t know; I can't even come close to understanding that. These workers, at the Hospices and the clinics, they deal with everything. They're really amazing, but it's no easy life, that I can tell for sure." "I'm sorry," whispered Chris. "I know those workers are some of our finest angels but they have training that helps them deal with a lot of what you're saying. I think we might ought to let Clyde fly out from New York for future meetings; he's used to handling this sort of situation. I mean, you're just a junior in high school; you can't take the world on your shoulders." "Don't you dare! I'm doing this project. Somehow, someway, I want to come up with a plan to attack this problem differently; I mean in a way that will get us past the rut we're stuck in now with ever increasing numbers of infections and same for the number of people dying. I don't know how I'm going to do it; but I'm not stopping until I know the numbers are moving in the right direction and in a major way." Chris continued gently stroking the boy's hair, "Anything I can do to help, all you have to do is let me know," he said softly, laying his cheek on the top of his friend's head. "I don't know what the answer is, not yet, I don't; but I'm going to keep working on it. I know there are a lot of good people working their butts off and their hearts out trying to deal with this problem and I also know that an awful lot of them are frustrated for all kinds of different reasons. I think somehow we have to come up with a better street level solution. I'm not sure but I'm thinking maybe something like attacking the problem from the other side to try to stem the tide of infections, like really going hard at those opposing the distribution of condoms and increasing dramatically the education effort, worldwide. For those who are already infected, the only answer is providing care, medicines, counseling, and support, lots of support. Did you know that these clinic workers spend a large chunk of their time just trying to keep some of their patients from being booted out of their apartment or having their utilities cut or trying to get their Medicaid reinstated, stuff like that; and these patients are sometimes homebound, maybe some even bedbound, kind of in their last weeks and some heartless landlords and bureaucrats wants to kick them out on the street or yank their only means of subsistence or healthcare. Suicide is a big problem too. I'm amazed. I guess I wasn't really expecting to hear all I heard today and it was like, well, the problem is a lot bigger than I ever thought; what's more, it's a lot more complicated than I ever thought, too." "I think there's too much posturing," he went on, "Politicians talking a lot about the problem and not matching their words with the same sort of action. Also, I think the pharmaceutical companies are making a fortune off of other peoples misery. I'm sorry about this. I know this isn't good but that makes me angry. I mean really angry. How could any human being be so heartless, so greedy? I just don't get it. I never thought evil could be so, well, utterly evil." "I want you to look at me," said Chris, raising his head so Trey could look up. "If you allow your emotions to be dictated by someone else, you're giving them control over your life. While what you say is true, I don't want you to think it's alright to allow the evil of others to cause you to drop your guard against such things. Anger can really mess you up if you let it get out of hand. The only way to deal with situations like you're talking about is to identify it and find out what if anything is being done about it. If something is being done, you can contribute to those efforts; if nothing is being done, you can start an effort. The important thing is not to let the evil of others give birth to something that is destructive in you." "Yeah. I guess you're right; it's not easy though." "I know."

• • • * * * Chapter 10 It was Thursday afternoon, Trey had been working in his office there in the Concord Street building for some time when he finally saw Chris come in, having finished his afternoon session of football practice. Trey put aside the purchase orders for the equipment and supplies he'd been filling out for an Aids Hospice in the city and crossed the hall, gently tapping on the still open door of his friend's office. "How'd it go?" "Great. I think we're ready. This is going to be a tough game though. These guys coming in tomorrow night are a lot bigger than us. We're going to try to beat them with our speed. I think it should be a good game but we're basically a two touchdown underdog." "Do you have a couple minutes to spare?" asked the brown haired boy with the wire frame glasses, transitioning the subject to the real reason for his interruption. "Sure. What's on your mind?" replied Chris. "I wanted to talk to you about, you know, the stuff you've been reading in those journals and I guess some things you said yesterday." "Shoot. What do you want to know? From you, my pet, I have no secrets," he said, smiling mischievously. "You said, you can see the truth? What does that mean? I mean, how do you see the truth? I know about seeing and perceiving and hearing and understanding. What I'm asking is how do you see it? Is it the same as knowing the truth?"

"Well, seeing, knowing, maybe it's all just semantics. When I see the truth, I know it's much larger than anything I can fully comprehend. It's way bigger than me. Now, I don't know that much of it, but mostly, I believe what I do know and I can recognize any other part of the truth if I see it. I just can't get my comprehension around it all at once, and I figure if I could, then I would be just like the great teacher, my teacher now, at least in spirit. But anyways, I'm not there. I'm really still a long, long ways from getting there." "How do you recognize it?" "It's really simple, easy even. All you have to do is look for it. Now if you're looking for what you want to find, you probably won't find the truth. The truth is not about rationalization. You have to genuinely be willing to be wrong, really wanting to be shown where you're wrong, if you are looking for the truth. It's almost like you have to force yourself to a higher plane. I've been working on that. It can be tough, especially when there are so many distractions. Plus, the natural thing for most people, including myself, is to never want to be wrong. It's human nature. So we'll accept just about anything that masquerades as the truth, if it fits our own designs, and there 's enough stuff out there floating around that a person can find anything he or she wants to find, if that's what they're looking for. I think once you get the core of the truth inside you, the rest is a lot easier. The core isn' t about what you want to be right for you; it's maybe more like what you think would be right for everyone, including you." "You said your uncle wrote about the world, saying it was upside down and that SandLot was being built to help turn it right side up. Can you tell me about that?" asked Trey. "He wrote that there was a tremendous propaganda effort in place, had been in place for quite some time, to fix people's thoughts on a certain path. He believed the purpose of that effort was to keep as many people as possible enslaved to the fewest number of people and that the effort was highly successful mostly because it was so damned sophisticated. The vast majority of those involved in the effort don't even realize what they're really doing. They've been deceived and they go on, themselves, deceiving countless others, day after day. That's the biggest key to its success. It really is a masterful plan."

"Yeah. Tell me how that works." "Remember that little speech of sorts in the auditorium? The part about what the World bank said about politicians and rulers?" "What part exactly?" "They said, that poverty stricken people can cause little HARM or BENEFIT to the politicians and officials who rule them. Such rulers have therefore little incentive to pay attention to the interests of the poor and will cater instead to the interests of agents more capable of reciprocation, including foreign governments, companies, and tourists.' That's the gist of the quote. Now in the ancient texts, the writer, who was the best friend of the great teacher, phrased it differently. He said, referring to the great empires of whatever time, The kings of the earth committed adultery with her and the merchants of the earth grew rich from her excessive luxuries.' Now I think anyone would agree that adultery is simply being unfaithful to the one, or in this case, those, you are obligated to. Since we know from the World Bank that the kings, politicians, rulers, whatever name they go by, are selling out the poor to those with the money, it stands to reason, in my uncle's view and mine, too, that that's the adultery the ancient writer is taking about. Furthermore,

the richest empire in the history of all mankind is the only remaining superpower today, right? So there you have it. Scary, huh?" "Very Scary." "There's more." "I don't know that I can take any more." said Trey, thinking this line of thinking is, indeed, really scary. "I mean, wasn't the government already tapping peoples phone lines, screening their emails. They might not be happy if one of their citizens were talking like this," he thought to himself. "Well anyway, there's this book called the Mystery of Capitalism. Its author is a consultant, along with many others, for helping nations to transform their economies into the capitalist system. Now, here's the part that's scary. Only one country in the whole world ever got capitalism right, right off the bat. That country is the model for all others. The great economists studied that country to see what it did where others came up short. Want to know what it did?" "Probably not." Trey laughed but it was the kind of laughter you experience when you are seriously nervous, the worried kind of nervous. He had a suspicion where this was leading and he figured these secrets were best left unspoken. "The reason that one country was successful where others failed is because it required that everything have a mark before it could be bought or sold. Same with the buyers and sellers. They had to have a mark. Now, the mark is basically any form of identification. It can be like a title document, bill of sale, social security card, anything like that. Now this author found out that countries not requiring the markings of their properties and peoples didn't do near as well financially, from a wealth standpoint, as the one that did. He

called this the mystery of capitalism. He said that when a country would switch to the marking model, the value of their properties would skyrocket, stocks would increase in value ten-fold or more and become on par with value methods employed in that model country. Now, I'm not naming names, but I think you can guess which is the model country. When my uncle first came across this author, the man was working for this model country as a consultant, at that time, helping to implement this model capitalist society in Egypt." "I'm sensing you're fixing to tell me something that's not all that good. Remember, when we first found those journals and we were taking and I joked about you didn't have anything to worry about because the room probably wasn' t bugged? Well, I take it back. I'm not joking anymore. I mean, aren't you worried that talk like this could get you in trouble," asked Trey. "I'm not done," said Chris. "That ancient writer said that there would come a time when an empire, same as beast in apocalyptic language, would rule the world and all nations would follow that empire. He went on to say that the

empire would require that anyone who bought or sold anything, that person must have a mark. I told you it was scary." "I used to think I was afraid of snakes. I guess once you are more afraid of something else, you aren't afraid of the little things anymore." said Trey, gazing into the dormant fireplace there in the office. "There's more." "I'm almost sorry I asked. Not really, but I mean; I want to be with you and learn as much as possible, but this is really scary. I mean; I'm scared. Aren't you?" "What can they do? The great teacher said, `Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body.' So yeah, maybe in my body I can be scared but not in my soul. Anyway, back when the Roman empire existed they threw people like us into an arena with wild animals so we could be torn apart by the mouths of lions and the like. So some of those 15 billion people had it a lot worse than we probably ever will, but they didn't shrink from the truth, not one bit." "I hope we never find out that you were too premature coming to that conclusion," Trey smiled, a worried smile. "Anyway, there's one more thing. Do you want to hear it?" "Something tells me to say no, but I guess I'm already on some watch list by now anyway, especially if someone knows anything about what you're saying."

"Well, I will just say this, and then we can talk about something different.

Many churches, or as I prefer to call them, assemblies of people, they worship the empire. They worship the kingdom of this world. They call it patriotism. I don't know about that. One of this country's great authors wrote that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. The ancient writers in the scrolls called it worshipping the beast. My uncle wrote that those people pushing patriotism were really just trying to distract people into seeing the truth their way and no other way. He said they were causing people to worship this world; he called it the devil in disguise. The ancient writers did say that they would be masters of intrigue, mostly masquerading as angels of light. My uncle said he saw one of these men, the son of a supposedly great preacher, himself, now also a supposedly preacher, on a news show back after the New York attack and the man said we should consider the proactive use of nuclear weapons to protect our country. My uncle was stunned. He knew the great teacher would never have taught something like that, so he had to ask himself, where did this man, supposedly a preacher, come up with such an evil notion?" "One of the ancient writers said that if you are a servant of the King of kings, you should be a good citizen, subject to the civil authorities, but a good soldier does not become involved in civilian affairs one way or the other. Another one of the ancient writers said if anyone is a friend of the world that person is an enemy of God. The ancient writers also said while we are in these bodies, we should live our lives as strangers here. So I figure we're suppose to stay out of trouble, do things the best we can, but we have to stay focused on the real world not the false one presented by the few people in power to preserve their positions and the wealth of their supporters." "Anyway, as for me, there's no way in my mind I want someone to kill anyone else to defend me. Let me be killed. Now, mind you, I'm not volunteering here or anything, but if that's the way it's got to be, then I really don't have any choice, I mean, if someone is going to kill me, and I want to be like the great teacher, I'm going to forgive them. The reason is when you kill someone else for whatever reason, or in this case, advocate killing someone else; you are usurping the authority of God. There has only ever been one entity that seriously fought against God and I'm not interested in being on that side. The ancient writers say, it is for God to avenge; we are to walk as the great teacher did and if that means to our own execution, like him or those who were thrown to the lions, then that's just how it's got to be. It'll be over real quick anyway and then we go on to live forever in heaven. If however, we decide to become the killers, in our thinking or in our actions, then I don 't believe we have much hope of getting into heaven. I think that's the truth that the great teacher taught." "So you're a pacifist?" asked Trey. "I just want to be like the great teacher. He said, `no student is greater than his teacher but when he is full grown he will be just like his teacher' . I know I've got a lot of growing up to do yet, but that's what I want to do. One of the ancient writers, one who did amazing things in service to other people and taught so many, many other people and even wrote a lot of the ancient scrolls, said, he was the worst wrong-doer out of everyone. I pretty much, long ago, figured he wasn't ever expecting me to come along and take that title away him, otherwise, he would have said he was the second worst; but he did say, we all should look at ourselves, individually, that same way. So, yeah, I have a long, long ways to go, myself, assuming I even get there or even part way there. Now on some of the teachings of the great teacher, some of his students, way back then, well, some of the things he taught, they thought were too hard, so they quit his school. I don't want to ever be a drop out from his school. I may not pass all the tests but I don't want to be a drop out." "Now, one thing my uncle was concerned about was wealth, basically, the income gap between the upper 20% of the people living in rich countries and the lower 20% of people living in the poorest countries. He noted that right after our country's constitution was signed, actually a little later in 1820, that income gap was 3-1. Then 50 years later, it was 7-1. In 1913, it grew to 11-1. In 1960 it was 30-1. In 1990 it was 60-1 and the latest year he had was 1997, then it was 74-1. Now I don't think it's probably going the other way, so I figure, we in the upper 20% of the richest countries are still getting richer and the poor are still getting poorer. I don't think it's a crime, spiritually or otherwise to be rich, but the great teacher did say it was very hard for a rich man to get into heaven, not impossible, he said, but very hard." "He told a story of a young man who did every thing exactly right, never did anything wrong in his whole life and this young man wanted to be a student of the great teacher's. So the great teacher said, you're doing a great job, but if you want to me my student go and sell everything you have and give it to the poor. The young man went away feeling really bad because he knew he couldn't part with his wealth. So whatever you can't part with, whatever you love the most, even if it is your physical life, that's your god. And this is a huge trap for rich people so it makes it harder for them to get into heaven." "Some rich people give away large gifts, kind of like we do, and they think that entitles them to a ticket to heaven. The teacher told another story, one about some rich people like that compared to an old widow, very poor, who gave her last red cent to help others, and he ask a question; which was the most generous gift? The last red cent or the million dollar check?" "There's a lot of wisdom in the scrolls, huh?" "Yeah. There is. More, for sure, than I can absorb, but it was given away for free if someone wants it. You just have to open your mind and listen to the teacher and writers, realizing they are writing for over 15 billion people. It's like reading a personal letter from your best friend. Now when you read a letter from someone like that, you're normally thinking different than when you read a text book of some sort. You have a different frame of mind. Anyway, that's how I see things. I read the scrolls and try to see the perspective of the writer. The great teacher, he mostly told interesting stories to illustrate what he was trying to teach. His wisdom was greater than any that has ever existed before or after. That's why he's the King of kings, you know? I mean, he isn't British or German or Asian or anything; He's all of them, all of us. I think that's the mystery of God." "Last thing on this because it ties in to what we're talking about. The teacher told his class one day a story about a rich man and a man named Lazarus. He said the rich man lived in luxury all his life and Lazarus, full on sores, laid at his door, sick, hungry and homeless, forced to survive off the scraps that fell from the rich man's table. I don't think it was called trickle down economics back then, but anyway, the story had a happy ending for Lazarus, though tragically, the same could not be said for the rich man." The boys ended their conversation there in Chris' office and as Trey made his way back across the hall to his own office, he had the uneasy feeling that these books penned by Robert Alexander contained thoughts that just might be best left locked in that safe down there in Florida. He didn't really want to put himself in a position where people might want to throw him into an arena to be torn apart by wild animals and he, for damned sure, wasn't going to stand by and let anyone mess with his blond haired mate. He'd just have to apologize to who ever needed to hear it, but on that part, he just wasn't anywhere even in the vicinity of being ready. What's more, no way he could promise that he might one day be, not when it comes to his best friend, the blond bronzed jock over there that filled his life with so much joy and love. "I guess they can kill me," he thought, "but if anyone lays so much as even a hand on one of the hairs on his head, so help me; well, I haven't been training for nine years for nothing."

• • • * * * Chapter 11 Trey swam closer to his blond friend as they snorkeled there beneath the surface just on the outer limits of paradise harbor. Reaching out to get his attention, he pointed to their right, just beyond the pillar reef. Chris' eyes followed his direction and both boys pulled up there beneath the water, watching the small group of Blacktip sharks feeding on the school of Spanish mackerel. Chris motioned his friend to follow and they dove down amidst the reefs and swam along the bottom moving south along the coast, away from the not so friendly sea creatures dining there just behind them. The two boys tended to steer clear of the Blacktips, the eight foot long monsters responsible for the majority of all attacks in these waters between here and the Florida coast. There were the Blacktips, but the waters here around the island were also frequently visited by Spinners, the fastest swimmers of all the sharks they had so far encountered. There was also the Blacknose sharks and these sharks had proved to be good playmates, at least as far as sharks go, finding themselves perhaps even more vulnerable to their cousins that the two boys might be. It wasn't like swimming with a pod of dolphins, the boys had no desire to reach out and pet any shark, but the Blacknose would swim around with the boys without ever hinting that there might be an interest in tasting one or more of the appendages dangling from the humans. The coral reefs around the island were well beyond spectacular. The shear vastness of the beauty would lead your eyes in every direction making it difficult, if not impossible, to spend any length of time in just one area. There were shapes and colors spanning the spectrum, finger coral, star coral, pillar reefs, fire coral, lettuce and many others. The sea creatures, both large and small, making their homes in, around and above the maze of reefs just added to the astonishing bouquet of wonder that decorated these pristine blue waters. Of the well over 500 species of tropical fish said to inhabit the mostly

shallow depths just off-shore, the boys were not making that much progress at identifying all of them. Progress, yes, just not that much. Still, it was an underwater oasis of pure marvel, this breathless splendor in such a variety, swimming here just above the mostly sugar white sands on the ocean floor and among the majestic reefs a bit farther out, all comfortably reachable by the two young aqua-boys from the white powder of paradise beach. It was the Veteran's day weekend and as opportunities were rare, this was one of those precious weekend getaways, the kind that involves a mad dash to the airport in faraway KC as the final bell rang the school day to an end. Then there was the hop aboard the custom Boeing 737 business jet for the three-hour flight to the fort, the rush to the Harbor Beach peninsula and the boarding of the waiting Sea Stallion for the two and a half hour comfy cruise out here to SandLot Island. The boys traveled on Thursday night making the trip here, napping in the sleeping cabin on the jet, waking to mostly just switch beds to the owner's stateroom on the yacht and arriving at the island with just the moon and stars to light their way to the shelter and then to the "temple tree". On these trips during the school year, they would most times depart early enough on Sundays to arrive back in Missouri in plenty of time to see the cows come home, not that either had any cows, still not yet at least. The boys could stay in the ocean for hours, following the schools of first one species then the next, north and south, as they swam the warm clear waters surrounding the island. Each visit had thus-far offered a wildly exhilarating experience. On occasion the day would be spent exploring the reefs, searching for lost treasure, and not really doing so is a boyishly pretending way. Given the rich pirating history of the islands all around this area of the Caribbean, both boys were confident it was just a matter of time until they stumbled upon some trinket, coin or otherwise, that remained of the vast amounts of plunder those buccaneers, the real ones, had taken from the Spanish, French and British ships, themselves plundering the natives of these lands and those of the Americas just to the west. Other occasions had provided the truly awesome and invigorating experience of swimming with the native dolphins of these waters. While the sharks presented one type of thrill, underwater sightseeing another, and exploration, yet another, life with a pod of dolphins was mostly just marvelously fun. Chris was certain early on that they could make friends with the dolphins and oftentimes they would spend large chunks of the day in school, that is, on those days when a dolphin family was nearby and school was in session. If the boys were in the water and discovered by the dolphins they'd always come to visit. They were intelligent, friendly and playful creatures. Interaction with these grand beings was based on trust, play and curiosity. The boys learned early on that to keep the attention of the dolphins, they needed only keep their level of activity vibrant, swimming, diving, and playing in the water. The beautiful sea mammals preferred to swim shoulder to shoulder with the boys, sometimes rubbing alongside or touching the boys with a fin. It was often difficult to determine who wanted more to pet whom. The dolphins did however clearly favor swimming eye to eye and Trey found making eye contact with a dolphin to be a truly hypnotic experience as they, the boys and these kings of the sea, would glide along side by side, often mimicking each other's moves, frolicking for hours on end. One particular dolphin, the boys had named Jumper because that appeared to be his special ability, jumping higher that his companions, had become their best friend, in a dolphin sort of way. Jumper taught the boys how to play pass. It was a simple game. Any object would suffice to be the item of attention. Most often he would gather up a clump of seaweed with his dorsal fin, swim out a few yards and drop it to the sands on the bottom of the harbor. Chris would swim out and take up the same clump, swim out another few yards, drop the clump on the white sandy bottom. Jumper would swim over, gather up the same clump with his dorsal fin again, swim out another few yards and drop it to the bottom, waiting there for Chris to repeat the activity. On and on it would go, sometimes for an entire afternoon. It would have been obvious to any casual observer that, for the boys, this school was definitely preferable to the one back there in Missouri and with the quality of instruction available here, well, Trey was certain they could graduate in, oh, maybe, two or three thousand years, not that he was in any hurry, mind you. The dolphins did exhibit a strong desire to communicate with the boys and the honor and privilege was not at all lost on the two aqua-boys. Every effort was made to pay extra close attention, capturing a memory of any repeated behavior for later analysis and discussion. If there was some way for a human to learn the true native language of Jumper and his family and friends, he had two of the most ideal and interested students. There was much for the boys to learn and they were enthusiastic as they sought to better understand the social behavior and physiology of the joyful and loving creatures, ever trying to decode the many clicks, chirps and whistles which comprised the native language of their new friends. Today, Jumper and a few friends had made a brief appearance, swimming for a while, Jumper mostly with Trey, just before the boys decided to return to dry land. As the boys came up out of the brilliantly blue water, sloshing through the shallows leading to the beach, Chris looked at Trey, "I think I'm jealous," he teased. "What?" "I saw the way you and Jumper were giving each other the eye," he said, grinning. "Well, I don't know. I mean, maybe, you know. I'm just not sure he's exactly my type." said Trey, not missing a beat as he glanced at the waves, now beneath his knees. "Did you see that cute little calf with Jumper's pod? Now, I was thinking, you know, maybe if he's interested, well, maybe we could do a double date. What do you think? I mean, you're cute, but, well, you got to admit that fellow was a looker and then some." Chris teased. Trey leapt from the shallows in the direction of his blond friend, the sports jock already in flight towards the white powdery sands of the beach. Flinging their gear to the side as they reached the shore, a hot chase along the sands began, as Trey pursued the agile boy across the warm grains of nature. Dodging and weaving, circling back and sprinting from one end of the beach to the other, the boys teased, tempted and laughed with hilarity, Trey finally snagging his prey, though mostly the prey allowing himself to be snagged, so he said. The sporty performance continued as Trey brought the bigger blond Adonis to the sands, pinning him, sitting astride Chris as his hands held the other boy's hands against the sand, stretched there just above his head. Gazing into Chris' eyes, Trey said, "Okay, that breaks the tie. I'm up 6 to 5 now." He rolled off his friend and lay there at his side, as both boys breathed a bit harder from all the exercise. After a few moments had passed and their breathing had mostly returned to normal, Chris allowed, "I was reading this story; maybe just legend; anyway it' s about Blackbeard." "Yeah?" "They say that he was the worst cut throat of them all, even shot some of his own men so the others would be more afraid of him." "Yeah. I guess I'll probably be one ruthless rogue when I get old," said Trey. "Seriously. Back then, they used what they called a slow match for lighting off the canons. It was a kind of chord, burns real slow. Anyway, when old Blackbeard went into battle, he'd twist some of these slow matches around his head, some tied to his beard. The ends of the matches would be burning and they looked like fiery, hissing snakes. With the fire all around his head, he'd try to scare his prey into surrendering. If they did, he'd take his loot and let them go free. If they resisted, well, they would have been better advised to have surrendered, at least, if they wanted to live." "Cool. Great story. I'll try to be ready for that next time we have a game, only, I don't know about the beard," said Trey, rubbing his chin. "I've barely started shaving." "He was the governor here, you know? When these islands were the `Privateer' s Republic'." "I don't have any political ambitions," said Trey. Trey figured what with all this talk about pirates, tomorrow was more than likely to be another swashbuckling adventure on SandLot Island. The boys chatted on, about pirates, about Jumper and about so many other things; they almost forgot the slowly sinking sun. "Let's grab a shower and something to eat. We can come back here to relax a bit afterwards," said Chris, getting up from the sands, his body coated with much of the white powder. He reached to help his mate up and they trekked across the warm grains towards the jungle beyond and the small waterfall about the halfway point between paradise harbor and the shelter. They'd return to the beach sometime later so as to welcome in the coming shadows. A large part of the lure of paradise harbor was simply laying there in the warmth of the evening on the peaceful beach, listening to the sounds of the orchestra provided by the crickets, frogs, egrets and ocean waves and most striking, experiencing the island's stunning sunset as it glided into the ocean. Paradise was not an illusion and Trey had quickly disavowed any such notion otherwise on his first visit to this, their isle of Eden.

• • • * * * Chapter 12 "I have a plan," whispered Trey to the handful of plotters standing there in the shadows just off the hallway in the SandLot office building there on Concord Street. "I'll be right back." Trey tapped lightly on the office door and seeing Chris look up, he entered, walking across the room to the desk by the windows. "Mind if I look at your

cell for a second. I think I may get one like that." "Help yourself," said Chris, nodding at the cell phone laying there on the right side of his desk. Trey picked up the phone and began a thorough inspection, walking over to the windows as he fiddled with the gadget. After a couple minutes, he decided he 'd seen enough of the model and laid the cell on the credenza behind where Chris was still sitting at his desk, bent over writing something on a legal pad there in front of him. Trey bent down and gave Chris a peck on the cheek, " Thanks," he said, "I appreciate it. I'm going to get back to work." He was already moving around the desk, heading for the door as Chris grunted from behind him. The cell phone laying behind him on the credenza began ringing and Chris spun around in the chair to answer, "Hello?" "Hello? Is this Christopher Alexander?" said the voice of a young child. "Yes, this is Chris, what can I do for you?" he asked, listening intently. "I was wondering if you could buy me some dinner tonight?" said the young child. Chris could hear faint sounds of laughter. "Who is this?" asked Chris. "Turn around if you want to know." Chris spun his chair around, dropped the phone, jumped on the desk, leaping off the other side and fairly burst across the room to the door as he wrapped the grinning carmel colored little boy in his arms, swinging him wildly as he spun around and around, laughing and crying, kissing and hugging Kahlid, the little boy now lost in a fit of hysterical giggling. "Oh, wow, you are so beautiful," gasped a breathless Chris, holding the little boy away from him just enough to admire the little angel. Kahlid had just been standing there, a lone figure, in the open doorway when Chris had turned to look. John, Sara, Matt, Debbie and Trey had hung back out of view, but now were just inside the door, witnessing this reunion, smiles pushing up from the souls of all five. Still, the center attraction was the giggling boy, the littler one; the bigger one was still crazed drunk in his own delight, pretty near genuine rapture. "I'm your brother now for keeps," said the gleeful boy, catching his breath between the bouts of blissful loving Chris had him immersed in. Chris glance at his Dad and the smiling John nodded yes. "I'm adopted to be your brother forever," excitedly said the widely smiling little boy, again catching his breath as Chris ease up on the affection. "I'm adopted too," said Chris, beaming affectionately at his new brother. Kahlid's eyes bugged out, "Wow. That makes us real brothers, right?" "Real brothers, forever," grinned the very elated Chris, as he again wrapped the little fellow up in his arms, swinging around and round, smothering Kahlid with a never-ending string of kisses, setting off another fit of irrepressible giggling. "When you can tear yourself away from this place," said John, glancing around the office, "we're all going over to Applebee's out on the main highway to celebrate." "If you're waiting on me," said Chris, scooping up Kahlid and putting him in the saddle, "you're falling behind." Moving towards the door, with his rider on board, he reached and grabbed Trey by the hand, pulling him close and planting a firm kiss right on the mouth of his now taken aback friend. "Ewww," said the little boy perched up there in the saddle, giggling and covering his eyes. Trey reached up and pinched the boy's bottom, causing him to buck there in the saddle as Chris led Trey through the corridor toward the Concord Street building exit.

• • • * * * Kahlid rode in the spider, strapped there in Trey's lap, and the cockpit of the Ferrari was filled with boisterous tunes, the kind coming from the tri-phonic speakers carrying the excited chatter of three boys absolutely full of joy and amazement. Those three boys didn't really need the head lamps of the car either, not to light their way over to the other side of town that autumn evening; the bright shining smiles were probably tens times the power of the vertically-stacked xenon lamps on the spider, and those smiles were on high beam, from each one of them, Chris, Trey, and the little prince too. The happy gang of three climbed from the parked car, there just back from the main highway, there in the Applebee's lot, and played euphorically with each other, continuing their jubilant celebration as they waited for the old folks to catch up. Inside the restaurant, a couple of the serving staff, Maggie Wallace and Josh Ryman, watched as the gun barrel gray car nosed into a parking space and when Kahlid crawled from the passenger side door, both former construction workers flew from the restaurant entrance as they beat a line right to the little carmel colored boy, scooping him up, swinging him around, Maggie kissing, him ewwing and giggling, Josh patting him on the head, on the back, hugging him. It was a growing reunion of glad hearts and everyone, it seemed, had cups filled to overflowing, thanks to the magical appearance of the little black haired angel with the pearly white smile. Eventually, the Sunday drivers did arrive and after a brief hug of bubbling gratitude from their oldest son, John and Sara Alexander led the little gathering into the restaurant. Maggie seated the clan as a few other of the establishment's patrons and staff stopped by to share the news and more genuine glad handing, and for the little prince, more hair mussing, a few shoulder squeezes, and just generally, that sort of welcome normally afforded the return of a long lost, cherished member of that little farming community. The level of excitement never diminished, not there in that eatery, not that autumn evening, at least not in the vicinity of the tables occupied by the admiring fans of the little boy from half-way around the world, finally come home, at long last. There were the explanations of this miracle, Shauna in New York and her connections at the United Nations as well as the U.S. State Department. There were the string pullers down there at the city centre offices on the south Florida coast and, of course, there was the master puppeteers, John and Sara Alexander, who having one son, now a senior in high school, and them fully expecting to be deserted in a matter of just a few months, well, they needed another boy, you know, just to help on the farm, kind of, something like that. The truth is really more simple; anyone catching even a passing glance at the beautiful little boy would immediately be smitten by the attraction; spending a mere five minutes in his company would cost you the best part of your heart. He was one awesome little Arabian thief, like that, at least. Kahlid wasn't too shy around strangers, not any more anyways. Trey figured it had a lot to do with going three days without any food and on more than just a few occasions, which grew the little prince into the outgoing little angel he was now. When you're belly is empty, growling from the hunger pains and, as a child, you're wondering if you'll wake up the next morning, or even if you do, only having more emptiness in your stomach to keep you company, well, you figure out real quick that walking up to strangers and begging for a bite to eat isn't really the worst thing in the world after all. This secret that John and Sara had shared only with each other and eventually Matt and Debbie, began, it seems, about the third week in Aceh, as the growing bond between the little boy and those students and parents wasn't something to be ignored. Not for him and not for them either. Sara had told John; no way was she leaving that place without that little boy. John had explained at length and time and time again, the nature of their problem and the best thing to do was find someone to care for him until they could get home and have some people they trusted help them out. Chris wasn't to know of their design because if something went wrong he would be devastated, having been filled with false hopes, not that it wasn't hard enough on him as it all went anyway, the little prince too, for that matter, and Sara, and quite a number of the other homebuilders, forced to abandon the little angel when the time came for their return to the states. Kahlid's new mom was swelled with pride, watching her sons, both, her pride and joy, sitting there surrounded by so much love. As the hours flew by and the clock reached well into the night, the number of patrons of the establishment having dwindled to a few, Sara decided to interrupt the party as the little prince had had a very, very long day and was to have another long day tomorrow, what with shopping and getting setup at school and so much more. There would be a potluck Saturday night at the farm for all the construction gang, and anyone else, to officially welcome home to the little farming community, the new son of John and Sara. Now, though, it was time for young Kahlid to be mothered a bit, and in this case, that meant, getting him bathed and in bed before the witching hour, a mark on the clock that was only minutes away. Chris and Trey would be along directly, they told their parents, and after hugs and kisses, giggles and smiles, Kahlid left the party, holding the hands of his new mom and dad, followed by their co-conspirators, the parents of Trey. Trey looked at his blond haired friend sitting there, now that the two of them were alone, and the grin on that stunning face, he figured probably matched the one he could feel in his own features. He remembered the ocean rides in the Lightning and thought, maybe there was something better than the grin machine after all, for putting a grin on anyone in its company. The little prince was home. How great was that. After several long minutes of attempted relaxation, Chris led the way as they headed out of the restaurant so Trey could

be reluctantly dropped off at his home and Chris could go look in on his brother. As the boys stepped out of the restaurant into the night air, Chris pointed to the full moon, the starlit night, and as Trey stepped up to him, he gently leaned in and tasted the sweet lips of his brown haired mate. He turned back to the car, leading the way as the night was coming to a close, preparing to bring them into the bright tomorrow, which now seemed pretty near magical in its promises.

• • • * * * Trey heard the sound first, the sound a bullet makes as its velocity breaches the sound barrier leaving a barrel on its way to its intended target. His lightning movements were a mere flash. Marshalling all his strength, he lunged immediately, covering the short distance to Chris in less than an instant, pushing his friend to the asphalt with all the swiftness he could summon. The

bullet caught his right shoulder just below his breast, spun him around and tumbled him to the pavement. He laid there clutching his chest, writhing in agonizing pain as the hot metal burned a hole in his chest. Chris heard a car tearing away down the highway; he recovered himself and scrambled over to Trey, pulling out his cell phone as he went. He punched 9-1-1, putting his other hand on the side of his friends face as their eyes met. The pained look there was terrifyingly frightful. Chris felt every nerve in his body explode. He saw the blood covered hands of his Love as Trey clutched at his heart, failing any effort to staunch the flow of life now streaming out of his dearest friend's chest. "9-1-1, what's the emergency?" "Gunshot wound, Applebee's, off the Main Highway. Please hurry; it looks like the bullet hit right around the heart." "EMTs are on the way." Chris dropped the cell and cupped Trey's face in his hands, "Hang on Love," whispered a desperate Chris, "we're going to get you fixed up. Stay with me Trey." The pain in Trey's eyes was appalling, "I'm here, Love. Stay with me, Trey. You hear? Stay with me." Trey managed a feeble smile, his breaths coming in short gasps; he looked to be fading fast. Two squad cars, sirens wailing and lights flashing, came flying into the parking lot and Sheriff Carl Rollins was out of his car and running toward the two boys. An EMT ambulance followed on the tail of the sheriff and deputy, sliding to a stop only a few feet from the boys. Two technicians, hands full of equipment, sprang from the truck, immediately taking the now unconscious Trey out of Chris' hands and beginning to feverishly work on the critically injured boy. Chris picked up the wire frame glasses from where they had fallen and looked on as the EMTs fought for the life of his dearest love; he was helpless to assist. He prayed, his body beginning to shake as he stood there, "Lord, please have mercy on me, your unworthy servant. Please spare this prince of heaven

tonight." One of the EMTs looked up into the anxious face of the Sheriff and shook his head sadly, "He's got a Pneumothorax, internal bleeding, nothing we can stop here. He needs the hospital in the city. No way we could get him there in time. He's got 20, maybe 30 minutes tops, definitely not the usual golden hour. 72 miles is just not possible. I've put a Vaseline gauze over the hole, but we're not going to be able to save him; I'm sorry; there's just no way."

"Put him in my car," said Chris. The EMT looked up at Carl Rollins. "NOW!!" barked Chris, already moving toward the spider, pocketing the wire frame glasses. "Put him in the car," said the sheriff. "Chris, I'll put out an APB, try to get you all the help I can." The sheriff was already moving toward the squad car. The EMTs gently moved Trey to the passenger side of the Ferrari as Chris climbed in the driver's side and fired the engine. The tech was adding additional straps to immobilize the comatose boy in the seat. He hung an I-V, feeding blood expanders to the boy, just on the inside of the door's window then backed away, closing the door just as the tires on the spider began screaming as

they tore up the asphalt reversing out of the parking space. Chris slammed the car into first and the machine roared with its awesome power as it leapt from the parking lot, careening onto the main highway and shooting off down the road in its impossible flight. The two EMTs stood frozen watching the car race away into the distance, tires smoking and engine screaming, spinning wheels straining for traction, as Chris moved through each gear, racing north toward the I-70 interchange, 7 miles away. With his own heart fiercely pounding in his chest, Chris forced his mind to concentrate on the mission, 72 miles; If he could average 175 mph for 25 minutes; that would get him the distance, just barely. He needed a better time.

He would have to run wide open every chance he got. Just to get the time down to 20 minutes, he'd have to have the needle pegged on that 225 number, if the car could even reach that far. Doing that for the entire trip, he knew wasn't viable, not with even the sparse traffic on the interstate to contend with, plus the freeway wasn't going to be straight-aways all the time; he'd have at least three bends to navigate. The highway here and the short distance from the ramp to the hospital in KC would rob him of even more precious moments. He'd push as hard as he dared and maybe just a little bit more. Sheriff Rollins was on the radio to the dispatcher, "Janice, I want an APB right now. Trey Simmons has been shot. He's got to get to Memorial in KC ASAP. Chris Alexander is taking him in a Ferrari F430 Spider, gray. They're on their way now; I want access restricted to I-70 west until he gets past. Get as much help as you can. He'll probably be flying at some wicked speeds. Tell the troopers to clear a path to Memorial. Get it done right now Janice, and call me back to confirm the trooper deployment." Chris leaned hard left, bringing the spider onto the westbound ramp leading up to the interstate, the screaming tires leaving an massive cloud of white smoke in their wake as the F430 roared with every liter of its thunderous power, plowing the roadway as it rocketed onto the expressway and took command of the left hand lane. The speedometer was climbing past 135 and Chris pressed harder on the accelerator, virtually pushing his foot through the floor of the car as he willed it to go faster. He flew by cars almost ten at a time as the Ferrari continued to gain speed. 145. He prayed and kept his foot pressed to the floor with as much effort as he could muster. 165. The interchanges were a concern; he couldn't forget the interchanges. He soared past one and prayed that the road would be clear. He flew by another interchange, catching a glimpse of the trooper blocking the entrance ramp to the interstate, 185 mph. He glanced at Trey crumpled up there in the passenger seat and pressed even harder on the floor beneath his right foot, 190. Please, please. The rpm needle was in virgin territory on its dial; still he pressed his foot harder, sounds of the roaring engine filling his ears, tears filling his eyes. A trucker up ahead was forcing a car to the side of the road and he flew by, racing through the night, trembling with adrenaline as the car engine screamed past its design barrier. 195. Again he glanced as his precious love laying there motionless in the other seat; he saw the blood dribbling from the corner of Trey's mouth and he held on to the wheel tighter, his teeth clinched, eyes watering and his cheeks puffed out as he strained desperately to stay in control of his emotions, pressing with all the might he had, on his right foot, hoping somehow the car would go faster, 197. "Please, Lord," he pleaded and every fiber of his soul was poured into those two words, into that plea for help. He could see a sea of people watching his straining efforts, millions and billions of faces witnessing this shattering moment in his life. They all looked down from the heavens on this scene with the most sincere of compassionate expressions as he pleaded with them for any help at all. He looked up and there was the teacher, the King of kings, sitting on his throne. Chris fell to one knee, bowed his head and said, "O Great King, You are my Lord and my Life. I beg you for mercy in this hour." The King slowly raised his right arm from the throne, gently reached out his hand and softly laid it on the head of the blond boy kneeling there in front of him. Chris blinked. He shook his head and focused on the road ahead. He was still flying through the night. He glanced again at his heart laying there, just beside him, in the other seat and the stillness of the pale frail figure laying there was unbearably frightening. He glanced at the instrument cluster. RPMs pegged, Speed pegged. Lt. Alfred Carter more felt, than saw, the car go by, as he stood beside his trooper car, blocking the interstate entrance there 38 miles east of Kansas City. The sound was all roar of machine and the rushing of a mighty wind and he was in awe, mouth wide open. Aside from the sheer coming off the spider as it sliced through the night air, he didn't see much of anything else. Never in his life had he seen or even heard of anything even remotely that fast. That was impossible, absolutely impossible; that can't be real, he thought, as he stood frozen in his tracks, cigarette hand stuck there in midair. Troopers Alice Mateo and Jerry Wright sat in their cruiser holding back the traffic there, 23 miles out from the city, joining this life-saving attempt here in the middle of the night. The radio crackled, "State 21, you there?" "State 21, go." "Alice, he's coming through all right, and it's faster than anything I ever seen. He's got that car moving faster than a bat out of hell. You ain't going to see it unless you're looking real hard. You'll hear it and feel it all right; but you ain't going to see it." "Roger that, Alfred." The two troopers got out of the cruiser and shut the doors, standing there in the darkness, looking east on I-70. They heard the sound roaring toward them, growing deafening as it came nearer. Mere seconds passed before the air there around them was shoved back at them, causing both to stumble backwards, fighting to regain their balance. Alice looked and saw the twin fire trails coming from the Ferrari's dual exhaust as it almost instantly disappeared miles down the road. It was all in a flash. That car seemed to be screaming at just below the speed of sound. She shook her head and looked at Jerry. He was shaking his head too. The spider was virtually unseen as it pierced the distance ahead, soaring past the I-470-interchange and coming into the city on the wings of a prayer. Chris saw the flashing lights up ahead where the exit ramp leading to the hospital was. He eased off the accelerator as those flashing lights rushed to meet him from the distance; he waited, and seemingly, a couple seconds later the needle on the speed dial backed off its peg and began to retrace the numbers. He hit the ramp as the needle crawled below triple digits. There were more flashing lights, holding traffic for him. He careened the spider off the ramp, tires squalling, onto the highway and again pushed his foot to the floor, engine screaming, tires smoking, as he raced toward the hospital, now just 3 blocks away. He braked hard, jerking the Ferrari on to the drive leading to the emergency room entrance. He slammed hard on the brakes, throwing the car into a skid and, as he neared the doorway to the building, he swung hard left on the wheel, causing the rear of the car to slide around to the right, the spider coming to a screeching halt with the passenger side door facing the waiting team of medics. Chris threw open his door, flew from the car and ran to the other side of the spider. The medical team was already pulling Trey's body from the car. They put the boy on a gurney and rushed away toward the entrance of the hospital. A nurse halted Chris' effort to pursue, "you've done your part. It's our turn now," she said compassionately. "We'll do everything we can but you need to calm down," she said, putting her arm around the still violently shaking boy. The nurse gave him a warm comforting hug, and then pushed him away to look in his eyes, "I'm going to go inside. I want you to walk around a bit. Settle down some. I'll come find you if we have anything to report. He'll likely be in surgery for a little while. We have the best staff and I promise you, we'll do everything we can. I want you to promise me, you'll try to calm down." Chris nodded his head, his body still over the edge on adrenaline, and the nurse left him to return to the interior of the building. Chris turned back to the car. A couple troopers had pulled up and parked behind the spider and were out looking at the car now. "Son, what kind of engine do you have in this thing?" said the one burly looking bear of a trooper. "It's stock," mumbled Chris. "No way. No freaking way," said the gruff looking man, disbelieving. "Do you know what you just did?" "I just brought my friend to the hospital," said Chris in a rapidly weakening voice. "The EMT back home said he only had 20-30 minutes to get here and this was the only way." "According to Carl Rollins, you only left 12 minutes ago." "And?" "Son, you had to have this thing up around 400 mph or better to make that kind of time. That is just not possible, not even for a car like this." "I don't know how fast we were going. The gauge was pegged most of the way,"

said Chris, feeling faint, "All I know is we left and then we got here; that 's all I know." "Well, yeah, if you say so; only take my advice; get a new set of tires before you drive too much further. Those things look pretty well burnt up," he said nodding toward the still smoking wheels. He looked at Chris, then back to the car, then back to the boy. He shook his head in disbelief, and then motioned to his colleagues that they were leaving. "Sir?" The man turned back to Chris. "Thanks," Chris whispered. The man didn't say anything right away; he just stood there for a moment studying Chris, "Don't thank me kid," he finally said. "I don't do miracles; you should be thanking someone other than me." He got into his car and the troopers disappeared out into the streets. Chris took Trey's glasses from his shirt pocket, looked at them, then gazed far out beyond oblivion, giving thanks to the boundless sea of loving faces looking on from the heavens; he found the blazing starlight eyes of his teacher, the Great King, still sitting there on his throne, and his strength failed him; he felt the life flow out of his body as it crumpled to the asphalt of the driveway, there beside the smoking tires of the Ferrari, his left hand still clutching the wire frame glasses.