The television reporter asked a series of boring and obvious questions to Dr. H.P. Negron-Omikon. Yes, the good doctor was happy that he received the Teller Prize for inventing the Spirit Disengagement Field. Of course, he was thrilled that he was no longer a wanted man in the USA. It’s true that he and the current president are on the best of terms. And, yes, yes, the President himself will be in attendance at tonight’s public demonstration of the Commodity Reclamation and Augmentation Processor (CRAP), Dr. Negron-Omikon’s latest masterwork.

Using the latest in zeptotechnology, Dr. Negron-Omikon had managed to create quite the device. Continue reading →

No less a personage than the President himself attended the unveiling of the Spirit Communication Utilization Matrix, or SCUM. The President sat on the front row, along with several of his top cabinet advisors, bodyguards, mistresses, and so forth. The top bankers, media celebrities, and captains of industry filled the rest of the seats of the vast hall in lovely downtown San Diego.

The head of the SCUM project, Dr. H.P. Negron-Omikon, stepped up to the podium amidst wild applause. Today would be the grand day he would unveil his system, which would allow for humans to communicate with the spirits of the dead. No Ouija board or seance session, this! No, the science behind it was good and hard and the spirit in question would actually manifest itself in a visible, albeit ghostly form. Continue reading →

Betty the Bear loved her backscratcher.

You see, bears have very itchy backs and if they don’t have a tree with rough bark to rub against, they need backscratchers. Bears without backscratchers tend to be grumpy, short-tempered, and generally difficult to get along with.

That is why Betty the Bear loved her backscratcher. Continue reading →

Nate handed me a pistol. “Shoot anyone that walks through that door. Even if it’s a guy that looks just like me, because it won’t be me. Got that? Anyone!”

I nodded. I didn’t want anyone to walk through that door, but things were very, very real right now, and I didn’t want to argue. Nate left the room by a side door, shotgun in hand.

I heard the intruders approaching. I heard them fumble with the lock on the door. I kept the pistol pointed at the doorknob. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t shoot guns. But these guys were going to force me to change my habit if they succeeded in opening the door.

The lock clicked. These guys were coming in. I took a deep breath and held it.

The door opened, and I saw a man step into the room. Continue reading →

I had to write the following short story after all the stuff I’ve been reading lately about connections between the financial world and the black market and pure free-market advocates. I’m totally against legalization of drugs, but then again, I’m a radical dissident.

Where Did We Go Wrong?
by Peter Groekmann
all material ©2025 The New York Tribune, all rights reserved

Legalizing drugs was supposed to be the panacea, the big cure-all for our economic woes early last decade. For a few years, it sure seemed to be that way. US GDP went up strongly, unemployment decreased, and most important for cash-strapped local governments, tax revenues returned to previous highs, no pun intended. We had it made, according to the free market proponents and their allies in Congress and the White House. The magic of the market had to be allowed to exercise itself in full freedom.

Yet, here we are again, staring down the depths of another depression. It’s all thanks to that supposed panacea, no less, and this time there’s no magic bullet left in our arsenal. Whenever the economy goes through the wringer, it’s the duty of every self-respecting economic columnist to ask the question that is the title for this op/ed and then walk his readers through the steps that led to the Great Fall so that This Won’t Happen Again. Again. As a self-respecting economic columnist, I shall be happy to avail myself of my deconstructing duties, even though my critics will no doubt fill up my comment pages with ideological babble that has no grounding in reality. So be it: I still like writing about the economy so my marginal utility of writing one more article exceeds the marginal cost. Therefore, even the most ardent free-market opponent of mine would have to agree that the laws of economics compel me to write on.
Continue reading →

My thoughts turned to the Star Wars saga the other day. I reflected on how Lucas was heavily influenced by samurai movies and old 1930’s serials. Then it hit me: the race sequence in The Phantom Menace was a re-doing of the Little Rascals episode in which Our Gang runs a soapbox derby. Think about it: it all makes sense, doesn’t it? So what else influenced Mr. Lucas’ script?

Well, I did some research and found that in the late 1940s, Chico Marx had some gambling debts to pay off. He convinced his brothers to come out of movie retirement and make two movies with him, A Night in Casablanca and Love Happy. This is all common knowledge. What is less well known is that Chico also proposed a science fiction movie to his brothers, which they turned down. The script for that project, however, survived. I found it after an internet search and was astounded to see the similarities between it and Star Wars. Is it possible that Lucas had access to this script when he set out to make his sci-fi epic?

The similarities are compelling. Imagine Groucho as Obi-Wan, Chico as C-3P0, Harpo as R2-D2, and some pie-eyed newcomer as Luke Skywalker. That would have been the core of actors in the film titled, appropriately enough for the Marx Brothers, A Night at the Space Opera. Reading over the script, it’s clear that the writer had a Marx vehicle in mind, with other actors filling roles in a catch-as-catch-can way. It’s quite possible Lucille Ball could have had the Princess Leia-equivalent part, given her comic turn in Room Service.

In the script, Groucho’s character is named Sir Jupitron, a former knight. Chico is Ricko the Robot – and would have appeared in a getup like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Harpo, also in a robot role, got to be Rusty the Robot. Had Zeppo been in the act, he would surely have been cast as the young hero Mike Mercury, but that role would have gone on to some new kid with a pretty face. Here’s a sample of the script:

SOLDIER: Say, buddy! Where you goin’ with those robots?

SIR JUPITRON: We were going nowhere fast, but it looks like you’ll slow us down.

SOLDIER: Do you own these things?

MIKE MERCURY: Yes, I do. They’ve been in the family for years.

SIR JUPITRON: Still good as new, as you can see. You wanna buy ’em?

RICKO THE ROBOT: Hey, why you try to a-sell a-me? Don’t you think I can-a do my own-a sales-a pitch?

RUSTY THE ROBOT: Honk.

SIR JUPITRON: It would take quite a wind-up to get a pitch that could sell the likes of you two.

RICKO THE ROBOT: At-sa what gets us goin’! A good wind-up every morning! That-a-way, we no run down.

SIR JUPITRON: You’re not run down? Say, that is an amazing pitch. The truth in advertising boys would have a field day with it.

RICKO THE ROBOT: Sure! You always wanna throw th’ pitch onna big-a field!

SIR JUPITRON: Well, I’m glad we got that all settled. You’re all free to go.

(The robots and Mike attempt to leave.)

SOLDIER: Just a minute, there! I’m not done with you yet!

SIR JUPITRON: Oh. You’re still here. Where were we… Ah, yes, we were going nowhere fast. I see you’re already there.

SOLDIER: We’re lookin’ for a couple of robots that look just like the ones you got there. (points to “Wanted” posters of Ricko and Rusty)

RICKO THE ROBOT: Say… (points at Rusty’s poster) that’s-a not me. (points at his own poster) And-a that’s-a not him. We ain’t the robots you’re lookin’ for.

SIR JUPITRON: He’s got a point there. They don’t look a thing like each other, so they can’t be somebody else. Well, I guess that settles it, we won’t keep you any longer. (makes ready to leave)

SOLDIER: Hold on, buddy. If these ain’t the robots I’m lookin’ for, how come this guy looks like that mug (points to Rusty and Rusty’s poster) and that guy looks like that mug? (points to Ricko and Ricko’s poster)

SIR JUPITRON: Well, it’s clearly a case of mistaken identity. Speaking personally, these two mistakes aren’t anyone I’d like to identify with.

RICKO THE ROBOT: Those mugs up there are a buncha like-a-looks.

RUSTY THE ROBOT: Honk (produces a wooden rectangle)

RICKO THE ROBOT: I agree. It’s a frame-up.

(Rusty produces a stool)

SIR JUPITRON: What’s that for?

RICKO THE ROBOT: When the crows come home to roost, we’ll use that to catch-a the stool pigeon.

SIR JUPITRON: (to Soldier) There you have it. They’ve been framed up, and I’ve been set up. And frankly, that was one of the worst punch lines ever. It didn’t deliver.

RICKO THE ROBOT: Well, don’t blame the joke. You didn’t-a pay the delivery charge.

SIR JUPITRON: (to Soldier) You know anything about a delivery charge?

SOLDIER: Uh, no…

SIR JUPITRON: So there’s no charge?

SOLDIER: I guess not.

SIR JUPITRON: Well, happy day! There’s no charge! Off we go, into the wild blue yonder…

SOLDIER: Just a minute! Are you guys up to anything funny here?

SIR JUPITRON: Not with these jokes, we’re not. We’re as corny as Kansas in summer.

SOLDIER: I still say these robots are the ones we’re lookin’ for.

SIR JUPITRON: (pause, warms up the fast talk) Well. You’re looking for a look-a-like that looks like these two lookers here, but it looks like they only look like the look-a-likes that you’re looking for and from the looks of things, the likelihood of the look-a-likes turning up looks less likely now that their likenesses are everywhere for one and all to look at, like it or not. I don’t like it, but look at it this way: look-a-likes don’t like looking like like-a-looks and… and…

(Soldier becomes impatient)

(Beautiful woman walks by, entering from the left and exiting to the right)

SIR JUPITRON: Wow! Whatta looker!

(Soldier is distracted, while he’s distracted, Rusty and Ricko draw mustaches on their wanted posters)

SIR JUPITRON: So you can clearly see, these aren’t the robots you’re looking for.

SOLDIER: (confused, trying to make sense of what’s going on) Wait, I… I guess they’re not the robots I’m looking for.

SIR JUPITRON: We can go about our business, now.

SOLDIER: (still confused) Yeah, you guys can scram outta here.

SIR JUPITRON: Move along, boys.

(All exit to the right, except Rusty the Robot, who runs off right)

(Offscreen, we hear a woman scream)

RUSTY THE ROBOT: (offscreen) Honk! Honk!

RICKO THE ROBOT: (offscreen) Hey! Rusty! Knock it off!

(Rusty runs up to Soldier)

RUSTY THE ROBOT: Honk

SOLDIER: Hey! (makes ready to apprehend Rusty)

(Rusty the Robot grabs a bucket and dumps it on the Soldier’s head, then runs off to the right)

NOTE TO THE WORLD: I have decided to secede from the ancient confines of traditional astrology, based upon Babylonian noodlings about the stars. It’s fatalistic, shoving people into their places based upon their time of birth, giving rise to notions of legitimacy based solely upon that factor and ruling out any possibility of a merit-based system. Such a system offends my modern sensibilities, and I won’t be party to it.

Therefore, I have chosen a new sign for myself. I decided to break out of the Eurocentric mold and seek outside the Northern Hemisphere for my sign. I went with the Southern constellation “Chamaeleon” because the name is easy to figure out. It’s a chameleon. People born under the sign of Chamaeleon are like me, because I said so. If you’re not like me, you’re some other kind of constellation, so feel free to shop around and make up your own.

I will now make up my own horoscope. I do this for two reasons:

1. I want to choose my own destiny.
2. When I check my supposed traditional horoscope, every site has a different, often contradictory reading.

Therefore, I conclude that making up my own horoscope, based on what I know about myself, will be way more accurate than anything some other astrologer could pull out of his head. And I get to be a chameleon! How cool is that?

Today’s Horoscope for Chamaeleon: Today is a good day for spending time with family. Consider taking your daughter to an Adventure Princess campout at Great Wolf Lodge. Showering will be important today: be sure to use soap. Consider pizza for supper at a familiar restaurant in Grapevine. Grade papers if you have time, but don’t worry if you let work slide a little to enjoy yourself.

WOW! It’s like the guy giving that horoscope REALLY KNOWS ME!!!! It’s so true! Wow! It’s not vague and open-ended like all those other horoscopes…

Could the North Have Won?
By Richard LeCompton

Richard LeCompton is the Perry Ambrose Chair of American History at the University of Virgina – Richmond. This article originally appeared in “American Military History, August 1998.”

“For the want of a rider, a battle was lost; for the want of a battle, the war was lost.” This traditional proverb came to us from the depths of European history, yet it is highly appropriate in the context of the War Between the States. Americans have always been fascinated with the four years of conflict that wracked the nation from 1861 to 1865, and always the question arises, “What if the North had won?” There were so many near-misses for the North that this question has remained active in the imaginations of battle re-enactors, as well as serving as an inspiration for more than a few popular alternative-history novels. There has been little serious investigation into this matter as historians usually have their hands full dealing with what did happen, leaving little time to look into questions of what didn’t happen. Therefore, I hope my fellow historians will excuse me for my dabbling into the realm of what might have been.

When entering into speculation, it would be best to disabuse one’s imagination of notions of entertaining implausible fantasies. Yes, the war could have ended perhaps with either side sweeping the field at First Manassas and then pursuing a routed foe to his capitol. Realistically, neither side was organized enough to give proper pursuit – ending the war in July 1861 has to be shelved as an idea, since it really had no chance of happening.

The same cannot be said for Antietam: here we see the first possibility of a Northern win. Taking nothing away from Lee and Jackson’s brilliant defensive moves, if Burnside had not squandered his advantages and chosen to ford the creek instead of trying to force it at his eponymous bridge, he might have been able to swing back the Southern flank and provide McClellan with a decisive victory. Indeed, Burnside’s fascination with bridges proved to be his undoing at Fredericksburg a few months later. Had a different man filled Burnside’s shoes, say the likes of Meade or Thomas, your author may well have chosen to write an article on “what if the South had won?”

Meade is one of the most fascinating Northern generals, and Lincoln’s removal of Meade in favor of Grant had a devastating effect on Northern fortunes. While Grant had won a series of victories in the western theater, they all came at a high cost in Northern casualties. Grant’s nickname, “Butcher,” however, arose from his conduct of the Wilderness campaign, in which he squandered enough men to make up a second Army of the Potomac, all to no greater avail than to move a few miles closer to Richmond. Meade had shown a talent for outflanking Lee in the aftermath of Gettysburg. To Meade, a war of maneuver was infinitely preferable to a war of attrition. If Meade had had another 100,000 troops to supplement his forces, rather than replace them, I am certain he could have used them to surround the Southern forces under Lee, forcing them to abandon their fortifications around Richmond once the Northern forces stretched out to embrace the rail lines feeding the city. In my view, the war could have been over with a Union victory in mid-1864. If that had happened, Lincoln may have gone down in history as a great president, as befitting a victor in a major conflict.

Instead, the North endured the wrath of Jubal Early. We are all familiar with how Early emerged from the Shenandoah in July 1864 and drove hard for Washington, burning the White House and Capitol to the ground on 10 July. With that lightning stab, Early destroyed both the morale of many in the North and the re-election hopes of Abraham Lincoln. Of all the near-misses of the war, this is the one that intrigues me most.

What is often not seen through the mythology surrounding Early’s masterstroke is that the North possessed the means to hold back Early’s column, if not defeat it outright. The head of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, John W. Garrett, was an ardent Northern supporter and had advance knowledge of Early’s movements as early as 30 June. Garrett passed this information on to Major General Lew Wallace, who commanded a Northern force in the area. Wallace wanted to move his men to interpose between Early and Washington, much like a knight protecting a king in chess. In Wallace’s memoirs of the war, he laments that he arrived near Frederick, Maryland to be in the path of Early’s advance a day after Early had already passed through. Although Wallace had only 6000 men under his command to Early’s 15,000, his force certainly could have slowed down Early long enough for the reinforcements racing to Washington to have arrived there to man the fortifications before the Southern forces invested them.

Even after Early’s men burned the capitol and took up the defensive positions to deal with Northern counter-attacks, the war was not yet decided. Grant chose to maintain his veteran forces opposite Lee and left the relief of Washington to Wallace and his “Hundred Days Men.” These troops were volunteers with very little training, best suited for garrison duty where they could enjoy the advantages of fortifications and commanding fields of fire. Had they been manning the lines in the forts around Washington, I believe that they stood a better than average chance of being able to hold them and repulse Early’s column. As it was, the positions were reversed and the poor devils were ground down under the withering fire from Early’s battle-hardened forces.

What if Grant had abandoned his positions in Virginia and doubled back to Washington? It was certainly possible, as Lee could not afford to be on the tactical offensive. A screening force was all that was necessary to keep Lee in place and the rest of the Army of the Potomac could have at least retaken the capitol. As a commander, Meade was more than capable enough to deal with Lee’s maneuvers and Grant certainly had the proper mindset to order his men into the teeth of massive defenses. A Grant-led recapture of Washington would have been a bloody affair, but it would have been a tonic to Northern morale.

The North certainly needed a tonic after the disasters of 1864: Sherman’s men in Tennessee were pinned down by Forrest’s raiders for much of the first half of the year; Grant’s aforementioned phyrric losses in the Wilderness dominated headlines in May; Grant’s further bloody loss at Petersburg led to demands for his removal in June. By the time Sherman had managed to extricate his forces from Tennessee and get them to Atlanta, the Southerners under Johnston were ready to receive him, handing him a major defeat at Kennesaw Mountain. Sherman’s victory at Marietta was more than overshadowed by Early’s capture of Washington. Grant’s failure to move to recapture Washington, a major symbol of Northern pride, is widely accepted as his greatest career blunder.

Grant only compounded his errors when he ordered a massive assault on Richmond, in what is known as The Battle of the Crater. Although Burnside’s command was directly responsible for the affair, Grant bears much of the blame for the disaster as its chief planner. It was bad enough the Northern forces lost nearly 4000 men in the action for no real gain: that the majority of the forces ordered into the bloodbath were Colored Troops proved to be the highest order of public relations disasters. Again, the echo of Early in Washington: had Grant doubled back to deal with Washington instead of making a desperate and ill-guided attempt to answer the South, capitol for capitol, he would have avoided the final disaster that ended his military career.

The proud and flamboyant McClellan made much of Grant’s mistakes on the campaign trail. McClellan’s claim to fame as the victor of Antietam and, as such, protector of the capitol, proved to be effective propaganda. The coalition between Republicans and War Democrats that made up Lincoln’s Union Party found its support evaporating in the wake of Early’s capture of Washington and Grant’s disaster at The Crater. Congress, from its hastily-arranged new meeting halls in Philadelphia, demanded Grant’s removal and Lincoln obliged, giving more potency to McClellan’s campaign to end the war with negotiation.

August and September proved to be as bad for Northern fortunes as the previous months had been. Although Early abandoned the Northern capitol after a few days, the repercussions of his raid were felt across both the North and the South. Johnston and Lee fought masterful defensive battles around Atlanta and Richmond, respectively. Back in the Shennandoah, Early’s forces won key battles at Kernstown, Winchester, and Fisher’s Hill.

These latter three victories had another component relating them to Early’s victory at Washington: in his memoirs, Early writes with unconcealed enthusiasm about how “God delivered him from a traitor worse than Judas” when his unreliable cavalry commander, Thomas Rosser, was killed in battle, “saving him the effort of having to hang himself.” Rosser’s replacement, John S. Mosby, proved to be much more competent and Early’s victories in each of those engagements were due in large part to Mosby’s expert management of the Southern cavalry.

Politically, Lincoln’s fortunes were already falling under a cloud when the House opposed passage of an amendment to end slavery in April. Congress’ forcing him to remove Grant was only part of the political story in early August: the House followed up with drawing up articles of impeachment, although they never took the matter to a vote. The message to Lincoln was clear – his days as president would end in 1865, absent some sort of miracle.

With Meade struggling to restore morale around Richmond, Sheridan blunted in the Shenanndoah, and Sherman bogged down around Atlanta, we all know that miracle never materialized. Northern morale was very low, with desertion running high in all units. While the popular wisdom has it that Southern morale was good throughout the war, the reality is that Southern desertion rates were very high in the first half of 1864 and that North Carolina and Texas were all but ready to exit the Confederacy. The capture of Washington proved to be the element that reversed that trend, providing much-needed resolve that had to be a factor in the Southern forces’ being able to hold their ground for the rest of the year.

When election time came due in November, McClellan’s ideas proved the most popular, with 53% of the popular vote going his way. In the Electoral College, McClellan had 130 votes to Lincoln’s 103, giving McClellan sufficient votes to claim the presidency. Looking more closely at the data, we see yet another echo of Early’s raid: McClellan carried the 33 electoral votes in New York and the 26 in Pennsylvania each by less than a full percentage point. Absent that raid, even with the rest of the battles going as they did, a swing of 59 electoral votes would have returned Lincoln to the White House with a resolve to carry on fighting. With Meade back in charge of the Army of the Potomac, a victory could have been possible for the better-armed Northern forces that enjoyed numerical superiority over their Southern counterparts. It would have been a narrow and bloody victory, yes, but a victory all the same.

But would a Northern victory have been better for America than the historical outcome? Lincoln had already shown weakness in the face of Congress over the anti-slavery amendment and Grant’s removal. If he had returned to the White House, he would have been a weak president, unable to put his views over what would have been a strongly Republican Congress. Although he would have amended the Constitution to ban slavery, his lenient views toward the South would have certainly run afoul of the more radical branch of the Republican party. Had they been in control of things, we may have remembered Lincoln as the first president to have been impeached and removed from office. I know I earlier said Lincoln could have been one of the great presidents with Meade winning over Lee, but Lincoln would have been stronger politically in that circumstance. In this scenario I present, Lincoln’s political power would have been greatly reduced – enough to win the election, but only with the support of the radical abolitionists.

So now the question of “what if the North had won?” now becomes one of “what if the radical Republicans had been in power?” They would certainly have pressed for a harsher prosecution of the war itself and would also have treated the South as a conquered land, imposing tough terms. While the South did not lack the will to continue the war much longer than they did – they fought hard in 1864 in the hope the election went to McClellan – they would have certainly resisted Northern impositions on their precious states’ rights and culture. Rather than return to the United States in a negotiated settlement, with eventual voluntary abandonment of slavery, they would have instead resisted occupation and would likely have reacted violently to the forced end of slavery. Given that most Northern states passed laws banning the migration of blacks, free or slave, into their territory, one has to presume that a United States with forcibly ended slavery would have sent all the people of color back to Africa, which would have been a great cultural loss to America, given later events.

As it was, the eventual phasing-out of slavery on the terms of individual Southern states allowed the blacks to remain in America and mingle with the population there, much as freed slaves did in much of Latin America. In spite of initial racial hostility in the North, blacks were eventually accepted as equal citizens there, in large part to their already being accommodated in the South. Because of the so-called “Great Peace” worked out by president McClellan, not only was the USA able to reclaim its lost states peaceably, it was also able to retain a diverse population that later helped to enrich both the culture and science of the nation in the 20th Century. This tolerant, diverse United States was the one that was able to receive the remnants of Spain’s colonial empire when they broke away from their motherland in 1899. An intolerant nation would not have welcomed freedom in the Caribbean and the Pacific in the same way: for all those that speculate about what would have happened with a Northern victory, look to the flag and imagine it with nine fewer stars.

We all know and accept that the South had no real chance of winning the war without European support. That support was doomed from the start when the British began cotton cultivation in Egypt. But the South did attain a negotiated peace, thanks in large part to Early’s capture of Washington. With that negotiation, it was able to peaceably re-integrate into the United States. As alluring as the question of what if the North had won may be, perhaps it’s for the best that no one side “won” the war at all, with the ability to impose a vindictive peace upon the supposed loser. While I hope I don’t come across as a Pangloss, I do see the actual outcome as being preferable to a number of scenarios of what might have been.

Ed Snape and the Troublesome Transfer Student

A combination parody and satire by Dean Webb

Ed Snape entered the faculty lounge just as the bell rang. First one there. Best shot at getting coffee.

Except both pots were empty. Ed growled as he went to fill up the pots with water. Then he noticed that someone had left one of the pots on the heater until it burned the coffee in the pot. Great. Add “clean the pot” to Ed’s list of chores. Ed asked the coffee maker, “Seriously? You couldn’t remember to stop heating the coffee? You boiled away another pot.”

“Sorry, Mr. Snape. The last guy to use it ordered me to keep it hot, no matter what. He always hates finding cold sludge at the bottom of the pot.”

“Didn’t you tell him I ordered you to not wreck the pots, no matter what?”

“He outranks you. Don’t want to get in trouble, but I think you know who it is.”

Ed rolled his eyes and shook his head as he headed to the bathroom to clean the pots. It had to be the new assistant principal, Randall Importantsoundinglastname. Ed was sure Randall had changed his name legally after he got his administrator’s certificate just so he’d sound impressive at job interviews. This was Randall’s second gig in administration, after serving 2 years at some school out in the boonies. Word in the lounge had it that Randall had been doing something a bit improper, as his wife had seen fit to divorce him right when he applied to work at Joseph T. Hogwart High School.

That figured. A guy that cheated on his wife was pretty much the type to be a jerk about making coffee. “ALWAYS fill the last pot!” Ed repeated that mantra as he scrubbed the burnt coffee out of the pot. What a way to start an off period…

When Ed got back to the faculty lounge, a few other teachers were there, sitting in all the comfy chairs. Ed got the coffee going. As he did, Donna Hifflewiggins scooted over on the sofa and said, “You can sit here, Ed.” Donna was a great old teacher, always ready to help a comrade. She’d been at JTHHS for what seemed like forever, teaching freshman Telekinesis classes, year in, year out.

Ed sat next to her. “I don’t know how you do it, Donna.”

Donna smiled. “I can see the future for most of them, I guess. I know they’re not freshmen forever, so I give ’em a good working over so they’re easier for you guys to work with. And it’s not much different from your sophmores in Potions I.”

Ed nodded. “I just wish I taught the Defense classes. I’d teach them to freshmen, even.”

Donna raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with Potions I and II? Thought you liked those?”

“They’re all right. But the reason I got into teaching was that I had a passion for Defense. That was my major at UT-SAM. Of course, I knew getting a Defense job right out of the gate was pretty tough, so I took a composite certification. Now I can teach everything, so that’s what they get me to teach. Everything except Defense.”

“Did you talk to the principal about this?”

“Every year, I put in for the job. Every year, he hires some yahoo or whack job from I don’t know where to fill an opening in that department and I’m stuck in Potions.”

“But did you talk talk to him about this? Face time is a whole different thing than putting in a piece of paper with a transfer request. Ray Dumbledore is a pretty good wizard, but he’s not a mind-reader.”

Ed reflected on that. “Maybe I should see him.”

Donna smiled. “It’s too late for this year but plenty early for the next one.”

Ed nodded and got up to go see Ray.

Ray Dumbledore was just leaving his office when Ed walked up. “Hey there, Ed!”

“Hey, Ray.” Everyone liked the way the two words rhymed. Ray himself was a man worthy of the happy rhyme, being one of the rare breed of administrators that cared more about the students and teachers at his school than he did about feathering his own bed. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Ray re-opened his office and motioned for Ed to come on in. “What’s on your mind?”

Ed sat down opposite Ray. “It’s about next year. I’d really like to move over to being a Defense teacher. I’ve got a passion for it and I’ve been wanting to move into that department ever since I started at JTH.”

Ray lifted his eyebrows and puffed up his upper lip in a way that indicated he knew exactly what Ed was talking about and that the answer wouldn’t be what Ed wanted to hear. “Well, Ed… I don’t know how to put this…” Ray turned and went through a stack of paper until he found the right sheet. “Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

“Sure. You know me.”

Ray smiled. “Well, this one’s a bombshell, but I want to keep you as a teacher so I guess I better tell it to you so you don’t make a big mistake. Look at this.” Ray handed the paper to Ed.

Ed read it. He couldn’t believe it.

Ray said, “I’ll need that back.” He held his hand out.

Ed gave back the paper. “The whole department?”

“The whole department, at a stroke.”

“But kids need Defense classes. Some of them, that’s what keeps them in school.”

“I know, Ed, but Defense Against the Dark Arts isn’t a state-tested class. It’s an elective and we’ve got some tough funding issues in the district, and the Arts always suffer in the cuts. It’s going to be pretty much statewide, from what I hear. Potions I and II are tested, so those jobs are always going to be there. If you were in Defense, I’d be in the position of cutting your position and then I’d lose you as a teacher. I don’t want that to happen. That’s why I didn’t move you over there. Something like this cut was always in the works. It’s just that this year, it’s a reality.”

“Do the current Defense teachers know?”

“Some of them have an inkling, but nothing official. I can’t say anything about it until the end of next semester, or I’ll lose my job. That’s why I need you to keep a secret.”

“Absolutely… so how about doing Defense as an extracurricular? I’d be willing to sponsor that.”

Ray tilted his head to the left. “On top of your coaching?”

“Sure. I could run it in the afternoon.”

“What’s going to happen to your social life?”

“I’ll manage.”

Ray tilted his head to the right. “Well, it’s just that I don’t want to see you get burned out or anything. If you can think you can handle it, though, you’ve got my blessing.”

Ed thanked him, shot the breeze about how the quidditch team was shaping up this year, and then went back to the lounge, hoping to get some coffee before his next class.

***

The tardy bell for 7th period rang and Ed announced, “All right, everyone, get out your pens. Time for a pop-quiz.” General groans echoed about his potions lab. “Too bad, so sad, I’ll be sure to show up for court when you sue me for emotional cruelty… you’ve got ten minutes.”

As Ed handed out the quizzes, a young man entered the room. He had the hopelessly confused face of a student new to school, with a schedule to match. “Excuse me, are you Mr. eSnape?”

“Yes. Let me make sure you’re in the right class.” Ed hoped the kid was in a different period, since 7th was already huge and tended to be his worst-behaved class of the day. Ed looked at the new kid’s schedule… and yes, he was in 7th period. His name was Enrique Alfarero, which explained the accent. “Where are you transferring in from?”

“Excuse me?”

“What school are you coming from?”

“Langston Prep.”

Langston? That was a rather well-to-do private school for muggles. Why the transfer to a public school for wizards? Ed figured a visit to the counselor might yield some clues. For now, the kid needed to show what he knew. “Well, all right. Have a seat and take this quiz.”

Enrique nodded, took a quiz paper, and got right to work on it.

***

After school, Ed stopped by the counselors’ office and went to the lady in charge of Enrique’s end of the alphabet: Connie Razzenfrazzen. Connie was a cute, plump, grandmother of a lady just a few years away from retirement, but still sharp as a tack… most days.

Ed walked up to her open door and said, “Knock knock?”

Connie smiled. “Hi, Ed, what can I do for you?”

Ed entered and took a seat. “I’ve got a new kid today, Enrique, uh…”

“Enrique Alfarero. Yes. And I bet you want him moved out of your seventh period, am I right?”

“Well, it’s really crowded there and unruly. He’s a great kid, walked in today and aced my quiz, and I think he’d be a lot better off in my 3rd period.”

“Can’t. Sorry.” Connie’s answer was fast enough to indicate she’d already wrestled with that beast.

“Why not?”

“Did you see the rest of his schedule? He’s in everything. You’ve got him in 1st period, too. JV Quidditch.”

“Really?” Ed leaned over to see the copy of Enrique’s schedule Connie was holding up. The kid really was in everything, which locked down his schedule tight. And, yes, there he was in JV Quidditch. “So why is he coming to us from Langston in the middle of the semester?”

“Langston has a number of scholarship programs for economically disadvantaged students. That’s why Enrique enrolled here. Apparently, his scholarship got canceled.”

“So how did he go from non-magical to magical?”

“Langston has a GTM program, and Enrique was in it.”

“They’ve got magical and non-magical kids at the same school?”

“Some people think it works.” Connie shrugged. “But, like you said, he’s a good student, so I guess it worked in his case.”

“I noticed he’s got a strong accent. Are there any language modifications I need to make for his spellcasting?”

Connie nodded. “Yes. Mr. Einstein-Bose is working on his IEP.”

“Anything else I need to know about Enrique?”

“Well, I know he comes to us from Guatemala. His parents were killed in the civil war there when he was very young, and he’s living with an aunt here. Confidentially, I can’t say much more about the home life, but let’s just say a little bird told you that you need to be on the lookout for signs of abuse.”

“Has CPS been involved?”

Connie nodded. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Most of it is verbal, so he may have some issues with various teachers. He wasn’t a problem at Langston, but with all the changes, I don’t know if that changed, too.”

“So how did he get into Langston on scholarship with a family situation like that?”

“Their other boy is there normally and the family enrolled Enrique there, but made it seem like he was an economically disadvantaged student. Langston found out where he lived and canceled the scholarship.”

“You didn’t mention that earlier.”

“Well, you got me in a talkative mood. Frankly, I think the whole thing stinks. The family he’s in already used him in one scam and has been abusive, so who’s to say they’re not working some other fraud with Enrique’s refugee status. He really seems like a nice boy and the people at Langston that I talked with said they hated to see him go. Apparently, the aunt’s boy is a terror. But you’re going to have him in your class and you’re also going to coach him, so you’re going to be in a spot where you may be the one adult in his life that really helps him turn things around.”

“Well, I only coach the seekers. Don’t know if I’ll see him much.”

“You will. That’s his position. He told me himself.”

Ed’s heart sank. This was going to be a huge, huge problem. Hopefully, if there was any justice in the world, this new kid would be terrible compared to the others and would accept playing at some other position.

***

The next morning, Enrique showed up to practice on time. Coach Snape took him and the other seekers off to the bleachers for broom drills. Drake Schlechtglauben, the starting JV seeker, gave Enrique the stink-eye from the get-go. Ed worried that Drake might try to get rough with the new kid.

Ed’s worries increased when Enrique finished the boom drills first. Those bleacher runs were murder, with or without a broom, but Enrique looked ready to go for another round. The kid was in great condition and had moves to match, no question about it.

Drake finished a few seconds later and made a point to fake a stumble and careen into Enrique. Ed blasted his whistle. “That’s unacceptable, Schlechtglauben! Take a lap!”

“I lost control, it wasn’t my fault!”

“Losing control IS your fault. Take another lap, while you’re at it.”

Drake’s anger grew. His face turned red, which, with his mozzarella-white hair, made him look like a strawberry milkshake. “I said, it’s not my fault!”

Ed had to match him, shout for shout, or he’d lose all authority as a coach. “I said it is, and you can take four laps or you can turn in your broom and try your luck with the dance team. I hear they also meet first period. But if you want to keep your starter spot, I suggest you hit those laps with a quickness.”

Drake peeled out on his broom and started his laps. The way he was going, he was set to have some nasty wind burns when he got back.

Ed got the rest of the seekers doing skill exercises. As they went through the paces, he noted that the new guy wasn’t just an ace on the bleachers. He had talent like Ed had never before seen. This Alfarero kid was golden – a prospect maybe for a pro team, and certainly a shoo-in for a full ride at a good Division I school. If he played as a starter, he’d get a lot of time in front of the scouts and that would be his ticket to a better place.

And that was the thing Ed feared most. Schlechtglauben was the current starter and his dad was president of the school board. Old Luke Schlechtglauben wasn’t above using his child to advance his schemes and vice-versa. He was the regional VP for Volde Mortgage, the nation’s largest lender to wizards, and nobody in town wanted to have his papers reviewed for possible clerical errors. Schlechtglauben always used that as a veiled threat to jack the rate up a percentage or two or hold the borrower in default and foreclose.

And Ed had just arranged for a home equity loan with Volde to pay off his credit card bills…

Schlechtglauben had already tied the fate of the district to his son’s starting on the quidditch team. When it looked like Drake was going to be the backup seeker in his freshman year, old Luke chose to fund the capital and equipment improvements package with a tax hike. After the coaches made Drake the starter, Luke proposed to the board that it instead fund the improvements with a much more palatable bond issue. Had the JTHHS coaches stuck to their guns, then the kids would still be using wands from the 19th Century. Drake was fine as a seeker, so the program didn’t suffer: just their integrity.

As for the #1 guy, he went off to another school less riddled with politics and earned his starting role there. Hogwart High made it all the way to the second round of the state playoffs, where they faced their former starter at his school… and that’s as far as they got. The other school went on to the finals, where it took its third straight state championship, won off an amazing snitch catch.

Of course, Luke Schlechtglauben had enough nerve to demand the head coach be fired if the team didn’t advance further in the playoffs this year – and this was just at the JV level! Ed shuddered to think of what kind of trouble Luke would raise up when Drake moved up to Varsity… or if another seeker became starter.

Ed knew it was only a matter of time before it was obvious that Enrique was the right seeker for the starting role. If this was like any other team where kids earn the right to play, all Enrique would have to deal with would be the hazing from other players before he proved himself. Here, he had to practically take on all of Volde Mortgage, since that was the power that kept Drake in his high place.

After practice, Ed called out to his new seeker. “Enrique! Come on over here for a minute.”

“Yes, Coach eSnape!” Enrique hustled on over. “Yes?”

“Walk with me.” Ed led Enrique back out on the field, now deserted.

Ed looked into the sky and watched the clouds scudding ahead of the oncoming cold front. “Enrique… I just want to know, is there any other school your family can get you into?”

“What do you mean?”

Ed turned to face Enrique. “You’ve got a great talent and I think it can get you noticed. You could get a full ride as a seeker, but you need to be in a program that can showcase your skills. This isn’t that program. Drake’s got the starter slot locked up and I can’t shake things around. We’ve built our offense around him, and we can’t work in a new starter, not at this phase of the game.”

“Why would some other eschool not also have this problem? If you don’t want me on the team, just tell me.”

This was going into a direction Ed hadn’t expected. “That’s the thing. I do want you on the team. It’s just that I can’t make that choice.”

“I’ll talk with the head coach, then.”

“His hands are tied, too.”

“Who do I need to talk to to fix this?”

Ed dropped his face. “Nobody, Enrique. Nobody. That’s the problem. The guy in charge of everything here isn’t someone that anyone talks to. He does all the talking. That’s why I’m saying you need to go to another school to get noticed. It’s politics. You’ve been here a day and a half, so you don’t know how things are run here, but that’s the reality of it all. You’re in my worst class of the day and I have to try and coach you in a sport where you can’t compete with the power and money that’s on Drake’s side. This place isn’t right for you, and I want you to know that from the get-go.”

Enrique kicked a rock across the track and turned away.

Ed looked back up. “Don’t get me wrong. I think you’ve got the best talent I’ve seen, ever. You’re a natural for the sport and you did great on the quiz yesterday. I mean that.”

Enrique turned back to face Ed.

“I really mean that.” Enrique lost some of the aggression in his stance. “And I want you to know that if you stay here at JT Hogwart, your options are going to be limited by forces outside your control or my control.”

Enrique looked down at the dirt. “I know. That’s my life. This guy Drake, right? His family’s got money?”

Ed nodded. “Dad’s also the school board president. He runs the town.”

Enrique looked back up and squinted. “Figures. Bunch of elitists. Just like the parents at Langston.”

Ed had forgotten that part of Enrique’s past. Maybe he understood, after all. “I’m sorry, Enrique.”

“It’s not your fault, coach. It’s just one more thing I have to deal with. My mom and dad got killed by death esquaderas, my aunt and uncle keep me here because they get a government check for it, and my grades aren’t good enough to be in the top ten. I’m already planning on junior college for my basics and then going on to UTD or UTA or something.”

“What are you gonna major in?”

“I dunno. Physics, maybe. I’m good with clairvoyance, so it’ll help in looking at particle traces, like what Pemberton-Doublebarrel does at CERN.”

“I know UTD has a good physics department. They don’t have much in the way of magical training, though.”

“If I want that, I pretty much have to go private, like to MIM or CalMag. I can’t afford that.”

The bell rang. Ed looked back at the school. “Well, you hurry on to second period. I’ll see you seventh and maybe I’ll figure something out.”

Enrique nodded. Then he smiled and ran to the school. Ed watched and smiled, sadly, for his new student. Ed decided he was someone worth fighting for, since it seemed like nobody else was doing the job. He didn’t know if he could take on Volde Mortgage or anything like that, but there had to be some other way of getting Enrique a fair shake.

Ed figured he’d skip doing his duty second period and do a little research on scholarship opportunities for Enrique. Ray didn’t like it when people broke the rules, but tended to be forgiving when they broke the rules for the right reasons. As long as Mr. Importantsoundinglastname didn’t catch him, Ed stood a good chance today’s premeditated skipping of duty wouldn’t go down as a mark on his permanent record.

And if Randall Importantsoundinglastname *did* catch him, Ed was ready to counter with a broken rule of his own: always fill an empty pot. If Randall wasn’t going to take care of the coffee pots, then he had no authority to stop Ed Snape from taking care of Enrique Alfarero.

Copyright 2010 and on, L. Dean Webb and Zzzptm.com, all rights reserved.

Mao Zedong Experiences a Setback

Mao regained consciousness, as if waking up from a dream. He looked around the empty room, recognizing the medical equipment, although it appeared to him at unfamiliar angles. The clock on the wall showed the time, about 20 after 1.

Mao noticed the room had no odor whatsoever. Although he immediately suspected treachery, he did so in a calm, flat manner, without any adrenaline or increased pulse rate. The concept of treachery remained academic, almost a curiosity. The minute hand moved forward with a bureaucratic click and the sound echoed through Mao’s consciousness. Effects of the painkillers?

“Mao Zedong? Can you hear me?”

Mao wanted to turn immediately to confront the voice, but could only rotate with agonizing motion. The minute hand chunked forward as Mao finally saw the speaker.

The speaker was hard to see, almost. As Mao focused on the speaker, the room around him became blurred. He regarded the speaker with contempt. He was some peasant, in a simple tunic. He didn’t look Chinese at all, even though his accent was impeccable, reminiscent of Hunan Province, absent the purring drawl of Beijing. A second person stood next to the speaker, dressed in what seemed to be an old style of Western suit.

The tunic-wearer spoke. “You will be with us for a while. We are here to help you.”

Help? But where’s Li? Where’s Hua?

The suited person spoke. “You have undergone a great change. We are here to help you.”

How is it he also speaks like he grew up in Hunan? Mao heard faint shouts in the outer hall, probably from men arguing as they walked past. He couldn’t make out what they said.

The man in the tunic said, “My name is Atl.”

The man in the suit said, “And my name is Hezekiah King.”

Mao stared at them both. Who are these nobodies, these nothings? How did they get in here? I… I need a cigarette. Mao’s paranoia made way for his deep-seated craving. “Both of you. Leave me.”

Atl said, “We won’t. We need to stay with you.”

The minute hand made another officious lurch.

Runners’ footfalls echoed in the hall. Shouts. Orders. Panic.

I need to see what’s going on. Mao turned toward the door and that was as far as he got. He could not move. He looked down to see if he was restrained. He saw himself in his Sun Zhongshan suit but no restraints, not even an IV tube. So why can’t I move?

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Mao turned back to face the two improbable visitors. His nicotine cravings were now unbearable. He remembered his heart attack. That was on 2 September. “What day is today?”

Hezekiah said, “It’s the early morning of the 9th of September, almost 27 full years after you declared the East is Red.”

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Hezekiah and Atl nodded and said, “Yes.”

Orderlies entered the room to take down the medical apparatus. They said very little to each other and nothing at all to Chairman Mao.

Mao watched them clean the room. He said, “Leave the door open when you leave,” but they closed it behind them. They cannot hear me. I am dead.

Atl said, “There are two that wish to speak to you now. They will arrive soon.”

Mao raised his eyebrows. “Oh? They will just walk in here and speak to me? What if I don’t wish to grant them an audience? Who are these people?”

The two people appeared. Both were Chinese, dressed in simple attire. They looked at Mao, dead on, and the contempt on their faces was clear to see. The one on the right spoke, with a distinct Manchurian accent. “We died in the Siege of Changchun. Your armies starved us to death. We have forgiven you, but we bear this witness against you so you will know what you have done.”

Mao responded, “The Kuomintang killed you by not surrendering. It was my duty and my destiny to unify China. Blame them.”

The one on the left said, “Your soldiers turned us back when we tried to leave. You wanted the Kuomintang food supplies to deplete faster. You turned our hunger into a weapon against them.”

Mao said, “It was a strategy, nothing more.”

The one on the right said, “You forgot to care for the poor, nothing less.”

Mao felt a deep, piercing, depressing heat wrack his mind. He knew at that moment that he shared in the guilt for their deaths.

The two victims of Changchun faded from Mao’s view. Atl and Hezekiah remained. Hezekiah said, “You cannot refuse an audience. Those who will see you, will see you. They will speak to you. They will talk about what you did in your life.”

Mao thought a moment. “Well, I’ve got some things I’d like to say to some people, starting with Liu Shaoqi.”

Hezekiah said, “That’s not possible. You aren’t able to leave here.”

“What’s keeping me here, then?” The pain of depression increased with each lurch of the minute hand.

“You are keeping yourself here. What you did keeps you here.”

“I did what any ruler must do to bring about order and stability. How can reunifying China be a crime? How can protecting the Revolution be a crime?”

Two more Chinese peasants appeared. The one on the right said, “We starved to death in the Great Leap Forward.”

Mao’s pain burned hotter.

The one on the left said, “Your policies were ruinous. You only knew a lack of meat when we had long known a complete absence of food. You were a fool and your folly murdered us. We have forgiven you, but we testify so you will know.”

Mao knew. Anxiety deepened as his spirit plunged deeper into pain. “Lies!” was all he could muster.

The one on the right said, “Truth.” Then the pair faded from Mao’s sight.

Tick.

A janitor entered the room to sweep and mop.

Atl said, “You probably feel pain now. You probably also crave tobacco.”

Mao nodded.

“This is natural. We are here to help you.”

“Will you give me morphine? Or at least a cigarette?”

“No. You need to know that what you experience now is not the same as what you experienced when you were alive. You no longer have a physical body. But we are here to testify that your pain and cravings can come to an end.”

“How?”

“When you choose for it to end.”

Mao regarded Atl with astonishment. “Well then, I choose it to end now.”

Two new people appeared. Mao recognized them as members of the Communist Party of China from Jiangxi, from 1931 or 1932. The one on the right spoke. “We have both forgiven you, but we are here to testify about what you did.”

The one on the left said, “You know what you did.”

Mao’s pain trebled, consuming him in its fury. He remembered the order for the purge of the Jiangxi CPC. These two officials died from torture. Mao remembered the day he gave the order for their death. He knew it clearly, in sharp and vivid view. The memory had long faded in his physical mind but now it leaped into his view, commanding all his attention, full of complete and perfect detail.

Full of complete and painful detail. Mao watched himself sign the order and speak the words that sealed the fate of the pair in front of him. Every stroke, every syllable added fuel to the fires of anguish and depression.

The pair faded as the minute hand proceeded relentlessly.

Mao screamed. “I thought you said I could end the pain! It’s worse!”

Hezekiah said, “The end is not instant. Wanting it to end will intensify the pain, but your endurance can be rewarded. Do you still want the pain to end?”

“Yes, but not like that!”

“There is no other way. I apologize, but there is no other way.”

Mao screamed as another pair of witnesses materialized just as the chunk of the clock punctuated another minute. After they delivered their statement and the pain mounted and the clock ticked again, Mao turned to Atl and Hezekiah. “How many of these will I see?”

Atl stated, “The murder victims are first. There are 76,451,479 of them.”

Mao’s horror grew to match his pain. “76 million? Truly?”

Atl nodded. “2,322,856 civilians killed by your faction in the Chinese Civil War, 5,997,321 killed in purges you ordered from your early days in the CPC up to about 1957, 42,037,110 killed as a result of the Great Leap Forward, 6,503,549 killed in the Cultural Revolution, 18,431,004 killed in your Laogai labor camps, 1,159,639 civilians killed by your suppression of Tibet. 76,451,479 murder victims, total. Then others you have wronged will testify. Murder victims have priority.”

Tick.

The number 76,451,479 swelled huge in Mao’s mind, towering over his soul that writhed in the burning pits of depression. “I’ve only seen eight of them.”

Hezekiah nodded. “There are 76,451,471 that await to speak to you. Then, as Atl said, the others will see you.”

“How is it you’re here to help me?”

“We explain things to you and we will not leave your side. We have followed you since you were born and we hope you might choose something better. We are faithful to you, Mao.”

“Why?”

“It is our purpose here. Here is another visit.”

Tick. Tibetans, this time, with a translator. The translator also bore witness, as he had been killed in the Cultural Revolution. Mao wanted to not see the screams of the Tibetans as they fell under bullets. Mao wanted to shut his eyes to the sight of the guards strangling the translator in prison after beating him with pipes. His eyes forced him to see with the white-hot intensity of truth. The pain of the truth found the impurities in his soul, one at a time, one with every tick of the infernal clock.

The janitor finished cleaning and shut the door behind him as he left.

Another pair came to see Mao. Mao recognized them as victims of another purge he’d ordered. He spoke before they did. “Please! I am wretched! You don’t know the pain I feel! I’m burning up with guilt! Leave me alone or speak only of the good times we shared! Show me a mercy!”

The two witnesses stared firmly at Mao. “Mao, we have forgiven you and-”

“Yes, yes! And you bring this to me so I know! I know! I know!”

“We bring this witness to you so you know.”

The monotony of the depression and the pain did not lessen their deep emptiness and heat. “I only had you killed because I knew you were with Liu Shaoqi! You had betrayed me and I had to keep my power! You would have done the same thing if you were in my place!”

The one on the left said, “You murdered us. Nothing truly compelled you to kill. You could have stopped.”

“And let China collapse?”

Atl held up a hand and spoke to Mao. “They’re not accusing you of something you did not do. They are trying to help you understand what you did.”

“And I’m trying to help them understand why I had to do what I did!”

“They already understand. That is why they have forgiven you. They are not here to argue. They are only here to help you.”

“This pain is help? You’re insane!”

Atl shook his head. “You will see your reality eventually.”

And as Mao started to insist that he already knew reality, reality ripped his mind apart as he saw his victims prostrate on the ground, kicked repeatedly by a student mob until they died. The students chanted slogans Mao had written and their hate resonated within Mao. He saw what he had unleashed and that no, it had no justification.

The pain deepened, the depression worsened, the echo of the minute hand rang louder, and the heat of the truth burned through another flaw.

The victims faded out of sight. Mao cried out, “Why me? I did not know it was so wrong!”

Hezekiah said, “You did know. You knew the truth and that it was wrong to murder to get gain. You may not have known all the things you should not have done, but you did know that.”

Hezekiah’s words crushed Mao’s rebellion. Yes, I did know.

Another tick, another pair of victims, party functionaries that fell from grace and into the Laogai prison archipelago. They had forgiven Mao, and the forgiveness made Mao feel every flea bite they suffered more vividly, more real than the life he lived just minutes ago. They both had died from scurvy and Mao watched on, each moment of their suffering compressed into an instant of pure realization.

They left and the room began to fade. Atl and Hezekiah remained.

Atl said, “This will pass. This has an end. Even one with your weight of crimes has an end to the testimonies. Whether the end will lead to something better is your choice. Your choice is not what you make at this moment, but is a sum of your interpretation of all the testimonial experiences you will see.”

Mao thought a moment. “Tell me, Atl, what did Qin Shi Huang choose when he saw what he had done?”

“I cannot tell you that. You are responsible for your own decision, based on your own experience.”

“I never valued life as I lived. I once said half of China would have to die to modernize. I once bragged of killing one hundred scholars for every one Qin Shi Huang had buried alive. I feel the pain of my crimes now. I feel it.”

Atl nodded. “You will continue to feel it. You will decide if the fire punishes or purifies.”

Mao asked, “What does it take to purify my soul? Isn’t that how to make the pain end?”

“That is the end to your pain. Purification requires more than witnessing your crimes. It also requires that you abandon your pride. You were no greater a man than I, Mao Zedong.”

In spite of his pains and agonies and screaming desires for a smoke, Mao stiffened at the thought he was not a great man. “You don’t understand me at all, do you?”

Atl only stared at Mao.

Another pair of victims began to materialize.

Although the room had now faded completely, the imperious minute hand’s tick sounded with each passing of a dominant minute.

“We forgive you, but…”

Tick.