Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Scandals of the Privileged Few...Novel by Julian Ayrs! Chapter 10!








Danny glanced out the side window of the aircraft – whistled in response to the breathtaking panoramic view of the Desert Oasis that stretched out below for miles into the distance – then gulped down the heel of his thirsty-quenching beer as he fastened the clip on his seat belt.

As the 727 began its quick descent, Danny’s thoughts were flooded with a myriad of fond memories from the past which were triggered whenever he casually reflected on his brief stint as a “fly boy” (flight attendant) in the employ of one of the mid-size airlines which boasted a specialty niche in the travel industry.

The Boeing aircraft – one of several planes he was trained on – was a nifty little jet which housed a rear exit (with a sturdy drop-down stairwell) in the tail wing.

“So cool,” Danny muttered to himself as he scanned the friendly skies in search of approaching aircraft.

When the news broke that overworked air controllers were carelessly falling asleep in the tower while on duty, savvy world travelers were inclined to keep a watchful eye out for potential airline disasters.

It was a sign of the times, really.

The DC10 was his least-favorite carrier back then.

Talk about a barge!

The cabin – with extra seats across the width of her wide belly – wasn’t exactly staff-friendly either.

Attendants often ran their asses off whenever they were assigned a trip on one to foreign destinations.

Danny chuckled to himself when he recalled one of the dumb jokes that started circulating for a brief time with the stews, baggage-handlers, and travel agents on the heels of a couple of fatal accidents which tragically occurred on take-off and during landing.

How can you tell which one of the pilots in the cafeteria flies the DC 10?

He’s the guy who eats his dessert, first!

Ba-dump!

At this juncture, Danny’s thoughts drifted to a few hilarious madcap nights, which nearly ended up in disaster, were it not for the invisible hand of God guiding him out of harm’s way.

Although Danny was basically a practicing Christian, he was light-years away from the tireless holy-rollers around the country thumping their bibles and predicting doomsday.

It was useless to try to recruit and rescue souls, until the so-called sinners developed enough spiritually to be capable of perceiving the light.

'Even God attempted to enlighten his prophets about that basic reality beyond the sacred veil on this earthly coil," Danny preached to his friends almost daily.

For example, when Moses strode up on the Mount, he pleaded with God to appear before him.

In response, the Lord informed Moses that it was not possible for a sentient being to gaze into the face of God.

Mere mortals, who inhabited fleshy earth-bound bodies, were ill-equipped (lacked the wherewithal) to comprehend simplistic ideas on the lofty concepts of the Almighty God.

Moses was instructed to go behind a rock, and gaze on the all-powerful Lord from behind, once he passed by.

Danny was of the firm belief that once a man became enlightened, his spirit would subsequently vibrate on a higher level of  spiritual “being-ness” – and thus - be capable of merging with the light of God.

Part of this philosophy – or outlook – stemmed from Danny’s studies on the teachings of the great teachers who once walked the face of the earth.

In fact, Danny theorized as to why very little was known about Jesus until his early thirties.

If the truth be known, Christ was a prophet who strode the streets in the Far East , studying the sacred teachings of all the great masters before he was ready to fulfill God’s prophecy.

One has only to dissect some of the philosophies he preached in his lectures to determine that many of his ideas and beliefs stemmed from basic Buddhist principles.

Danny was a seeker (a pursuer of truth) who observed a widely-held Buddhist view that each of us is like a drop (a pearl of wisdom) in the ocean (known as the God “consciousness”).

In fact, Danny – among others – often argued that God was not a wizened old man who allegedly sat atop a mountain passing judgment on sinners below.

It all boiled down to faith.

Danny was fortunate in that regard, for starters.

For instance, on one uplifting occasion a few years ago, Danny was blessed with - what he described  - as a  “visitation”.

The astounding experience was not only inspiring, but bootstrapped up his spiritual beliefs, at a time when they were at low ebb.

The “miracle” included a healthy respect for intelligent design, the creator, and the all-encompassing idea of evolution itself.

One night, Danny was resting peacefully on his bed – when suddenly – a mystical light descended from the heavens.

Within seconds, Danny became awestruck as three distinct figures – each outlined in a dazzling bright light – began to hover overhead.

“You are blessed,” the middle “entity” telepathically communicated to Danny, as a ghostly hand gestured towards his heart.

Just as Danny was about to ask a question, the other-worldly entities vanished into thin air.

The next day, Danny was honored with a confirmation, in the event he was under the impression that the “vision” was not real.

In fact, the morning after the “miracle”, Danny casually strolled into a used-book store after an “inner voice’ instructed him to do so.

Within minutes he was drawn to a book bin where a thin publication literally screamed out at him.

“Buy me!”

When Danny scooped it up, and quickly thumbed through its crisp slightly-yellowed pages, he suddenly spied an image of the “Holy Spirit” that was strikingly similar to the vision that appeared before him the night before.

In an underlying caption - the author noted that the distinctive “brilliant light” that edged the heavenly entities in the rendering - was a sign of the “Trinity”.

A shiver ran up and down his spine.

“Fasten up your seat belts, please, Ladies and Gentleman,” an announcement rang out from the loud speaker, as Danny was jolted back to the present moment in full control of all his faculties.

When he looked up to acknowledge a flight attendant who was strolling down the aisle, he was amazed to find himself gazing on the features of a clean-cut airline employee who looked the spitting image of a pal by the name of  Doug.

Danny found himself musing over the fact that - in spite of toiling on a handful of flights each week – Danny and Doug never ended up on the same flight over a six-month period.

Till one cool day in December, that is!

Because the route was slated to start in Ottawa, connect in Toronto, and fly on to Vancouver later that night, Doug and Danny saw a golden opportunity to catch up on all the class scuttlebutt.

For this reason, the two high-spirited employees – still on probation – made a pact to bar-hop at a slew of raucous French nightclubs across the river from their Hotel in Hull (Quebec).

After a frenzied evening of boogeying and partying-heartily - and taking the plunge with couple of sexy French-Canadian studs out for an adventurous dalliance or two - the madcap pub crawlers ended up causing quite a ruckus.

On a least one hairy occasion, Doug’s big mouth nearly landed them in trouble, with the proud boisterous locals, too.

For some inexplicable reason, the charismatic young boozer got the notion in his head - that one slang term the frenchies were inclined to utter up in a guttural fashion now-and-then out-of-the-blue - was the one to shout out in a moment of profound jubilation whenever a rush of adrenalin (on the heels of a potent shot or two being downed usually) overtook mind, body, and soul.

But, it wasn’t until Doug spat out – Tabernacle - in a delightfully gutsy low register during a round of brewskies – that he got viciously scolded by all the French patrons for tossing it out with wicked abandon.

Unfortunately - contrary to what he first thought – the word was a sacred one not to be bandied about, he learned later from the locals.

“I thought it was like yelling – far fucking out!” – Danny cried out in his defense as forty-or-so French-Canadians starting pelting him with chick peas at a raunchy run-down blues club.

“Don’t take the name of God in vain, heh Dude!”

By the stroke of midnight, the party boys were so shit-faced that they ended up in a flap over directions, as they tried to slip back into the Hotel without being spied by the straight-laced crew members on the same scheduled flight still creeping about at that ungodly hour.

Uh-huh.

At one point, they literally howled at the moon.

Until a lone Canadian Mountie on horseback, in a formal red uniform, came around the bend and admonished the tipsy twosome for not finding their way home sooner.

Dropping into a deep slumber wasn’t a difficult task - but groaning to life the next morning was a long headache-filled one - that cast a pall on the normally-delightful cruise out to the local airport.

Doug and Danny breathed a sigh of relief when the plane’s doors were finally sealed shut and the 747 – packed to near capacity – rolled down the runway without incident.

They were half-way expecting a supervisor to surprise them with an impromptu visit on that leg of the trip - to check their appearance (and likewise) - test the lads on their knowledge of emergency procedures.

Gotcha!

Shortly before take off in Toronto, an ambush did occur, however.

During the pre-flight rush, a middle-aged boss strolled up out-of-the-blue and greeted them with a pleasant smile, a firm handshake, a reminder that he was there to quiz them on their knowledge of emergency procedures once the craft was in flight and out-of-harm’s way in Toronto.

OMG!

Danny recalled that he flipped out a manual from class that frightful morn - and in between drink and pillow drops to passengers early on in the flight - tried to “cram” some of the important life-saving information he’d undoubtedly be queried about.

Fortunately, by the time “Iggie” got ‘round to Doug, he’d already gulped down a piping-hot cup of java.

So, the middle-aged European and was relaxed, and in an easy-going mood.

At the end of the interview, the amiable gent gave him a nod of approval, so that Danny was saved the drama of waiting for a notice critiquing his overall performance to arrive in the mail box.

“You passed with flying colors,” he chuckled.

“No pun intended!”

Later, Danny was shocked to hear from Doug that his breath smelled like a brewery.

“Whew,” Doug lamented, as he gently pushed Danny away.

“Your breath stinks to high heaven, Daniel. Didn’t Iggie say anything about it,” he teased his pal.

“No, not a word,” Danny shot back, as a cold sweat broke over his entire body.

“I meant to buy a miniature bottle of mint mouthwash to tuck in my breast pocket, so I could take a swig now-and-then during the shift home.”

“But,’ he winked at Doug,”If you recall, you were so damn anxious to get across the river to Hull to prowl for French hunks, that there wasn’t any time.”

“How did you do when Iggie grilled you,” Doug interjected, anxious to steer the conversation in another direction.

Doug loathed the thought of being indiscreet in the workplace where a thousand-or-so prying eyes were at-the-ready to pass judgment or turn you in to management for conduct unfitting any fly boy worth his weight in gold.

Indeed!

Doug let out a little squeal.

“Oh, that old Queen."

For starters, he smells like Old Spice. Eugh!   I think he had the hots for me, too. Twice, he casually put his hand on my knee! And, we mostly talked about the fact I was a lonely prairie kid raised in Calgary.”

That was so annoying to Doug.

Once you revealed that you were single, the wolves would circle and pester incessantly.

“Why aren’t you hitched? You’d be quite a catch, after all,” he shoot back, as a gleam in his own eye signaled a keen interest in jumping in-the-sack.

“I always tell people – “I haven’t met the right person” – and it drives them batty,” he cackled.

“I’d rather jerk off with a copy of “Frat Boys”, than engage in any hanky-panky wimps like that!”

“Iggie is a dirty old horn dog, alright” Danny chuckled, as he twisted a peel of lime and affixed it to the top of a frosted glass filled with ice and about to be transformed into a gin and tonic in about two-seconds-flat.

“Golly, Canucks are real boozers, aren’t they? It’s only 11 o’clock in the morning. Talk about taking a bite of the dog that bit ‘ya

“I’d like a drinkie-pooh, too,” Doug quipped back.

“But, you know me. A couple of drinks, and I’m loose-as-a- goose!”

“You and John Boy Walton!”

They both let out a roar, as a couple of guests turned their way, with a look of scorn on their faces.

“Time to get ram-rod straight, dude!”

Unfortunately, Danny’s stint as a flying “waiter” in the sky didn’t pan out in the end.

Talk about a fashion faux pas!

Danny’s illustrious career as a Flight Attendant went by way of the dumper when he made a gross error in judgment at the crack of dawn one pretty autumn morning in Vancouver.

After a sleeping in past the alarm, Danny was forced to hastily maneuver a shower, and then scramble to toss on his two-tone Uniform with all the accessories intact.

That fateful day, Danny was on “Airport Duty”.

Flight attendants on probation were often required to show up at the airport for four hours and wait the shift out in the event there was a no-show due to commuter traffic, last-minute illness, or what-have-you.

When the shuttle roared up to the terminal gate, Danny hopped out quickly, and took a glance at his elegant timepiece.

Right on the dot!

But, what was that he spied peering up at him, from the polished marble tile at his feet?

OMG!

Danny was in such a rush, that he snatched up a pair of white athletic sock, tossed on the floor the night before after returning home exhausted from the gym.

Since day one, Danny had been a perfect role model, for all the other young hunks coming up through the ranks.

Every day – without fail – Danny managed to show up for work on time with his uniform freshly-pressed, and matched up to perfection, with a pair of shiny black shoes and inky-black socks.

Talk about a fashion faux pas!

White socks teamed with black shoes and black dress slacks were a definite “no no”.

Would anyone spy the fashion fiasco?

On many occasions, Dave Letterman has strolled across the stage of the Ed Sullivan Theatre, sporting white socks and black shoes.

But, Dave can get away with it.

Why?

Because Dave owns the production company – lock, stock, and barrel – that’s why.

Even still, any Fashion Editor will tell ‘ya – the style disaster is strictly taboo!

Danny plunked himself down and scrutinized his reflection in a huge glass panel partition across form him

Uh-huh.

No matter how he sat – this way or that – the socks screamed out from the between the keenly-pressed black slacks and highly-polished stylish black shoes.

As Danny attempted adjustments, he managed to end up feeling like a bodacious bimbo anxiously pulling the edge of her skirt down, with the bald-faced hope that the hem might magically stretch lower to the edge of the knees.

As Danny pondered the dilemma, it happened.

Fate descended on him like shitload of bricks from the great beyond.

At the tail end of long line of passengers disembarking from an airplane about fifty feet away, Danny – OMG - spotted a slightly overweight forty-something bottle blond in a company uniform.

Just as Danny did a double-take – uh-huh – he couldn’t help but notice she was proudly sporting a Supervisor’s Badge pinned to her jacket over one big sloppy boob hidden beneath.

Damn!

Before Danny could ski-daddle behind a partition in the hall, she caught sight of the dastardly socks!

Before he could say – Fashion Police – the eagle-eyed broad was giving him the once-over.

Actually, he thought she was going to scream bloody murder, as she hauled ass in his direction.

“You’re wearing white socks, young man,” she scolded loudly, as couple-of-hundred eyes pierced the air in their direction, and each-and-every-one reacted in a dozen-or-so embarrassing ways.

“According to the manual, you’re out of uniform, too.” she added with a tinge of annoyance in her voice, as she sidled up, and tore a pad of paper and ballpoint pen out of her side pocket to take notes.

Here questions were quick, straightforward, and to the point.

“What’s your name? Employee number? How long have you been working at the airline? What, you’re still on probation? Whatever possessed you?”

And, so forth, and so on.

“Officious bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Nice day for ducks,” Danny joked, as he turned and glanced out the window at the light rain which was now spraying the lower mainland, ever-so-gently.

When Danny attempted to brush off the incident as a simple oversight, his attitude really got her goat.

The petty old bitch was out for blood, alright.

Yeah, he knew what she needed.

A mercy fuck – or at a minimum – a swift kick in the ass.

Oh, she was a two-bagger, alright.

Ten brewskies, at least.

You know the score, don’t you?

Seasoned dudes on the prowl rate broads out-to-trot on a precise sliding scale.

For instance, one mediocre-looking plain Jane may be worth jumping into the sack with, once you’ve downed three beers.

A coyote?

Ten brewskies - chug-a-lugged - with a shot of tequila tossed in for good measure.

That should give rise to a beefy boner or two.

Watch it, though, dudes.

Too much booze and your “Johnson” might not roar to attention as usual, if ‘ya get my drift!

But, to the task at hand.

Poor Danny, as hard as he tried (he was normally a great schmoozer with the ability to win and influence people with his charismatic studly persona), he couldn’t get the mouthy broad to back down or even fire a warning shot off his bow.

In so many words, she promised to run his sorry ass over the coals, and toss his dick to the dogs in an afterthought.

Danny was forced to take serious measures.

In a nutshell, he beat her to the punch, by filing his complaint against her pronto!

Oh, how he tactfully ranted about her lack of professionalism – and reluctance to offer up help to an innocent new hire on probation – in dire need of a little compassion and understanding.

And, the way she “dressed-down” an airline employee in full view of the public, displayed not only a shocking lack of discretion but a disturbing lack of leadership skills in the final analysis.

In a nutshell, he made mince meat of the gal, you betcha!

Sure enough, on the day of the hearing, the shamed Flight Attendant was shown the door.

And, at long last, the shocking socks drama – which by now had erupted into a scandal of epic proportions – finally drew to a ceremonious close.

Then, shortly after Danny was thanked for bringing the issue to the Airline’s attention, Mr. Bortelli – the head of personnel – summoned him to the airline concierge desk for some inexplicable reason.

Instinctively, Danny just knew what was next on the Airline’s agenda, on Christmas Eve.

When he approached the rinky-dink Christmas display, he spied Bortelli right-off-the-bat, striding his way.

“Mr. Schonemann, this way,” Bortelli cried out with a tinge of pomp and circumstance, as he ushered Danny into a small alcove near the entrance-way to Gate No. 8.

Once the niceties were performed – without even the luxury of the privacy of an office – a queasy feeling welled up inside his nervous stomach.

“I’ll use the words of the immortal Donald Trump,” Bortelli started slyly, with a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

“You’re fired.”

At this point, Danny had a flash of wicked inspiration.

Should he seize the day or let sleeping dogs ly?

“What the heck!”

“You can’t fire me” he shouted back, as he jumped up from his chair and tore off his sissy red airline jacket, and tossed it at a startled Bortelli.

“Because I quit – yesterday!”

Yup.

He beat Bortelli and those CP Air assholes to the punch!

Then, he turned on his heel, and started to stroll out the door, when a light bulb went off inside of his head.

Danny stopped dead in his tracks for a moment, and then quipped over his shoulder.

“I don’t need no stinking airline!”

With that final retort, he was gone, free of the shackles that bound him for the past six months.

Oh well, if he ever became a terrorist, at least he knew his aircraft tippy-top to bottom, alright!

A cheer went up from bystanders who had gathered silently behind him as the drama unfolded with Bortelli (his back being to the glass door, after all) and even offers flooded in

“Heh, bud! I want to buy you’re pretty little ass a brewskie,” one toothy construction worker chortled to Danny, as he blushed in response to all the unadulterated outpouring of love flowing in his direction.

Seems that Danny struck a chord – kind of like that character in Network – who said in a pivotal arc in the scripted material:

“We’re made as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore.”

Nor would Danny – and judging by the reactions all around – or the teaming masses.

And, there was a plus side, too.

One well-dressed businessman stridently approached him with an offer in hand.

“Now that you’re out of a job, you may need an inexpensive rental to hide out in, ‘til you get back on your feet. I have an apartment you can house-sit while I am overseas working on a project for the next 6 months.”

“Deal,” cried out Danny without hesitation.

The man flipped out a card, and scribbled his address on the back.

“I’ll expect you for dinner at 8 tonight,” he grinned.

He stared down at the scrawl.

Stone Canyon Trail.

Sounded kind of country, he chuckled to himself with a bit of a twang in his voice.

Hee Haw

__________________________________________________



When Danny tooled up in front of the stately looking Villa in his renovated 1967 Red Mustang, he double-checked the address.

Heck, he felt like pinching himself.

Could it be that he was dreaming?

If so, how would Carl Jung have interpreted the lush inviting images that beckoned from all around?

Meanwhile, a handful of exquisite Cypress trees whispered in a warm breeze, as they hugged an inky midnight blue sky, which framed a silvery moon hanging eerily low on the horizon near an unidentified constellation which winked at him now-and-then.

At first, Danny got the impression that the Villa was a single upscale dwelling, but upon closer scrutiny, he spied three distinct brass plates along a retaining wall which identified a trio of distinct suites with separate entrances.

What was that?

For a brief moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, peering out from behind a slightly-drawn curtain at a 2nd storey window.

A little shiver ran up his spine.

And, a rush of cold air caused the wet strands of his spikey “do” to stand on end for a second.

An unexpected hoot of an owl jarred him back to his senses.

Curiously, there weren’t any parking signs at the curb designating the hours or stipulating any restrictions.

So, he left his snazzy sports car where he had crept to a halt, and proceeded to stroll over and ring Maximillian’s doorbell.

Chimes – similar to the those from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” rang out and took Danny by surprise - as they echoed in the approaching darkness.

An expensive-looking gauze curtain was nudged aside – at which point – Danny caught sight of a gorgeous Russian Wolf Hound prancing excitedly up-and-down a well-appointed entrance way graced with a smattering of tasteful prints hanging in eye-catching gilded frames.

The door swung wide open, as Maximilian stepped over the thresh-hold, and extended a warm welcome his way.

“Did you find the street okay,” the dapper gent wondered aloud, as he led Danny down the long hall into a sprawling step-down living room beautifully decorated with an eclectic mix of furnishings artfully placed about the gothically-inspired sitting room.

“Say, would you care for a glass of  Inglenook courtesy of  Francis Ford Coppola?”

“The director of ‘Apocalypse Now’ just purchased the prestigious label from the Wine Group as part of his plan to restore the company to its former glory in wine making circles,” added Max (he preferred the less formal nickname) with a tinge of pride in his voice.

“I went to school with Francis. Great filmmaker. Old school,” he underscored, as he toasted his pal.

Coppola’s property – the Rubicon Estate in Napa Valley – is situated on the Inglenook estate which was established back in 1879, he elaborated.

“Here, have a glass of Sunset Blush,” the tall dark stranger urged, as he reached for a pricey cigar from its resting place on a mantel above the fireplace on a far wall.

“Care for a stogie,” he asked, as he held out a box brimming full.

“No, I don’t smoke - well – not cigars,” grinned Danny, as he started to relax into the moment.

Who was this dude, he found himself wondering, to himself.

Money didn’t appear to be a problem. And, his taste was pretty up-to-snuff, too.

If Maximilian sensed that Danny was somewhat awestruck, he never let on.

As far as Max was concerned, they were now friends, as thick as thieves.

There was something about this guy that spoke volumes.

Suddenly, Danny noticed a toy replica of a military helicopter on display on top of the grand piano.

“Do you collect toys,” Danny quizzed the mysterious stranger.

“No. I am under contract with a certain agency – which I am not at liberty to discuss – which turns out real life-size ones for the U.S. Government,” he noted, in what Danny perceived as a half-whisper.

Upon closer scrutiny, it was evident to Danny that the craft featured some intriguing full-tilt features.

“Yes, pretty high-tech. Very special. Costly, too. It was a shame we recently lost one overseas,” he slyly teased.

Danny’s curiosity was aroused!

“How’s that, Sir?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Daniel found himself snapping his heels together and saluting Max.

“Yes, Sir.”

At this juncture, both cracked up and headed for the couch with copter in hand.

“I suppose you saw the news reports on the Navy Seals’ stealth raid on Osama bin Laden a few weeks ago?”

“Who didn’t! It was all over the broadcast news day and night 24/7.”

“Then, you probably know that one of the high-tech copters became disabled, and that the seals were forced to firebomb the top-secret aircraft before they exited the compound.”

‘You designed that???” Danny reacted in shock, as he just about lost a big one in his designer jeans.

Holy shit!

Was he the real McCoy, or just putting me on,” Danny wondered to himself.

As they were involved in a spirited conversation about some of the details, Max proceeded to snatch up a pen and ink rendition of the craft from inside a hidden compartment on the side of his antique desk in the study just off the living-room.

“Most folks think it was simply a souped-up Black Hawk.”

Wow!

Danny was familiar with a few of the special design features which were the intellectual property of a shadow corporation allegedly in league with Uncle Sam.

“Not only can they evade radar, but they can hover over targets without so much as uttering up a peep, or even a tell-tale whir, eh Max?”

“Daniel, you’re on top of it, aren’t ya? But, there is something more intriguing about the copter that few in their wildest dreams could ever imagine.”

“I’ll bite,” Daniel kidded, all ears.

“What comes to mind when I say the number 51,” Max teased, as he lifted a second bottle of chilled wine from the silver ice bucket and topped Danny’s fluted antique glass with it.

51?

That number rang a bell. In fact, Danny recalled seeing it in print somewhere recently.

Then – of course – it hit him like a lightning bolt.

Unless his memory failed him, he recently clicked on a link at the Alexa web site, where it was posted as one of the top trending topics that afternoon on the Internet.

“Area 51?”

“You’re getting warmer, Danny. Put on your thinking cap. Word association. Helicopter. Stealth. High technology. Area 51.”

Whoosh!

As he raked his brain for clues, he felt dizzy – and overwhelmed – as images flashed through his little grey matter.

Then, in moment of inspiration, he was elevated to a peaceful state.

But, what was the connection?

“What would you think if I told you that we designed a super stealth helicopter - that was crafted with metals and alloys non-existent on this planet – and driven by technology lifted from an alien spaceship?

Danny’s eyes went wide.

“I’d say, pure Science Fiction,” Danny shot back.

Area 51 was purportedly a remote location in the desert where an alien spaceship crashed way back in the fifties.

Conspiracy theorists have accused the government of – not only withholding information about the facts surrounding a crash at Area 51 – but also keeping an alien being (or two)  in their custody!

Max then enlightened Danny about the fact that he had two brothers.

“One works at the military base at area 51, while the other is a Navy Seal, who was on the clandestine mission to murder Osama bin Laden.”

“Murder? They said Osama drew a gun, so they were forced to shoot him,” Danny shouted back angrily, in a knee-jerk reaction.

“The Navy Seals were ordered to assassinate him on sight in no uncertain terms. The “means will justify the ends”. Those were the President’s words verbatim.”

“How do you know that for sure? It’s so wild, so cowboy,” scoffed Danny.

“My brother obeyed the directive for the ‘Obama’ Mission to a “t”. With the exception of one curious detail,” Max sneered, as he swilled the wine in his glass for a second or two for effect.

Boy, Max was such a drama queen!

“What detail was that?”

“He saved the President’s order. He didn’t destroy it as usual. It’ been tucked away in a safe deposit box in Washington. In fact, the evidence is yearning to erupt on the horizon. Well, sometime before the next election, at least."