Matrix?

Last night, you were taken.

You'll never know.

They removed your brain and put it in a jar. It still works. You'll never know the difference.

Bubba Aten

There's a man in Mississippi who has recently started calling himself Bubba Aten. He claims to be the reincarnation of an ancient pharaoh.

Maybe he's crazy. Maybe.

Still, a lot of people have started worshiping him as the earthly embodiment of the sun, and he's recently had them start gathering large rocks, and shaping them into huge blocks. They're doing it. He says they're going to build a pyramid.

He began by nailing an old tire to a tree. Then he cut off the branches, and spray painted the tire gold. Later, he stuck thin branches into the tire and sprayed them gold too. Then he removed the roof and back wall of his barn, so that the tree could be seen from within it, and began to hold services. No one came for the first three weeks, then, suddenly, it was standing room only.

Somehow, Bubba hit a nerve. Something in the people of northern Mississippi seems to be screaming out for them to worship the sun. People have come down from Memphis, up from New Orleans, and from everywhere else along the Mississippi river. Bubba's calling it the Nile.

They've got the foundation laid. The blocks are starting to get smoothed out.

Once it looked like there might be a chance of these people actually getting it done, the other locals got nervous. The police raided the place several times, supposedly on drug related tips. They didn't find any. Then the DEA came in. They didn't find anything either. Or, they did, but not what they were looking for. They almost had Bubba on charges of owning exotic animals without a permit, but then it was pointed out that there was no fence keeping the zebras, ostriches, and crocodiles in place.

Something is up, and Egypt is back.

This doesn't work at all, but might if it were a whole lot longer.

McMercenaries, part 3

Sleep was an utter failure, so Christine moved on to wandering, her perpetual fall-back.

The corridors all looked the same. The same industrial carpeting, thin as paper and hard on the feet, the same pale hospital green walls, and the same flickering florescent tube lights decorated all of them. She had no idea what went on in any of the rooms she passed. She looked into a few, and saw only cubicles with bored looking office dwellers sitting at computers, some with headsets, some without.

She eventually found a room with a single occupant and an array of video monitors. The man, youngish, with brown hair not quite to the collar of his polo shirt, was talking into his headset.

“No, I can’t send you any air support right now. You’re two weeks behind on your paperwork, and your squad is way over on expenses already. No, I heard you. No, I know the situation; I’ve got you right here on my monitor. I’m getting a live feed right now. Yes, I see that, but I can’t help you right now. Look, just accomplish this mission objective, and your expense account should be approved for future charges. You’ve just got to get back into the positive numbers. And for God’s sake, file your reports.” He turned in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. I was just looking around.”

“Well, this is a good place for that. That’s what I do all day long. You’re one of the new recruits, right?” Christine nodded. “Sucks to be you. Welcome aboard.”

“What is this place?”

“Do you mean this room, or the whole Kafkaesque operation?”

“Either one, I guess, but I meant this room. I think they did a pretty good job of explaining that they want me to shoot people to pay off my student loans.”

“Yeah, that pretty much sums that up, but don’t worry, it’s not so bad." He rose to shake her hand, before settling back into his chair.

“I’m Joe, and this is dispatch. Your equipment patches you into my system, and I take care of all the things you need in the field. I sit here pretty much all the time and do two things. I make sure your software is running properly, so we know where you are and can tell you where you are, and so you don’t shoot any of your friends. And I try and fill requests, like for air support, or medics, or reinforcements, or supply drops. Mostly I tell people no, cause the company’s pretty stingy and strict on the expense accounts, but I do what I can. Sit down for a while. You look like you’re in shock or something.”

Christine plopped into another rolling chair by the door. “My manager’s named Joe. He’s a dick.” Joe nodded. “I’m Christine.”

"We've got a lot of those around here. Dicks, I mean."

"Yeah, I haven't seen too many women."

"No, I meant in the other sense."

"Same thing."

"One of those. Right. Well, give men the benefit of the doubt, please. It's just that around here, well, it takes a certain type of person to try and make money by forcing poor college graduates to go to foreign countries and shoot people for corporate greed. That's the type of person we have a lot of here."

"And what does that make you, Joe?"

"Deeply in debt, just like you, and with no marketable skills, probably also just like you," he paused to watch for Christine's nod, "but lucky enough to have found a job that'll pay the bills, and keep me off the front lines. How long do you have?"

"I don't know. What time is it?"

Joe glanced over at one of his displays. "Three past two."

"Ug. I've got an hour."

"Where are they sending you?"

"Thailand. What's in Thailand?"

"A fairly large segment of the garment industry. They don't like unions there, but they've got one. And it's starting to look like the government might not throw them all in jail and lose the key."

"What are we doing there? What are they going to make me do?"

"Mostly you'll just stand around and look tough. You might raid a union meeting or two. It's remotely possibly that someone will decide it'll be cost-effective to kill some member of the government. They say things about a coup, but it won't happen. Don't let them scare you."

"What about the person I'm replacing?"

"Well, things happen. Ed was kind of a dumbass. He forgot that he had pulled the pin on his grenade, and held onto it, but not the way he was supposed to. It blew off his arm and most of his side. He bled to death almost immediately. Be careful, sure. You’ve got live ammo, and so does everyone else, and you have no real training. Our number one cause of death is us. We don’t know what the hell we’re doing, and we screw up with things that go boom, and someone dies. You’ve got to look out.

“But I meant don’t let them scare you about what you’re up against. We’re fighting the world’s poorest people, with the resources of the world’s richest companies. This isn’t David versus Goliath; this is Goliath against all those other little guys, back when Goliath was young and fit.”

“Will they really catch me if I run away?”

“Yeah. Don’t do that. As jobs go, this one sucks, but you’ll probably be fine.”

“Great. You’ve done nothing to ease my mind.”

“Hey, I try to help, but I can only work with what I’ve got. I’ve got to get back to work, but it was nice to meet you. Good luck. At least now you know who that charming guy on the other end of the line saying ‘No you can’t have more bullets’ is, right?”

Christine grunted, thanked him, and left.

McMercenaries, part 2

The first day of the rest of her life, as Latte and Bill, the nice men in the grey suits, called it, went poorly. She was poked and prodded by the company doctor, interviewed by the company shrink, and audited by a team of three company accountants. After billing for her previous balance, interest, a collection fee, medical insurance, equipment and training, and a processing fee, she was told that she owed Globex a little over half a million dollars. She tried to let legal know what she thought about this.

“Half a million? You bastards can’t charge me for all that shit.”

“Miss Anckner—“

“I didn’t get any choice in this. How can you charge me for collection?” Her voice took on a plaintive tone. “You’re charging me for my own kidnapping.”

“Miss Anckner, you have to understand our position here.” This man’s suit had pinstripes, but he was just as anonymous as the rest. A cog in the corporate machine. Christine hoped it didn’t help him sleep at night. "You were extended a lot of credit to fund your education, and you've left us holding the bag. You made no efforts to repay your loans, nor any attempt to work out a payment plan or discuss deferral with us. So now we're offering you the generous opportunity to work off your debt, and gain valuable technical skills and customer relations experience while doing it, in lieu of our legal right to immediately confiscate your internal organs, which current law classifies as collateral. The police will side with us if they have to be involved."

“How in the hell am I supposed to pay you back all that money? What did you expect me to do when I graduated? I’m not going to strip for money.”

“Don’t worry; we have better uses for you. You’ll pay us in full.”

“This is bullshit, but whatever. What is it that I have to do to get my life back?”

“This is a much more productive attitude, Miss Anckner.

“As you know, when your loans went into default, Sallie Mae sold them to a collection agency. Typically a collection agency would simply harass you and maybe garnish some wages, but we’ve come up with a better plan. Our business model has only been in existence for a few years, since Congress passed the Debt Reduction bill, but it is very lucrative. We buy every loan from cooperating agencies, such as Sallie Mae, that goes into collections at a slightly higher value than standard collections agencies, so they’ll all come around eventually.

“Your value to us derives from two things. First, since we have the right of seizure to your vital organs, you will do anything we tell you, or you will die. Internal paperwork would refer to you as a ‘devalued asset.’ This wouldn’t be that spectacular a business plan on its own. US law still forbids the sale of organs, so clearly it’s in our interest to keep you alive too, and there are only so many strippers we can employ. That business model didn’t work out as well as we had hoped.”

“So what do I do? What was with the ‘equipment and training’ charge on my bill? I haven’t gotten any equipment or training yet.”

“You will, don’t worry.”

“No one’s even mentioned what I’m going to be trained to do. You assholes keep saying things like ‘valuable technical skills’ and never say what they are. Cut the corporate bullshit and tell me what it is you want me to do.”

“Fine. We want you to kill people for us, or for our business partners. Are you comfortable with that?”

“Are you kidding? You’re not serious. Shit, you are. You people are sick. No, I’m fucking not comfortable. Who am I supposed to kill?”

“That depends on the contract. We have accounts with several major multi-nationals in several industries, and each has its own special needs. Some need the local labor movement suppressed. Some need local resources to change hands. Some need a change in local law or regime. We facilitate those needs, by whatever means necessary.”

Christine took a moment to register pinstripe’s seriousness.

“Okay, I think I can understand how kidnapping me is legal, it’s like a car repo, but how is going into foreign countries and killing people for the benefit of private business possibly allowed? Sure, the government does it, but do they really want to let you in on their monopoly?”

“Well, you have a history degree; did you ignore current events? First, with the War on Terror, it was established that American law could only protect Americans. That rule was made more explicit with the immigration debate. The way things stand now, we can kill anyone we want without risk of criminal charges as long as they aren’t Americans. Civil charges are still possible if they work for an American company. We’re working on that aspect of our business model, but for now it does limit which contracts we can enter into.

“Would you like to know where we’re going to start you out?”

Throughout his explanation Christine’s stomach had grown less and less easy. Now it began to feel as if she might start retching. “Sure, why the hell not? Where am I going to be forced to murder innocent people for my own monetary gain?”

“Thailand. Your manager will give you the details, but you’ll be up against a fledgling union and the start of trouble with the local government.” Another man entered the office. “Joe will take you to the orientation room to show you the training video and get you acquainted with your equipment. Pay attention; we paid good money for you.”

Wanting nothing more than to curl up into a little ball until the world saw fit to go away and leave her in peace, Christine stood and followed Joe. They walked through a sterile looking hallway with grey industrial carpeting. There was a water bubbler against the wall with two empty jugs next to it. Such normal surroundings for such an evil company, Christine thought. Still, I’ll bet they have great motivational posters.

As they walked Joe introduced himself. “I’m Joe. I’m going to be your manager. My squad had an opening recently, so you’ll be joining them. They’re already in Thailand.”

“An opening? That doesn’t sound good.”

“You can’t make an omelet, or a good return on shareholder investments, without breaking some eggs.”

Christine didn’t even try to hide her disgust.

When they entered the room at the end of the hall, she sank into her chair and hoped for shock to set in. Her chair was facing the screen. Joe was fiddling with the DVD setup.

At last the screen lit up. A cheerful looking woman in what looked like a fast food uniform made of hard plastic smiled into the camera.

"Welcome to the Globex family! You are now a member of the Asset Protection and Foreign Marketing division. You have in the past failed to become a productive member of society, but your new family is forgiving, and will help you reform."

Christine turned her head toward Joe. "What the hell makes you think you’re my family?"

"A manager’s kind of like a father, right? Shut up and pay attention."

The woman had continued. "As a member of our Asset Protection and Foreign Marketing division, you will be responsible for carrying out directives from your management team designed to protect the interests of our stockholders and clients, and also directives to demonstrate to various foreign interests the strength of our brand, and the potential value of working with us."

"That is such corporate bullshit. Why is she talking out of her ass? Say what you mean."

"Your primary tool for the fulfillment of your mission statements will be this," as she reached off screen and produced a brightly colored plastic gun, "the ExtraValueGun."

"It looks like a toy."

“That ‘toy’ is smarter than you are. If it had legs we wouldn’t need you at all.”

"To use your EVG, simply point the appropriately labeled end," and she gestured to the bright red arrow emblazoned on the top of the yellow gun," at your objective, and click the trigger. Point and click, it's that simple. Your depleted uranium action items will take care of nearly anything the competition will use to block your efforts."

She continued, but Christine had stopped listening. "You can't be serious. You people really want me to carry around depleted uranium? Won’t that ruin the value of my organs?"

"Yes, but you did get health insurance. Besides, you almost never actually get uranium bullets."

"Great."

The woman had continued to demonstrate the rest of the equipment. Apparently the plastic uniform would stop most bullets as well as float, and the helmet was equipped with a built in two-way radio and computerized visor. A palm pilot was included for communicating with management. Eventually the smiling woman stopped trying to convince Christine of the quality of her equipment and the screen went blank.

Joe spoke up. “This way and we’ll get you set up.” They walked into an adjoining room. On a table was a large canvas pack. “This is yours. Try everything on to make sure it fits.”

Christine pulled everything out of the pack and spread it out on the table. Helmet, plastic chest armor with attached armored sleeves, pocketed vest, gloves, belt, armored pants and boots were her uniform. She also had her palm pilot and a small box marked with a red cross.

“I get a first aid kit?”

“It’s pretty simple. You’ve got an aerosol super glue to stop most bleeding, bandages and some pain killer. When you’re in a tropical climate your manager will give you some anti-malaria meds to add to it. Try the stuff on.”

Christine looked at him. “Are you going to leave me alone or watch me undress?”

“I can’t leave you alone until we’ve chipped you and entered you into the system. Not that I’m sorry. Perks of the job. You know.”

“Asshole.” Christine pulled her shirt over her head and wondered what other ways they would find to degrade her before the day was out.

When everything was on and the fit was satisfactory, Joe made her take it all off again and pack up everything but the helmet and palm pilot. “Okay, you can get dressed again except for your shirt. Your bra’s okay.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Joe pulled out the bizarre offspring of a gun and a syringe. “Turn around.”

“What is that? I hate needles.”

“Too bad. Turn around. This is your RFID chip. It lets us track you, and more importantly to you, it lets the rest of your squad know where you are.” Christine turned, hesitantly, and let out a squeak that was nearly a scream when she felt the sharp pain between her shoulder blades. Joe passed her palm pilot in front of her chest. “Okay, now we enter you into the system. Your employee number is your social security number, in case you need it. Put your shirt on.” He stuffed her palm pilot into her pack and handed her the helmet instead. “Put that on.”

Christine pulled the chin strap tight as Joe took an EVG from a cabinet. Handing it to her he told her to shoot him. “You deserve it, prick,” she said, and then felt ridiculous when the gun didn’t fire. “Is it loaded? How do I load it?”

“It’s already loaded, but if you had to you’d just stick a new magazine in the underside. Weren’t you paying attention? You can’t shoot me because I’ve got an RFID like yours. The gun is linked to your helmet, which picks up the signal. I should be outlined in green in your visor.” Christine noticed the aura surrounding him and nodded. “All Globex employees have the chips, so you don’t have to worry about friendly fire. Always put on your visor and make sure that your squad shows up in green, that your map has downloaded and is showing your positions, and that your gun is loaded before any action. That’s your Pre-Engagement Calibration Routine. Every time. You don’t want an equipment failure in the field. Civilians will show up in blue and hostiles in red. Your helmet automatically classifies everyone you see. It’s got facial recognition programs in it as well as other visual processing programs to spot weapons and camouflaged people. If a person matches a downloaded mission objective, he’ll be red, and if he’s armed he’ll be red.

“Your job is basically to go where you’re told and shoot everything that shows up red. Oh, but try not to shoot local police or military if you don’t have to. Public relations nightmare.

“All right now. You’re all set up and ready to go. Put your helmet away. Your plane leaves in three hours. You can sleep on the cot in the corner,” he pointed, “or you can wander around. Keep your palm pilot with you. I’ll text you when you need to come back. And don’t try to skip out on me, I can track you.”

As he left, Christine’s body sank with her spirits onto the cot. She ignored her most recent urge to cry, and tried to sleep.

McMercenaries, part 1

293 days after Christine graduated college, the men arrived.

It was the graduating that caused all the problems. The first six months were fine. She had no idea what she was going to do now that she'd finished school. History's not much good if you don't want to teach, write, or go to grad school. Still, she had six months before her loans entered payment, so life was good. She thought about Alaska, or a VW bus, but rented a studio apartment in Beverly.

She had always hoped men would come for her, but not these men.

She got a job. It was just registers at the liquor store, but it was money, and she got an employee discount. That was something. At least it made her popular with the other aimless graduates.

She had the day off. Her plans included little more than 27 hours of glorious sleep. And maybe a six-pack.

For the first six months she thought nothing of her astounding debt. Parties, sleep, and work filled her thoughts. When her first payment came due in December, she had the choice of food or financial responsibility. Her stomach made that choice for her. In January she fared no better. February was too short for her meager earnings to amount to enough for a payment, and by then she'd decided that Sallie Mae could go fuck herself anyway.

There was a knock at the door. Christine fumbled for the alarm clock. Her confusion at the discovery that the clock was silent lasted until she heard a man's voice from outside calling "Miss Anckner, we need to speak with you about your college loans!"

"It's 9:18 on my day off. Shut up."

"Miss, it would really be better if you opened the door."

"Whatever happened to telemarketing? Who are you?"

The other man spoke up, "Miss, I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than solicitations. Please make it easy on yourself and open the door."

Christine's confusion hadn't been helped by this exchange. She pulled on the dirty clothes from her floor and went to get some coffee. As she poured, her door landed with a crash on her floor.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm calling the police."

"No. You won't be doing that," said the taller of the two men in dark suits who stepped through her now empty doorframe.

He reached out toward her, and she felt a sudden pain from his hand. When she regained control of her body, she was tied to a wooden chair facing her table. He was still holding the tazer.

The other man began speaking.

"Please don't struggle. We'll only have to taze you again, and Bill ties good knots anyway.

"We're here to help you." He pulled another chair to face her and sat in it. "My associate and I are with Globex Corporation. Our employer has recently acquired your outstanding student loans.” He paused to take a sip of his steaming latte. “You should have received notification of the transfer in the mail."

"I didn't see anything. Let me go. Please."

"I'm sorry. After your third missed payment, your loan went into collection. Pursuant to the Debt Reduction Act of 2006, our employer now owns you in lieu of your debts."

Christine stared blankly. Realization set in slowly. "You can't be serious. How is that legal? That's bullshit."

"It all makes perfect sense. You are the ultimate collateral on any debt. Since you have refused to pay, we now, thanks to the actions our government has taken to protect the interests of the economic health of our nation, have the right to... retain your services."

"Take you by force," the other cut in.

"And make you work off your debt however we see fit. Welcome to the Globex family."

"Globex can suck my balls."

"I'm sorry miss, there's really nothing you can do about this. It would be better if you paid attention."

"Work off my debts how? I'm tied to a fucking chair. I assume you aren't going to let me go to work tomorrow."

"That's correct. Globex has more profitable uses for you.”

"Well, then tell me what the hell you're doing with me."

"Later. It's less trouble for us if you just watch the training video when we get you back to the office. Just be patient."

They didn't even untie Christine. They picked up her chair, and placed it, and her, into the back of the waiting Suburban.

“Can you untie me please?”

“I’m sorry, no. We’ll untie you when we get back to the office. You have some appointments. A physical, psych, accounting, legal, that sort of thing. Don’t worry, it’s going to be a long day, but it’ll be over soon enough. Just sit back and relax, we’ve got a long drive.

“Hey Bill,” he said to the driver, “Hit Starbucks before the highway. My latte’s getting cold.”

As they pulled away from the curb Christine began to quietly cry.

Creepy darkness

How does darkness creep?

I couldn't tell you, but this darkness pulled it off. I was walking home, and I looked down an alley, and there it was.

Creeping darkness.

I didn't know it was real. I had no idea. All this time I'd thought that it was just a figure of speech, something people write in books to heighten the mood. But no, there it was, right in front of me.

So of course I had to take a look.

Well, it was dark, I think we can take that as understood. And confusing, but darkness frequently is. Interestingly enough, my own actions weren't that bright, so maybe it was catching too. I just walked down the alley, and into the darkness, thinking I'd be able to see better up close. Nope, not the case. I kept walking. I came out the other side.

It looked mostly the same. Big buildings, trash at the curb, bums on the corner, broken down cars in the street. Same old city. Still, it had a different air, a different ambiance.

I had no idea where I was. Same city, but no street I recognized. I didn't know the businesses in the office buildings, I didn't recognize the bank down the way. Even the bums looked different.

Oh boy, were the bums different. That was the thing, the thing that made me turn and run. Sure, the bums were standing around a trash can fire, passing around a bottle in a paper bag. Normal enough. Then I saw the other guy, the one face down on the other side of the barrel. He was missing an arm and a leg, and was lying in a pool of something, it was too dark to tell just what, but I knew. I knew that the meat roasting in the oily fire wasn't chicken or anything else I'd like to eat. When one of them turned to me and said through his pointy teeth "Hey mister, spare a bite?" I freaked.

I ran back to the alley. I started to cry when I saw the brick wall at the end where I expected my street. I did cry when a cloud passed over the moon and the darkness crept out from between the bricks. And I cried in relief when I got back on my own familiar street.

Ever since, I take the cab.

The Front Line is Everywhere

I want to take a group of people, think the cast of survivor as you'd expect them to appear judging only from the name. Eight or ten absolutely frightening people, or people who would frighten you if you saw the videos of their interviews. We give each one a cameraman, who happens to be armed and armored, a wad of cash, and an assault rifle. Then we drop them off in some crumbling African dictatorship.

That's it. We give them no rules, no directions, no goals. We just pick people that would happily murder a child for fun, and leave them in the most messed up situation we can find on Earth with the means to wreak havoc. And we film it for prime time.

Forget getting voted off the island. The question wouldn't be who'd win, it would be would any of them survive, and what would they do to that poor country in the meantime.

It's a thin line between entertainment and war.

The Real Third-World

How's this for an idea for a new reality show?

Some tv studio finds or builds a huge multi-million dollar mansion in the middle of a very rich neighborhood, Beverly Hills or someplace similar. Fly by shot of the neighborhood, complete with fountains, Ferraris, and swimming pools, ending with the big "Sold" sign in front of our own beloved example of conspicuous consumption.

The loving, caring studio then goes to Africa, or south America, or someplace with mind-numbing poverty, and brings back a family. Not a typical American nuclear family, mom, dad, 2.4 children and a dog, the family called "traditional" by those who don't actually want to look back any farther than 1950's suburban life, but a real traditional family. Mother, father, 8-15 children, grandparents, aunts and uncles and their attendant children, livestock and exotic illnesses. We take this family and move it, livestock included, into the delightfully roomy mansion in Beverly Hills.

The show would consist of the family's attempts to get used to American life, and the neighbors' attempts to get used to the third world in their back yards. High points could include moments such as when the chickens get loose and roost in the movie star's gutters, when the goats have overgrazed the family's lawn and they decide to utilize the neighbors' lawns, and when the neighbors hold a neighborhood meeting and try to get the family evicted on the grounds that they're lowering property values (which might actually stand up in court).

The studio would pay all the family's bills and provide them with immigration papers and a translator if they don't speak english. The family would get to live in a safer place, the studio would make money, and we'd get to hate the celebrities we all know and love. All in all, everyone's a winner. I think it'd be fun to watch, and it might even become popular.

McMercenaries

"Democracy™ and Freedom™ are registered trademarks of Globex Corporation. No person or persons may participate in either Democracy™ or Freedom™ without explicit written consent of Globex Corporation. The views implicit in Democracy™ and Freedom™ are not necessarily those of Globex Corporation, its subsidiaries, or its stockholders. All rights reserved."

I found this idea posited as an rpg setting, but I think it would make a better book, or maybe a tv series.

As an alternative to having your organs harvested and resold to cover your corporate debts, you've enlisted as a corporate mercenary. Now you're shown a 60 minute training video, a 30 minute briefing video, issued an ExtraValueGun™, and dropped in a corporate war zone. Your mission objectives are clearly printed on a nice card that also lists your expenses for training and equipment, your payment for this mission, and your outstanding debt to the Corp. You'll be billed for any medical treatment you may need. For the remaining 2 weeks of your life expectancy you will be serving the interests of the new owners of your service contract by shooting whoever stands in the way of their maximum shareholder value. Rival corporations, pesky indigenous peoples, unenlightened foreign governments, whatever. You can't care, your contract says so.

McMercenaries. Would you like explosions with that?

Locked Room

A brilliant situation for a thief: alone in a spacious mansion and more valuable goods than he had seen in his life within this one room. But Robert could not fly. Soon he would realize that the knot he had tied had come undone and the window by which he had entered was out of reach and both exits from the room locked. The cracked leather chair into which he later collapsed was just tall enough to allow him to reach the ledge, but it was, inexplicably, firmly bolted to the floor on the opposite side of the room. Likewise the mahogany table with the solid gold candlesticks. Imagine his joy at the apparent abundance surrounding him, suddenly mocked by panic at his predicament, later transformed to utter despair when his embarrassed shouts fail to attract any attention. Alone. He was more alone-if such was possible-than he had ever wanted to be in someone else’s home. Or so his note tells us.

When this note arrived by post at the police department, there was considerable consternation and confusion. The note was simple and direct. It read “I am Robert Baker, a lowly thief. I have broken into the home of one Andrew Johnson esquire and now find myself embarrassingly stuck. This may be the first time in all of history that a thief has made his way into great abundance and had to call upon the authorities for assistance, but I pray you will not fail me.”

It is from this evidence and that of the house itself that we must construct our tale. Robert himself tells us nothing more. But what a peculiar situation in which he found himself. What must he have thought when first he noticed that the door to the front portico required a key from within as much as from without, and that the door to the rest of the palatial manor was also firmly locked? Did his mild frustration turn immediately to panic when he saw that his trusty rope, by which he had entered, was no longer where he had left it, or did panic wait until he discovered that none of the furniture was portable?

At what did he first wonder? His unique and generously appointed prison cell, or the strange foibles that would lead a man to bolt everything to the floor? Did he scream in rage or fear when he learned that the windows could be neither opened nor broken, even with the help of the heavy golden candlesticks?

When his struggles proved futile, he must have fallen, exhausted into the sumptuous leather of the chair. His mind must have dwelt upon his impossibly poor choice of targets on this Saturday evening. Not much later he may have reflected on his past, the trials and events which had brought him to this occupation and so to this impasse. He must have dwelt on the memory of his failed romance, on his ever more expensive efforts to win his true love. These expenses were the goad that drove him to progressively less respectable sources of income.

As he slumped deeper into the soft cushions of the leather chair, he will have eventually put past failures and dodgy choices aside and returned to his present situation. How was he to escape? Ever the lurking thought would have been could he bring anything with him when he left? Perhaps the candlesticks. Indeed, one was found in the bushes beyond his original port of entry, presumably having been thrown there in the hopes of later recovery.

His search of the room, later, when his mind had calmed, would reveal little of value, but perhaps some of interest. The drawers in the mahogany table would prove to contain various correspondences to his unknowing host, from which Robert may have learned his name. It may have interested Robert to learn in a letter from Mr. Johnson’s accountant that his host was the owner of a rather significant amount of stock in the firm for which Robert had until recently worked. Might Robert have felt slightly justified in burgling a man he held responsible for his current employment? These feelings of justification would quickly have faded into further resentment of the man who had first trapped Robert in a cycle he had admittedly begun himself, and now trapped him in the commission of his crime.

It is this discovery of correspondence that would give Robert an idea of a way out. Sitting back in his chair he must have pondered it nervously at length. Was his position so desperate that he ought to send a letter to the police and simply wait for them to arrive? Certainly this idea had the appeal of a clean break from his wicked ways, but did he really want to take that step?

Eventually he must have decided that he did, as the letter was written, signed, sealed, stamped and addressed. It is at that point that Robert either regretted his decision, or realized that to send his confession he would have to push it out through the mail slot and await the postman, entrusting his precious parcel to anyone who might walk by. He did not send it by this means. Instead his letter was placed on the table, apparently right where Mr. Johnson was accustomed to place his outgoing mail, and abandoned.

It is at this point that we lose Robert. The room gives us no further indication of what he might have done. He may have paced back and forth across the oriental silk rug endlessly. He may have sat in the familiar chair. He may have examined further the contents of the desk or the tapestries on the walls. It may be at this point that he threw the candlestick out the window. He may have screamed till his throat was raw. We cannot know. What is clear is that he was somehow gone when Mr. Johnson’s maid arrived at eight on Monday morning, and that he left behind both his letter and the candlestick. Perhaps the letter was forgotten, or possibly he was in fact driven to repentance by his strange experience. Perhaps God opened the door.

I began searching for him when I received his letter, and I intend to ask him.