by Various
People still solemnly reflect on the human sacrifices of war with a moment of silence at 11:00 a.m., and look to support those Veterans in our communities. Some charities sell paper poppies constructed by disabled veterans; poppies became a symbol of World War I after the Battle of Flanders Field in Belgium, where many died among the poppies that densely populated the field.
There are currently 550,000 disabled veterans in the United States of America, with countless others worldwide.
-John Edward Lawson
Locked and Loaded
By Steven L. Shrewsbury
(A Story Featuring MAJESTIC Agent Thor Alexander)
"And they have rewarded me evil for good, and hatred for my love.
Set thou a wicked man over him: and let Satan stand at his right hand.
When he shall be judged, let him be condemned: Let his prayer become sin."
King David
Psalm 109; 5-7
1023 BC
Listen up, here, Marine, 'cause I'll be doin' all the talkin'. Seein' as I gotta carry yer ass all the way back to the base on Veteran's Day, ya can do me the common courtesy of keepin' yer trap shut. I can lug 'bout any weight, it's yer mass that bugs me. I got ya strapped on good, so take in the scenery, such as ya can at night. I hope ya ain't scared of the damned dark, heh, 'cause ya never know what is lurkin' out there in the night.
Hey, there's another one who doesn't respect the night or Mom N' Apple fuckin' Pie! I'll crouch down here and get him. Night vision goggles work anywhere in the world, ol' son! Afghanistan ain't nothin' special, save for they're too tribal to know when they are bein' controlled by dorks from outta country. Some folks dunno when there is a hand up their ass, but I digress. POP! Got him! Yeah, this nasty ol' government agent from a covert black ops program bagged another one of our enemies. Shit, damn, enemies. These are just the fingers, Hell, the foreskin of the beast. My superiors won't listen and let me chew off the head that controls this unholy war declared on the good ol' U. S. of A. I'd sooner dine on the throat or the brains of the operation, but that would lead to a bigger-assed war than the Prez wants. Yeah, yeah, they are just puttin' off the apocalypse, I tell ya what! Maybe the fear of the final curtain is all that keeps peace, aye? Good man, keep quiet like I said!
Damn, some of his evil buddies are nearby. They didn't hear the shot. Wanna know why? 'Cause I used a silencer on my rifle, Marine! See how simple this is? POP, POP! Two more heads in the bag for ol' Thor Alexander, agent of Majestic Services! Long may our banner wave, long may it be invisible, and long may I drop my jeans and give it to the dire people of the Earth in the kiester! What business interest do black ops folks from a cabal have in this war? TERROR. Heh, well, there are too many cameras for the regular military. We are gettin' right bored keepin' the New World Order at bay laborin' behind the scenes and all. A lot of other agents have other assignments abroad, Like Dack Shannon, Alex Dalton and Jess Boorman, but I ain't talkin' on them folks today. How did a big, blonde cracker like me get in such a program? My incredible singing voice…and that I ain't scared of nuthin', save for a world without blondes.
Yeah, three dead, but no where near enough, ol' son. This is how I celebrate November 11th, Marine, cleanin' up after our true blue boys. Couple of them Taliban bastards got lucky, knockin' yer chopper outta the sky with that mortar. Every so often these suckers get one lucky-like on 9/11. Ordinarily, they couldn't hit a cow in the tit with a banjo. I'm here to make sure their luck dries up and heals over like an eighty-year-old whore. Let's get goin'. Yer not gettin' any lighter, partner, and I got other folks to honor.
Don't worry none on my account for the labor, partner. We are both soldiers; just we use a different manual. So many wet nosed pussy fucks hate the idea of war and think death is hard. Naw-bullshit. Death is freakin' easy. It's life and livin' it everyday that is a bitch. It ain't just the bleedin' heart commie cocksuckers that have no grit for this kinda work, it's most of the saber rattlin' douche-dicks that ain't hardly ever looked at a gun, much less fired one. I guess I fight fer them too. Always plenty of us good men to make sure the leftist twerps and rightwing strokes can have their debates. That is why Armistice Day evolved to honor all Veterans, I wager. Not just for the guys who served, but to remind the others who didn't the price of the sacrifice. Ya know, all sacrifice requires blood, from the shores of Iwo Jima, to a heifer in a temple right down to Jesus Christ his-ownself.
Sumbitch, I think there is another one down there in the ravine. This country has more hidden spots that Liz Taylor has alimony checks. POP! Sent another one to Allah…or whoever. Yeah, this ain't no friggin' holy war to me, ol' son. They all wanna divide us up and make it all about Allah or Jehovah or Jesus or some such stuff, but they'd find another reason to hate us if we were all the same stripe. Remember what I said, bud, killin' is easy, no matter what direction ya pray in. It may not solve every problem today, but it made sure them fucks down there shufflin' off the mortal coil in the dirt won't stop me from returning you to your Commanding officer. One of them limp rags will never highjack a plane, tie on a bomb or stick a finger in his ass and face Mecca ever again.
Glad yer keepin' it down back there. If ya did talk too much I dunno what I'd do. I respect ya jarheads, I really do. My adopted Pa was a Marine, tough as nails. He could drink boiling stew and piss ice cubes, sure as I'm jogging here. I miss the ol' bastard, such as he was. Cancer kicked his ass. Hell of a way for a Marine to die, huh? In a bed being made the bitch of radiation-never for me. Never. I follow the credo to a degree, fella, Semper Fi, do or die…always faithful. Wish I coulda been there for him…
Dunno why I'm so talkative tonight, ol' son. Maybe I'm bored with life, maybe I'm tired of being pushed around even with all the freedom I get in covert operations. We still follow some guidelines even though we miss the newspaper. Still, someone will miss ya after that accident in the field with the choppers. Sorry things didn't work out like ya planned, but war is a bitch, huh? War ain't Hell. General Sherman was stoned when he said that, true enough. Hell is fulla liars, whores, lawyers, and evildoers, not kids or innocent bystanders.
Hey, check this out! I can see the entry to yer camp, but there is a sniper in the weeds. I think he's just watchin' what the Marines are doin'! What say we introduce him to the business end of my bowie knife? I'm tired of shootin' motherfuckers at a distance. Kinda makes it impersonal. I reach out the gun and they explode, better than fireworks. End of story, game over. Big bogeyman like me will make this scumbags' day. Hold on, Tex, yer along fer the ride! Bet he craps his pants from fright! Let's test his faith!
AHHH! Easy as ice cream. I knocked out his wind, then his life. He got a chance to look me in the eye, well, visor, and know he was had. He knew it was too late fer him when I probed his guts and made him envious of a fish caught on the Mississippi. Fuck him. He never probably heard of Ol' Miss. I imagine he knows of it now. Ya see, Marine, I think when yer dead, ya know it all…everything from all time if yer in Heaven or Hell. What if his God is the right one? Screw it. Who cares? I'm dealin' with today. Judgment day comes for all, dude. If he was right, I guess I gotta fight for eternity. Then the game will REALLY begin. Sounds fun to me, almost like Valhalla.
I radioed into the camp and they know I'm comin' in…this ways they won't shoot my beautiful ass. My body armor would fend that off, I reckon, but they know me, hell, they fear me. Lucky fer ya I was in the neighborhood. Luck is funny sometimes. Lucky I tamed luck-that savage bitch-for my own means, but enough 'bout me.
Here, ol' son, I give ya unto yer comrades. We must part company now and the good Lord take a liking to ya. I did what I could for ya, but at least yer wife and kids will have a grave to visit with their Pa in it. Arlington is a gorgeous spot and they guard ya well. I'll visit ya there someday, Marine. Say hello to Gale Alexander, my sister, who never knew what hit her at the Pentagon on 9/11. I reckon that angel tends the door to Heaven. She will be my only chance to get in some day.
I held to the mark, fai
thful until the end. Rest now. Leave the rest of the war to us bastards with no conscious.
Damn, dawn is comin' fast. It's gonna be a beautiful Veteran's day.
STEVEN L. SHREWSBURY
34, creator of Dack Shannon, Thor Alexander and the MAJESTIC Universe, is the author of over 190 published tales online or in print. His tales have appeared in print magazines like ELDRITCH TALES, FIGHTING CHANCE, BLACK PETALS & MYSTERY BUFF. Over a hundred of his poems are out there in magazines like PENNY DREADFUL, BIBLE OF HELL and DEATHREALM. His first book, NOCTURNAL VACATIONS, was released in the summer of 2002 by PUBLISH AMERICA. His second book, DEPTHS OF SAVAGERY will be released in the summer of 03 from DOUBLE DRAGON PUBLISHING. He has appeared in many anthologies, most recently the hardback CEMETERY POETS & ATROCITAS AQUA, and soon will appear in SCRIPTURES OF THE DAMNED and SCARY from DDP. Last year his work appeared in the high fantasy epic GRIMOIRE DE SOLACE from iUniverse. While working endlessly, revising several novels, he resides in Central Illinois with his wife, Stacey and son, John. His website is www.stevenshrewsbury.com
ST. ANDREWS DAY HORROR TALE
Saint Andrew was one of the original twelve disciples of Christ. He was originally a fisherman from Galilee, a follower of John the Baptist, and older brother of another of Christ's disciples, Simon Peter. After spreading the teachings of Christ throughout the Mediterranean and Asia Minor he was captured by the Romans. In one version of the story he is crucified on two beams of wood in the shape of an "X" while in the second version he is nailed to an olive tree.
Three hundred years later Emperor Constantine decided to move Saint Andrew's remains from his death place in Patras, Greece, to Constantinople. What happens next is also subject to various interpretations. The more religious view involves the Saint Regulus, a monk, receiving a vision from the angels. The angels warned that the bones of Saint Andrew had to be sent to "the ends of the Earth" in order to protect them. So far as the Roman Empire was concerned Scotland fit the bill, and his bones were taken to Scotland by Regulus (interestingly, the tale splits again here: Regulus either landed at what is now St. Andrews or he shipwrecked there, depending on who you ask).
The more worldly version of the tale involves a collector of Catholic relics, the Bishop of Hexham, who purchased the bones and brought them to Scotland himself in 733 AD. Regardless, the bones were kept in a Cathedral in Scotland until the Reformation swept through and destroyed all relics of "Catholic idolatry."
Nonetheless, Saint Andrew remained the patron saint of Scotland and is remembered with Saint Andrew's Day on November 30th. The event is considered a bit more important by Scottish expatriates than by those still living in their homeland. The X-shaped cross of Saint Andrew is still used in the national flag of Scotland, reputedly the oldest national flag in Europe.
-John Edward Lawson
Night of the Saltire
By Alex Severin
St. Andrew's Day is hardly recognised in Scotland, never mind celebrated. St. Andrew's is a place for golfers in garish sweaters and plus-fours these days, rather than a man, a Saint.
But it wasn't right to Ruaridh. As a child his dreams were haunted by the age-old tales his Great Grandfather told him about the bloody history of Scotland - the great battles, the martyrs to the cause, the injustices and the outrages.
The old man was a fierce patriot; Ruaridh had inherited it from him. Even as a middle aged man now, he had never forgotten those tales and his dreams still ran with red as his subconscious mind re-told those dusty old stories.
But it was always the story of St. Andrew that came back to him, his moans seeping into Ruaridh's sleep. What would stab him through the heart was that St. Andrew refused to be crucified on a cross the same as Jesus's; he beseeched his persecutors to change the shape of the cross - he felt unworthy of dying in the same way as the Messiah.
His dreams of St. Andrew were so vivid that he would awaken slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, pyjamas sticking to his skin.
The dream was always the same, right down to the minutest detail, but its regularity and his familiarity with it did not dilute its potency. The images never ceased to horrify and outrage him - the Saint would hang there, a limb painfully nailed to each bar on the Saltire cross he was crucified on, a cross-shaped like an X.
Something had to be done about the apathy of this country. He would sit and think to himself, staring out the window at the driech day…when did we lose the pride, that rabid patriotism that used to make us walk tall and sing loud? And not just at bloody football matches either. That's what we're reduced to - cheap kilts and tartan tammies with ridiculous curly ginger monofibre hair attached and a slurred rendition of Flower of Scotland in the face of the auld enemy. Football. The only battle left. Things have to change.
A simple fisherman from Galilee he may have been, but he was loved by Jesus Christ and was one of the Apostles - and died for his crime of spreading the word of Christianity.
How dare the world forget about the Patron Saint of Scotland.
But what could he do to make them all remember?
The image of Saint Andrew on the cross burned behind his eyes and…a moment of epiphany. It was clear to him now. He knew what he had to do to make them all remember.
It was only a few weeks until 30th November was here again - St. Andrew's Day. He had to begin preparations immediately.
***
Ruaridh sat at his computer; he'd never used the graphics software before and turned the air blue with curses, unable to decipher how to use it. He got the manual out and studied it for an hour and finally managed to put together a simple flyer and save it to disc. He immediately went to the local copy shop and had one thousand flyers printed - flyers advertising his free-for-all street party on St. Andrew's Day.
It would cost him a fortune but he didn't care - he had the money to do it and whatever the cost, it would all be worth it, worth it to re-establish St. Andrew's Day in the memories of Scots. He'd have to pay the price, of course, in more ways than monetarily.
Next on the list was ordering one hundred 10 x 6 oak beams. Even Ruaridh, as liberal with money as he was, gasped at the quote the salesman at the sawmill gave him over the phone. He recited his credit card number and requested that the wood be delivered the next day.
On to the food and drink - professional caterers would, of course, be employed for such an important function. No point in skimping here - he wanted every revelers who turned up for the party to stay the course - at least until he revealed his work of art in honour of St. Andrew to everybody.
He spent days fashioning the expensive beams of oak into fifty saltire crosses. The neighbours tolerated the hammering and banging and the cursing at smashed thumbs after he told them of his plans to re-instate St. Andrew's Day as a day in the calendar that would be remembered from now on. He didn't elaborate, of course - they would all be witness to the surprise too and he told them he didn't want to spoil it for them. Once he was done, he'd told them, November 30th would be permanently etched on the minds of every Scot in Scotland, every Scot around the globe and every other arsehole who claimed Scottish descent.
'Fucking synthetic Scots,' he would call them; like the fervent Americans he frequently ran across in Princes Street wearing tartan trews and waistcoats, blethering on a bout their 'Clan' and declaring that 'Edinboro, Scatland is so neat!' He very nearly punched one in the face in 'Deacon Brodie's.' The pub was always full of tourists and the only reason he went in there was to annoy himself, to fuel his xenophobia. This one was Japanese though, not American - he was a unilateral bigot; if you weren't Scottish born and bred, and left the country for more than two weeks of the year for your annual holiday in Benidorm, well, you just weren't worthy of even talking to him. The poor Japanese guy only asked him for directions to Edinburgh Castle.
'How in the fuck can you miss the castle! It's in front your nose!'
He walked away from the bewildered tourist and grunted a barely audible racial slur under his brea
th. The tourist did likewise in Japanese.
***
News of the party spread fast and the whole of Edinburgh was talking about it. There was much speculation as to what the 'unveiling' that the flyer mentioned was all about. Some thought that it might be a commemorative statue to St. Andrew but that couldn't be - Bonnie Prince Charlie Road was a residential street - there wouldn't be anywhere suitable for something like that, really. But what else could be unveiled except a statue or something similar, some work of art or other? Ah, but the party was actually in the field behind the road. That road's on the outskirts of Edinburgh, almost in the country. Nobody had a clue what was in store, but the buzz got louder and hundreds of people were sure to show up on St. Andrew's Day. Hundreds.
***
Ruaridh had to purchase three hundred heavy-duty tarpaulins to cover his work. He had to build a tunnel out of them to take the crosses one by one as he made them and set them up in the field. This, of course, would have to be completely obscured from view until they were ready to be unveiled. But how to stop prying eyes in the meantime? 24-hour security. Under strict instructions not to peek. They would also be under scrutiny, recorded 24/7 and if any of them peeked - curtains. Sacked. Fired.
***
The dream changed - the night of the 29th November - it was different. The first time in his entire life that the dream of St. Andrew had deviated from its original formula. This troubled Ruaridh. This troubled him a lot. Why now? What did it mean? Surely the timing of the change was significant. It had to mean something.
Instead of the suffering saint, it was himself nailed to the saltire cross, him bleeding onto the heavy wooden beams, him feeling life ebb and flow from his wounds. Then the meaning hit him - the result of his plan for the coming Feast of St. Andrew would be his sacrifice of self, an act of martyrdom for the reinstatement of St. Andrew into the culture of Scotland. The loss of his own liberty would be worth it. And he was sure that his place in Heaven would be secured.
