IN THE OAKLAND

Cha 5 from LionWorld by William E Justin

Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved

Marthia came home on the bus. She could

have driven to work in any of the cars avail-
able in the underground parking garage at the
Le Muffet compound. Here in The Oakland
she was known as “Queen Wife” of Maxim Le
Muffet. She rode the bus because she consid-
ered it part of her job and because she had so
many friends along the route. It was ninety
minutes each way and she used the bus four
times a week—travelling from her home to
the office attached to the where house that
acted as distribution center for their “family
ministry” as she liked to call it.
It was there and on the bus route back and forth that she gave blessings and common sense advice to the peo-
ple that came to her for services. She would take five people at a time into her office and minister to them as her
personal assistant wrote down the specific needs that appeared. She always started the group interview and
counseling sessions the same way. The people sitting in a straight line of armless chairs would be asked to:
“wiggle the toes on your right foot please…and bless each one as you go”. Then would come the left set of toes
and the rotation of the individual feet—and upward, all the way up to the top of the body. Marthia had the peo-
ple work all of the joints in their bodies in a general spirit of blessing.
She would apply “remedies and encouragement” as they went. Someone might complain; “but my forearm
don’t hardly want to move!”. She might then say; “you need to direct some light in there, dear.” If she received
notice of pain and inflammation, she would encourage the application of “some cool shadow”. When asked by
first-timers: “what’s this cool shadow?” , she might explain it as the feeling one gets when you walk around a cor-
ner out of the hot sun into a lane where a fresh breeze is present; or “the touch of ice at the center of the hurt”.
Sometimes she would get up, touch the first-timer’s skin with the eraser end of a pencil, and say “cool shadow”
with a big smile.
If serious or chronic problems displayed themselves during the interview Marthia would go online to the staff
of two M.D’s, a psychiatry professional, and a licensed physical therapist that were employed for the four days a
week that she worked. The medical staff was located in another building in The Oakland’s busy health care dis-
trict. If a person she was interviewing was deemed to need immediate medical service, they would be driven to
the doctors by one of the warehouse staff. Low-end C Class people and those rated “C Class” castoffs, were not
permitted to go into the B and A Class neighborhoods unattended. Marthia’s clients couldn’t use the regular bus
lines and pass through the various check points. Laws passed by Fascist party legislators allowed for poor peo-
ple to come into the more affluent areas only by permits, escorts and prearranged transportation—usually by
enclosed-bed trucks.
Most of the people didn’t require expensive health care resources but could improve their conditions with an
intelligent program of monitored self-help. The Le Muffett Outreach Program—under the direction of Marthia,
had been an innovator in what The Fascists snidely referred to as “tribal witch doctor medicine”. Wealthy Fas-
cists were heavily invested in Corporate Health Care for the working and leisure classes and hated the idea that
any folk medicine might flow upward from the lowest rungs of society and hurt their ability to control this lucra-
tive sector of the economy. They generally frowned on the idea of trying to do much of anything for the very
poor other then offering free birth control and offering financial incentives for sterilization. Tax deductable or-
ganizations for “solving the poverty problem” were very big in Fascist circles.
The truth though was that Marthia’s work through The Le Muffet Outreach Program was very cutting edge. It
fit into the emerging field of Epigenetics in which knowledge of the chemical “switches” in the human genome
was deemed essential for promoting healthy growth events. Visually “warm lighting” and “shadow cooling” the
various body parts was actually a foundational element in healing from time immemorial. Such techniques
helped people learn to operate those chemical switches themselves. Marthia had been introduced to “the old
ways” as a child by her grandmother, and then at the edge of adulthood by her mentor, Dr. Ben Akiyama. The
inherent processes and techniques were now being defined by modern, reason-based valuations.
While a partnership of Fascist supremacy and fundamentalist scientism tried to stop it, the linkage of faith-
based religious experience to fully scientific methods were being perpetuated all over the world by people like
Dr. Ben and Marthia.
When she was on the verge of turning eighteen, Marthia’s mother had brought her to Akiyama’s studio to en-
roll her in a martial arts class. He had seen them coming in from the street through the large picture window. As
some of his students worked out in the main area, Akiyama was talking on the phone. He saw Marthia and cut
the call short. He dialed the nearby Le Muffet residence, got Max on the phone, and told him to get over there as
fast as he could. Then he went out and presented himself to her mother. Dr. Ben Akiyama had never seen any-
thing quite like Marthia.
She was a full six-foot-one. Not lean, not fat, but perfectly proportioned. He considered her musculature as
“the feminine ideal”. Her face flowed angelically, emanating calmness and poise that just wasn’t seen in people
her age. He instantly decided that she was a rare manifestation of natural evolution—something Quality makes
over a great period of time. Although a master of body control, Dr. Ben struggled to stop his hand from shaking
as he filled out the girl’s information on one of his standard forms. The girl’s mother was pleased. Marthia was
very modest and mostly looked down. The mother left to go and do some shopping and Dr. Ben led her out be-
fore the class—which was mainly boys. “This is Queen Marthia“ he said simply. “You guys treat her with re-
spect”.
Marthia’s eyes had widened and her head bowed even further down. She felt embarrassed although it was
clear that Dr. Ben hadn’t been making fun of her—which was something that happened quite a bit owing to her
extra height. When she finally did look up, she caught view of a young man whom had slipped in from the side
door without her having noticed. He was six-foot-eight and looked to her like some kind of god. His eyes were all
over her. By the end of that year, sports fans around the world would become fascinated by the young man in-
troduced to her that day by Dr. Ben.
For Maxim Le Muffett, it was love at first site. He was wanting to get married to her after the first week. She
told him she wasn’t going to do nothin’ until she turned eighteen a few months later and Max channeled all of the
physical power and feelings she inspired in him into his training. Marthia sure didn’t want to marry no damn
lion-fighter! She thought all of that was goofy. But nothing could stop the way she felt about him. He was the
most beautiful thing on the planet! All she could do was try and control her feelings for him, and his feeling for
her; and control all of the changes that came that year—the money and all of the rich people that suddenly
wanted to become their friends. Then finally...the jealousy and the greed that brought warfare to The Oakland.
But to help them through all of this they had Dr. Ben Akiyama. Once, Marthia had read the story of a huge clan
that had drawn up sides in a conflict. Members from each side of the clan approached the local king who was
very powerful. The king was also a wise man without peer. He told the leaders of the more aggressive faction
that he would give them their choice. They could have all of his horses and war machines and all of his riches
including his servants and personal guards. Or instead, they could choose to have his council. The aggressive
faction of the clan chose what they thought was the king’s essential power; his earthly dominion. They were
wrong. His council—which instead went to the less ravenous members of the clan—turned out to be The King’s
true power.
So while the first years of Marthia’s marriage to Maxim was packed with all kinds of explosions of drama and
passion, they had the blessing of The King’s true power—which in their case was the council provided by Aki-
yama; and also by Marthia’s grandmother who was very much like Dr. Ben, but in a completely different way.
These memory shreds of the volcanic events that formed their particular branch of the family clan often
seemed like ancient history to Marthia now. But it was natural to recall it on this particular afternoon as she rode
home on the bus. Max had texted her several hours earlier. He would be coming to the house for dinner for the
first time in several weeks. And they would their oafy Big-E White.
Marthia loved Big-E just like everybody loved him. But she loved him in a special way. She felt blessed that
she had been the one to give Big-E and their little sister Baby Coco the chance to get at each other. She could see
deep into Big-E and wondered if he might ever had found any real tenderness in his life without the love of their
magic Le Muffet princess. From Marthia’s vantage point, poor Big-E was surrounded by one box after another,
 She couldn’t even see into the final box if there was one. She sometimes referred to her strange brother-in-law as The
Big-Enigma; the man inside the endless Chinese box.
But the first time she laid eyes on him he just looked like another awe-struck rookie lion-fighter in the pres-
ence of her Lion-fighter deluxe…Maxim. That had taken place several years after her husband had risen to great
world-wide popularity as the greatest Lion-fighter anybody had ever before seen. After his third season, he was
on the cover of countless magazines in all parts of the world and rated by one as the third most famous person
on the globe.
Maxim’s rapidly increasing status had the ill effect of bringing a lot of poison blood to the surface in The Oak-
land. He was not only besieged by area business people eager to create and exploit his brand, but also by the big
crime boss Clyde Jackson. Jackson felt entitled to a piece of the Le Muffet prize since Maxim came up in what he
regarded as his domain. His method of coercion was very simple and old-school. If the Lion-fighter didn’t make
payments of 10,000 a month, then one-by-one beginning with Marthia and their newborn baby girl Isis, all of
Maxim’s family would begin to disappear forever. Jackson had personally brought this “deal” to Dr. Ben Akiyama
who acted as Maxim’s agent during the foundational first years of his career.
Marthia remembered the sheer chill of fear that went through her that night at the exact time of the meeting.
Max was in the Swiss Alps with his crew for a battle with the much-feared Ice Lions of the region. She had taken
Isis in her stroller out to eat at a local grill. Six of Jackson’s men came in and sat down around them. None of
them spoke a word. Outside another man was telling would be customers to go somewhere else. Inside, the men
never ate or drank or spoke. The waitress was motioned away. The music, playing through speakers, was sud-
denly turned off and the lights were dimmed. She just sat there and finished her meal and went to pay but was
cut off by one of the men. “This dinner provided by Mr. Clyde Jackson”. He didn’t smile. She knew better then to
oppose this or say a word.
The meeting with Jackson and Akiyama was anything but quiet. Dr. Ben talked none stop. He was so glad
Jackson had come, he said with great enthusiasm. He had been planning to approach him. Of course he wanted a
partnership between Max and the Jackson Group. They had great plans for The Oakland, he told the crime boss.
When Jackson mentioned the $10,000 payment Dr. Ben reached robustly into his pocket and handed that much
cash to Jackson. “I thought I was going to have to bribe you in order to get into your organization” he said in a
tone of relief. “You—are all Max and I have been talking about for weeks” he added. Later Jackson told his oafies
that Akiyama was a little goofy but that he seemed to really wanted to roll with them. He said he would look at
the various plans that Akiyama would present for setting up business’ in The Oakland. Jackson also told his crew
he planned to increase Max’ “rent” every 3 months.
But one month following that meeting everything had changed. On a Sunday morning in mid-summer of that
year, Clyde Jackson’s body was found in six pieces in various parts of The Oakland. His head was set above the
doorway of the first liquor store he had extorted years before in his rise to the top of the local underworld. The
arms, legs and torso—still covered in the expensive leather suit he wore, were placed in other areas. At an auto
wrecking yard not far away, hung by their feet after being shot in the head, were the six top area chiefs of The
Jackson Group.
Local World Security was all over town that day asking questions but seen as just going through the motions.
They couldn’t have cared less about the fate of the Clyde Jackson and his soldiers. The question quickly became,
who would run things now? That would likely determine “who’d done it”.
Donny Pierson arrived in church that morning in one of the very expensive type of leather suit that Clyde Jack-
son preferred. Hardly anybody even knew the 20 year old kid. Only months before he had gotten in at the bot-
tom level of The Jackson Group doing basic surveillance and corner drug dealing. But when he plunked $10,000
down into the collection plate, people began to ask if it were possible that it was he—and other young blood in
the crime family—that had done in the boss and the old guard. The way he carried himself that morning sug-
gested that it might be true. He told the preacher that the donation was on behalf of “the new day” that was be-
ginning in The Oakland.
For the next week, a series of drive-by blasts from automatic weapons were directed at the various Le Muffett
family homes and properties. It was clear who the remaining members of Jackson’s crime syndicate believed
was responsible. The following morning, eight more members of The Jackson Group were found in the auto
wrecking yard hung upside down after being shot in the head. Donny Pierson went back to church and dropped
another $10,000 into the collection basket. He announced that he was forming something he called “The Panther
Group” along with his partner Maxim Le Muffett. He told the people present that it would be a community or-
ganization dedicated to various urban renewal projects. He added that The Panther Group had just purchased
each of the properties owned by Clyde Jackson and his family for $1.00 each. He stated that the remaining family
members had decided to move east following the untimely death of their patriarch, the late Clyde Jackson.
From that day forward people were convinced that Maxim was behind the whole thing and that Donny Pier-
son was his puppet or perhaps even his underboss. The truth of what actually did happen was much different
however and there was only a handful of people that really knew what went down. Max denied any involvement.
He had talked to this guy Pierson about starting a not-for-profit—but that was it. The attacks against his family
houses occurred he said, because the remaining members of The Jackson Group had thought he had been behind
the killing of Clyde Jackson. But he was just a Lion-fighter, he told people, not a crime boss.
Not many people believed this however. As Donny Pierson rebuilt the old Jackson group, Max was seen as a
Godfather. The newly formed Le Muffett Enterprises were slightly intertwined with parts of The Panther Group,
but they were mostly not related. Donny—originally seen as a puppet figure—slowly became quite respected by
everyone. He brought in young people such as himself and re-organized Jackson’s old network. The cash busi-
ness’ that fed their coffers were re-directed. Taxes were paid and the remaining amounts of what was once
forced in tribute payments to The Jackson Group was piped into an account that funded a community-based co-
op. Donny Pierson had convinced everyone that the Fascists methods once dominate in The Oakland, were now
dead. From that time forward, no Fascist candidates for local government had made a run for office—and no
other underworld boss came to power.
But it had not been Donny Pierson or Maxim Le Muffet that orchestrated their overthrow of Clyde Jackson. It
was Dr. Ben Akiyama.
Akiyama had seen Donny on the street once and could tell he was a pretender. He clearly didn’t fit in with the
other guys he was with—that were known members of The Jackson Group. He filed this information away and
when trouble came, he knew exactly how to proceed. He learned that Donny Pierson had an uncle, John Pierson,
who was a field officer in The Bay Area chapter of World Security. This wasn’t easy information to find out since
Donny Pierson didn’t go by his real surname. But Akiyama had coaxed the young man into his dental office with
a free cleaning and free set of x-rays after a “chance meeting” that was staged by Dr. Ben. He found out who he
was through dental records and then contacted his uncle after more research.
Akiyama explained the predicament and introduced a plan that quickly found support upstream in World Se-
curity. The killing off of Clyde Jackson’s crime organization was carried out by a special “extermination squad” of
World Security Agents. And Donny Pierson, who had been implanted by locale Bay Area World Security earlier
to gain information, was given the task of becoming the front man in regulating crime in The Oakland. Maxim
had been used as the logical symbol but wasn’t filled in to what really happened until after the fact. He and
Marthia were asked to not say anything—even to their family. Over time, the truth slowly began to leak out and
the hard edge of Maxim’s reputation began to soften. As the co-op prospered, Donny Pierson’s own reputation
began to swell and Max and him became good friends although they kept their organizations apart from one an-
other.
Still, The Panther Group was a contributor to Marthia’s Community Outreach Program. The young girl once
introduced by Dr. Ben as “the queen” was now a vital, confident woman with a teenage daughter of her own and
the charge of directing ten million dollars a year according to the holistic designs of the not-for-profit’s charter.
Four days each week, as she rode the bus to and from her job, people would draw straws at the various bus stops
for the privilege of presenting themselves to her to ask for money and other forms of help. During her office
hours Marthia would interview and serve 10 clients an hour or 320 in a week. On the bus, she ministered to up
to 50 more. About half the people came and went, some gaining a lot, others not so much. But the rest of the
people were regulars—people she monitored and encouraged over weeks, months and years.
It was one of the “regulars” that approached her this day on the bus as Marthia was on the phone with her
daughter Isis. The eldest of Maxim’s children was 16 years old. She was preparing her first social dinner and her
mother was giving her detailed instructions on the phone.
“How am I spose to know when they all done?” Isis asked. She was stressing a bit feeling the pressure her
mother had put on her to prepare the meal tonight for her uncle Big-E White who would be joining them for din-
ner along with her father. She had been given the task without notice after the end of her school day two hours
earlier. She had to cancel going to the library with her girlfriends and wasn’t all that happy about things. But she
had been trained to go along with whatever her mother wanted. So while she felt like complaining, she didn’t.
Plus, she looked forward to seeing her dad and Uncle. She didn’t know how to pan fry yellow tail—they didn’t
even fry French Fries at her house. But that was Big-E’s favorite. Fresh yellow tail cut into one and a half-inch
pieces. And served with a big baked potato and fresh salad. It was a lot of work to make this meal. The long set
of instructions her mother had texted her had a line at the end called “tarter sauce of the day” and that was it—
no ingredients listed, no clue what that was spose to be.
“You’ll know the fish is done because it will have a nice brown look and not be burned”. Marthia replied to the
question posed by Isis remembering the nasty taste of burned fried food and how you couldn’t fix it no matter
what you tried to mask it with.
“Mama, what’s this “tarter sauce of the day”?
“Oh, that is for the chef to decide. You take a cup of mayo, cut up a half cup of pickle and stir it in a bowel with
a bit olive oil. Then put some sugar in it—up to a teaspoon. Then you go to my spice cabinet and look through
the bottles. Open some and smell them. When you find three that you like, put a half teaspoon of each together
and stir it into the bowel.”
Isis was standing with hand on hip and her mouth open. “Mama, you got forty different bottles in that spice
cabinet. How’m I spose to find the right ones?” Her mother replied that they’ll be the right ones because they
will smell good to her today.
“What if it come out tastin’ nasty ?”
“Then I’ll fix it when I get there. Say, you remember to get some of Big-E’s DRINK while you at the store?”
Isis frowned. “Yeah. But I had to borrow a cart to carry it home. Now I gotta take it back! Everybody gonna
be callin’ me a basket lady soon”.
“That why I’m teaching you how to cook and learn new stuff Isis—so you don’t end up one!” Isis didn’t like Big
-E’s DRINK. Nobody around there drank it. It was too sweet. But she loved her Uncle Big and didn’t really mind
making everything cool for him. He had always made a big fuss over her just like her uncle Merle did. When she
was younger Uncle Big would grab her and growl and start kissing on her and saying how he wanted her to come
live with him and her aunt Coco. Then her mother and Big-E would pretend to fight over who she was going to
live with and she would laugh and laugh as each said “no, I want her!”.
As she spoke with her daughter, Marthia motioned for the young women who approached her with downcast
eyes to take a seat beside her. When she got off the phone with Isis she explained that she was teaching her how
to prepare a meal. Then she sized up the appearance of the young woman.
“Girl, how come you so skinny? I saw you three weeks ago and you were looking better then I’d ever seen you.
You back on the shit, huh?”
The young woman half burst into tears. “He came back last week, Marthia. He brought it with him. That’s the
only way he wanna be with me. And he’s my baby’s dad. What am I spose to do?” Marthia told her to calm
down. She tried to keep hysteria at a minimum on the bus. Then came the usual story. The guy she was with
spent all the money on the shit and on drink, and they were now broke, and her phone was shut off, and the
lights were to be turned off in two days.
Marthia didn’t have time to waste on this again. She pulled a hundred dollar bill out of her purse and lifted it
toward the site line of the young women. But before she could even reach out toward the money, Marthia ripped
the bill in half, perfectly splitting the centerpiece image of Benjamin Einstein right down the middle. “You bring
yo oafy in to my office tomorrow to collect the other half of this” Marthia said.
The girl was off balance for a split second. “But he gonna know you wanna take him in to rehab; he won’t
come in”. She said pleadingly as tears began to drop and Marthia had to really harden herself.
“You gotta tell him. If he don’t wanna come in you gotta call me and we get him on the phone.” She smiled as
warmly as she could and in a soft voice added, “you tell him we just want to get him hooked up to somethin’
nice—that it time for somthin’ nice to happen!”. In Marthia’s mind the mean thoughts tried to push through,
“yeah, hook him up to a lead weight and drop his dumb ass in the ocean”. But the next thought followed close on
it’s heels; “God, don’t let me think like that; that thought just gonna pull me under”.
With a big smile that rolled around a smaller more crooked smile, Marthia looked out at all of the faces on the
bus that were gazing toward her in expectation. “Next!” she said loudly—but in a friendly way.

Big-E White would’ve loved to have had the time to run his new Asian Motors’ Validor X1 down the coastal ex-
pressway and enjoy some custom driving time viewing the spectacular scenery as he made his through the series
perfectly banked turns. But this trip up to The Oakland wasn’t a pleasure jaunt. He wanted to arrive there as
soon as possible. So he pulled into the Santa Barbara station and drove onto one of the upper deck loaders to the
auto carrier bullet train. Upper deck was extra but if you had the money it was the best place to be.
The improved view allowed one to sit back in their car and enjoy the scenery or take a nap if you wished. There
was also food service right to your car on the upper deck whereas down below one had to walk down the smaller
side tunnels to the pick-up window.
The train arrived right on schedule and the diagonal auto loader ramps connected to the train quite efficiently
and quickly. Soon, they were off to the ninety minute ride into the Bay Area.
He planned to immediately get on the phone with the anthropology professor to tell him about the events that
had unfolded earlier at The Grotto. But as the train picked up speed and quickly reached the border of the city
with the wildlands, Big-E’s attention was caught by an encampment of C Class castoffs. The local tent city had
doubled in size since he last seen it. It looked like maybe a thousand people living in their now. From his upper
deck vantage point he caught a glimpse of a big commotion as they passed by the camp. A woman was crying
hysterically with people trying to console her.
Further down, a group of well-dressed young men were standing, laughing and exchanging money. Big-E sus-
pected what was taking place and a few minutes later as the train zoomed into the wildlands, he had confirma-
tion. He spotted a group of fringe lion. Several were picking at the fresh remains of a human corpse that was
scattered about. Turkey buzzards were joining in picking away at the last of the available flesh. Three other
fringe lion, soaked with drool and blood, were lying on their backs gorging the meal. They had flesh wounds
themselves. Often the fringe lion would eat on each other during the frenzy of the feast.
Originally, they were bred in early genetic testing by Fascist Party scientists looking to create a smaller, lower-
cost lion to populate the wildlands. But they only proved to be useful as border guards. Disgusting to both hu-
man beings as well as the majestic Tall Lion, they would naturally stay in the strips of land between them. A tall
lion would kill a fringe lion on sight if it had the chance. But their tendency toward cannibalism and inbreeding
made them a poor choice for implementing large scale control of the wildlands and so it was the Tall Lion that
became fostered through the Rapid Breeding Program..
Big-E could knew the person that had gone down was what they called “wildlands runners”. His backpack was
laying there in a bloody heap. The well-dressed young men back in the tent city were likely son’s of wealthy Fas-
cists in Los Angeles. They often worked in “cast and clan qualified jobs” in some of the big corporations but
would come to fringe camps to set up “wildlands running” events that they would bet on. It was a simple game.
Find a crazy or unusually ambitious C Class castoff and offer him a hundred dollars if he could go out three miles
into the domain of the fringe lion and return safely. He would get a bat and a blade like the professional Lion-
fighters. He would get a GPS device and a mid-point destination and make his run. The bettors would place
standard wagers on whether he could make it or not, but the real money was in side bets about how far the run-
ner could go before being stopped.
This was strictly illegal and Big-E called 911 and reported the event to local World Security. But he knew that
none of the young men would be charged even if caught in the act. Their wealthy Fascists fathers paid law firms
big sums to protect them. And the members of this Fascist youth didn't even see anything wrong with what they
did. He once overheard a group of them talking seriously about how such laws were an invasion of their natural
freedom; a government intrusion. If a wildlands runner wanted to try and make the hundred bucks, then he
should be allowed to pursue this ambition. The fact that one such as this might be completely desperate and de-
lusional didn’t enter into the equation for these privileged young men. C Class castoffs were losers in their
minds. A drag on society as well as a long-term genetic threat to the well-bred. Nobody should care if they lived
or died.
It pissed Big-E off big time that these Fascist youth were granted such protection. They needed to be put into
mental hospitals themselves and given some kind of treatment for such an obvious “values disorder”. They
weren’t un-like the fringe lion itself; pathetic, inbred, cannibalistic.
He opened the window of his Validor X1 and let the fresh air wash away the bad taste in his mouth that this
passing scene had left. Having added to the popularity of Lion-fighting himself, he couldn’t escape his own part
in this.
He re-focused and put in a call to his friend the anthropology professor. He got his voice mail and left a mes-
sage that he had encountered some unusual events out at The Grotto earlier that day. Ten minutes later, the pro-
fessor called him back.
Big-E explained the events that occurred: the sudden falling away of the large rock that covered a hidden cave
in one of The Grotto’s walls; the appearance of the strange, old lion; the discovery of a sunken area in the cave
floor that fit the shape of the human body; the cave painting; and finally the anomaly of the flow of mist that
rolled through the grotto during the course of these events.
 “That’s almost unbelievable”. The professor’s voice was unloosened from the sure, academic undertones it
usually possessed. He was used to experiencing such data from the distance of books in a library. This account
was almost coming to him in real time.
“I know how this sounds” Big-E offered. He could appreciate the shakiness in the professor’s voice. He re-
membered how, at 13, he had first experienced the other worldliness of the Weji Board. A girl and him held on
to the pointer as it darted around spelling out word after word in rapid succession. The two kids were not con-
sciously directing the thing but shaking in their shoes from the strange occurrence of “the spirit”. Since then he
had a whole catalogue of paranormal experiences that he measured in terms of quality of experience rather then
with an eye to validate such data scientifically. As the ancient saying went; “If one meets with a cup full of Spirit
on the road—drink of the cup or toss it aside, but move on!”. To sit there and measure the cup, and to beat one’s
head against a rock trying to figure out how it showed up at that place on the road—that was work for other peo-
ple.
But Big-E appreciated the professor’s great storehouse of knowledge in such matters. He questioned him
about how to interpret that cave art. This was the one in the series of events that meant the most to him person-
ally. “Do you think the figure of the three warriors below the head with horns was meant to suggest that the fig-
ures were seen as servants of the Diablo”? Big-E’s interest in the whole affair now was in just how he might in-
terpret the cave art.
“That could be” said the professor. “But often the shamans, or others, who created such art were merely writ-
ing down vivid dreams they had had, in the order in which the dreams came to them. The interpretation is left
open.”
Next, he asked how the area in the cave floor might have been created and the professor told him that his bet
would be that a person’s form had simply been traced on the rock and then carved out with whatever hand tools
were available. He wasn’t sure he had ever come across anything like this before. The purpose of it would
range from it being a magical place from which a shaman would practice healing and war sorcery rites, to a sim-
ple spa utility designed to cool oneself on hot days in summer. And there was one more possibility that crossed
the professor’s mind.
“This reminds me some of stories from Asia. There have been similar findings with clear myths attached to
them. Shamans and yogis have created areas such as that to intern themselves as they approached the end of
their lives.”
“Burial sites?”
“More then that Big-E. The myths and legends were about Yogis and Shamans who sealed themselves up in
these type of chambers in order to practice a technique that was supposed to allow time travel”
“Time travel?”. Big-E laughed. That sounded like outer space stuff. The professor explained that he wasn’t
talking about science fiction where people go through worm holes to different space-time coordinates in this or
other parts of the meta-verse. He was speaking of simple travel further along in sequential time; through dec-
ades and even centuries beyond the natural life span of the practitioner. The idea was for them to seal them-
selves off and into a state of suspended animation for some special purpose of processing karma, the reactive en-
ergy that moves all of life through evolutionary process. He didn’t know if this had actually ever occurred. Only
that there were legends about it that surrounded various places in the Orient.
“Nothing like this has yet been discovered here in the far west” said the anthropology professor. “A discovery
by a sports celebrity such as yourself is going to be big news! They’ll likely want to get you involved in a CPT
Documentary”. The professor laughed out loud. He knew how much Big-E White disdained publicity.
“Let’s keep this between ourselves for the moment” Big-E said. He suddenly realized that it had been a huge
mistake to bring this up with the professor at this time. He became inwardly furious with himself—while on the
outside calmly suggesting they get together later and discuss how they might approach this.

In Los Angeles, twenty minutes following the conversation between Big-E White and the anthropology profes-
sor, World Security Deputy Level 1 Administrator Kerri Branghue dropped a paper down on the desk of her boss
Eric “Brick” Smith. He quickly read the digital transcript of the phone conversation between Big-E and the pro-
fessor and gasped a few times before pushing it away from him.
“Christo!” cursed Smith, “this guy is a royal pain-in-the-ass. He’s like some kind of bear that goes around piss-
ing on every tree in the forest to mark his domain.” He asked Branghaue what she was going to do with the pro-
fessor.
 “I’ve got a team set up as CPT Hikers that will intercept him tomorrow when he goes out to see all of this for
himself. He cancelled his classes for tomorrow the second he was off the phone with Big-E.”
“I don’t know” Smith said, “we should put a puppet string on him right away before he has a chance to blab
about this. This is a critical intervening variable. It’s apt to get into Vulerummer’s information stream very
quickly.”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of him going over to check this out today” Branghue replied. “But you’re
probably right to play this one by the book.”
“So now he’s heading toward Le Muffet? Did we have any success in getting an ear into his house?”
“None. He’s the complete opposite of Big-E. He has people who sweep his surroundings daily for bugs. His
brother Bill keeps him up on all the latest in anti-surveillance. He goes through a box of street phones every
week.”
Smith asked her why she thought Big-E wasn’t as meticulous as Maxim Le Muffett when it came to not leaving
openings to surveillance. “I personally think he does it on purpose” he offered. “I really think he lets us listen in
on him just to aggravate us.”
Kerri smiled. “No. If anything he does it to attach puppet strings…to us!”
Smith recoiled some at the thought of that. “God, I really wish we didn’t have to deal with this guy”. But the
light in his eyes and the tiny hint of smile on his mouth suggested to Kerri Branghue that Eric was slowly becom-
ing seduced by the rumored member of the mysterious Washington Kachina.
“What about Luani?” he asked her. “Have they made any contact there?”
“Nope. There is no link between any of them at this moment. It’s possible he’s gone there to talk about some-
thing else.”
“Yeah…I see no chance of that. It’s like I said, he likes to aggravate us. I’m fairly sure he’s gone there to mess
up our plan”.
“Well, nothing ever goes as planned” Kerri said, matter-of-factly. Their call to Big-E White at his anniversary
party was designed to provide an indication of just how he would jump. “Have you thought about how we’re go-
ing to deal with him when he shows up here the day after tomorrow?”
“Brick” Smith smiled sweetly at his deputy. “You mean other then let you grovel and try and bullshit him
some more?”

It was fifteen minutes before five when Big-E rolled off of the auto-carrier bullet train in The Oakland. He
was right on schedule. As he slowly drove his Validor X1 through the streets toward the Le Muffet compound, he
took in the sight of all of the young oak trees that had been planted in the previous decade. They were stretching
out and really adding to the pleasant atmosphere that was developing in the area. Marthia told him that planting
the oaks and other green things was an essential element of the long-term community plan and they were instru-
mental in coming up with funding for that specific purpose. She had hit him and Coco up for a yearly pledge to
contribute to the nursery work.
Maxim and Marthia were there at the gate as he pulled up and parked out front. Big-E and Max did a quick
handshake and bicep squeeze and then he embraced and kissed Marthia, who he hadn’t seen in person since the
previous year. They walked into the house with Marthia saying how Isis told her the sixth year marriage party
had gone very well. “I’ll be comin’ myself for year seven” she announced cheerfully with a quick sidelong glance
at Maxim. “We gonna bring everyone and have a special time with y’all!”
This was news to Max. It was also a direct violation of their amended wedding contract. But Marthia’s grand-
mother had said that this was the way it was going to go. That she would fully cement her position as family ma-
triarch at Coco’s seventh wedding celebration. The old woman had passed away three years earlier but was still
showing up in everybody’s dreams…with those eyes of hers. Max never messed with the grandmother. She had
been a potent force while living, and as far as he could see, just as bossy now from the hereafter !
Big-E said that she had to come since after all, it was her who had brought Coco and him together. Marthia
smiled warmly. “And what a great day that was!” she thought to herself. They had a late September party and it
had been a 90 degree day. Their newly built Le Muffet compound was completed earlier that summer and
bumping with over four hundred guests. When Big-E arrived with the other young Lion-fighters—which in-
cluded Samoan Luani—she was right on the phone telling Baby Coco to get over there fast. When Coco and her
best friend Sydney arrived she just sat back laughing and drinking as those two girls—whom she like to call “The
Man Slaughterers”—got all over those oafies with their smiles and perfume, and little pretend innocent ques-
tions! Marthia had so much fun that night watching their home “come a-glow” as her grandma said.
 Isis came into the room to greet Big-E. He stood up as she came forward and steered her into a “love-hug” as
they called it.
“Uncle Big, I hardly got to talk to you at all at the party. I was hopin’ we’d throw the baseball around and I
could show you how my butterfly pitch was comin’”. She had come up and sunk her index into the front of Big-
E’s shirt the way Le Muffet women always did and stared up into his eyes. Her uncle Big had the prettiest blue
eyes. Sometimes they were like the sky, and sometimes they were like the ocean.
“All I wanted to do was come out and throw the ball with you sweet heart. But your aunt made me do the
husband thing…you know. Did you like me in my suit?”. She asked Big-E where he got that crazy tie he wore and
he replied that her aunt picked it for some reason and that she’d have to ask her.
“Why you didn’t bring auntie Coco today?” Isis asked him, “She was straight cut in that little outfit she put on.
I want one just like that.”
Her parents rolled their eyes. “Not until you out from this house” said her mother.
“Not ever” said her father.
Isis moved very precociously over to her father who was sitting on a large sofa with his long arm outstretched.
She climbed in the spot opposite her mother like she always did when it was the three of them. “My daddy want
me to become one of them virgin old maid women” she said opening her eyes a bit wider while feigning a matter-
of-fact tone of voice. Maxim smiled at his adorable daughter.
“You know Big-E. You just never expect it, or even think about the truth the these kids is gonna grow up some
day and turn into crazy little sexlings.” Isis rolled her eyes. Her daddy had just coolly bested her. He toshayd her
as she and her friends called it. She let her mouth hang open as she stood up. “I’m going to finish the dinner
while ya’all talk about back-in-the-day stuff”.
Isis left the room and Max told Big-E how she would likely be pitching for the boys varsity team this spring.
He was smiling with pride.
“Those poor boys” Big-E said. “They’ll walk into the batter’s box half-bedizzled from the sight of her and then
have to face those crazy butterfly pitches she throws at ‘em”. It seemed downright cruel to him.
When the time was just right, Marthia delivered the line that had been in her mind since she learned about
their meeting earlier that day. “So, I guess it’s all over for you oafies now. The lions finally gonna get to relax?”
Both the men knew she was referring to the end of their lion-fighting careers. It was no surprise to Big-E that
Max had told her. But his cover story was that the coming season would be the last. She was putting him on the
spot and he wasn’t sure what to say. He muttered that it was coming down to the end.
Marthia measured the effect of her words then told the men about the dream she had where her grandmother
appeared with radiant eyes and told her she would never have to worry about the lion-fights again. Max leaned
back. The grandmother again! When she was alive she called on the phone just about every day to announce the
latest of her premonitions and general “seeing”. He had always regarded her as something of a pest—always
staring at him from off to the side. She hadn’t understood his lifestyle—the lion-fighting or his desire for a lot of
children while Marthia wanted only one. Now, any dreams people had of her were always given special scru-
tiny—like visitations from a saint or profit.
Big-E knew better then to lie to Marthia. He muttered that he had been thinking that he might even want to
forego a final season. Max wanted to ask him if he was being haunted by that last lion that had nearly killed him.
But this was something he hadn’t shared with his wife and didn’t plan to for many years. “So, that’s why you
come to talk?” Max asked him. Big-E looked him in the eye. “Yeah, that and something else”.
The tension that instantly appeared in Max’s body transferred to Marthia. She was sitting with his arm around
her and could feel it like the penetration of a low bass vibration coming through a wall. They all sat quietly for a
moment. Then Isis poked her head in the room to announce proudly that dinner was ready and that she hadn’t
burned a single piece of fish in the frying pan.
When the meal was over and the women were gone, the men had their meeting. Big-E explained to Max that
after they had finished with the photography session, he had received a disturbing phone call. Then, when he
returned to the main room, he watched Jimmy Luani and Max step into the room—both with very disturbed
looks on their faces. It all seemed more then coincidental to him. He said that he was curious about whether
Max had received a similar phone call as well.
For the two men, it was like each had shown up at an apartment building for a secret meeting. In the elevator
they find they are going to the same floor. The one thing remaining that separates what looks like a mutual ex-
perience is the number of the apartment they are heading towards.
 He sighed and looked Max straight in the eye. “I’m into some big shit, oafy!”.

As this conversation was unfolding in The Oakland, back in Santa Barbara, Coco and Robert were sitting at the
kitchen table slowly going through their dinner. Robert’s partner Randi had brought them Chinese take out. As
the two ate in silence, Randi was mixing chunks of pressed duck with Poodle Feast as Little B sat on his mat wait-
ing to be served. It had been a rough day for Coco and Robert.
After taking care of Little B, Randi joined his two glum friends at the table. Casoni had phoned him repeatedly
over the day to talk about the terrible events. Randi hadn’t yet seen him so furious and had rushed from his sa-
lon after the last appointment to join him. When he came into his office at the house, he had instantly insisted
that Robert take a few minutes to relax and get his calm back. He rubbed the tense muscles in his neck for five
minutes before he judged that Casoni was ready to continue with the barrage of e-mails, text messages and
phone calls he had been sending out.
Coco was circulating between flashes of rage, burst of tears, and sunny, confident professionalism as she went
about her own list of tasks. When she heard Randi from down the hall, she went into Casoni’s office so that she
might vent her frustration to someone new. She sat down on the sofa, crossed her legs and furiously began
thumping knee against knee. Her eyes—which in their normal state were what Randi thought of as a delicious
amber color ringed with dark brown—now looked more grayish-green; like a menacing pair of storm clouds try-
ing to process and expel an accumulation of tainted moisture.
“We’re getting fucked!” she announced in a demeaning little voice.
“No, we’re getting pissed on!” Robert corrected, sounding vile now.
“And shit on!” added Coco, with even more vile.
The tones and words of the two were a surprise to Randi. Robert had told him that they could be like medie-
val warriors fighting back-to-back, fiercely emboldening each other. This seemed to be what he was talking
about. He’d never heard such tones and language from his partner and never suspected it from Coco.
Randi had learned of their problem just before lunchtime after they had gotten off the phone with their attor-
ney Abe Kaplan. They had wanted to sue the Aussie BP company the minute they had cancelled the contract
with them. Kaplan—a wise and kindly attorney considered as the embodiment of the Santa Barbara lifestyle—
had made them pause.
“They are your friends”, he said simply after hearing what had happened. “Plus, you really want your product
in their stores! It is clear that they’re being leveraged. It would make more sense if you tried to find out who and
what was behind this.”
Coco felt she knew what was behind it. Her high profile involvement with the Precepts of the Curriculum
group for progressive education had already brought veiled threats from the hardcore Fascists. Many people
had been threatened. It seemed like they felt over ran by what others considered the natural change that occurs
in each generation. Fascist leaders were telling the ordinary people that they were slowly being cornered and
that their values were under siege.
In response, a group of bully boys, who called themselves The Blue Klux Klan, had taken to wearing midnight
blue bed sheets and riding around on motor scooters flying some bizarre flag with an odd geometrical symbol on
it. At first they were laughed at but then caught in acts of vandalism and other violence. And then the previous
year, some of these Blue Klux Klan in Boston had broken into a Precepts of the Curriculum office and killed a man.
They had taken him out to a spot in the woods and hung him from a tree! Later, it turned out he hadn’t even
been associated with Precepts of the Curriculum. He had been at the office that night getting ready to change into
work cloths. He was a painter but they killed him anyway as they were intent on sending a message.
“You need to find an area of compromise with these people” instructed Kaplan.
Casoni had erupted with skepticism to that. “You can’t even begin to compromise with people as ignorant as
that!”
“Well, we’re all ignorant to one degree or another” said Kaplan. “Work from that default position.”

At eleven o’clock. Big-E pulled his Validor X1 into a slot in the lower section of the last bullet train heading
south. It was referred to as the “snoring special” because at that late hour commuters would usually sleep in
their cars until they reached their destination. It had been a long day for Big-E and he set the alarm on the
dashboard to 12:15 AM which would give him a few minutes to wake up before the train stopped in Santa Bar-
bara and he could go home.
 Tomorrow would be another big day. He would be talking to the professor about his impressions of the cave
out at the grotto and begin preparing for his arrival at the World Security office of Eric “Brick” Smith. Later, he
would get word from Max—who in another six hours would be boarding The Le Muffet private jet for Hawaii for
a meeting with Jimmy Luani at his home in Maui.
When Big-E finally pulled into his driveway almost two hours later, the headlight of the Validor X1 lit up the
image of Little B sitting behind a gate looking out at him. He would of bet money that he would be curled up in
bed with Coco. But before Robert and Randi went home earlier, Randi had picked up Little B and told him that
he should be a good dog and guard the house that night and bark if any bad dogs came. He seemed to somehow
understand this and when Randi put him down, he ran out through the doggy door and positioned himself by the
gate. This had made the three of them laugh loudly and wonder just what went through the mind of their little
pet.
But for Little B it was no laughing matter. When “The Big Dog Man” was away, Little B always wanted to be a
good guard dog!