Good Morning Ted and Jody:
We went out to get in the Ridgeline to go to lunch and found it had been used as target practice by a group of birds. I say group rather than flock, as the birds left evidence of a direct attack on the Ridgeline’s cab and windshield while missing the bed of the truck and only one of their projectiles missed the target (by scans inches) and ended up on the ground. Yes, flock is too neutral a word and group connotates a deliberate gathering. Now, keep in mind there are no wires over the area in which the truck was parked, no trees, nothing above it for a perch, so this was an aerial assault. I would use the word squadron, but that connotates a broader organization such as is reflected in a formal air force. The truck was parked where the Aztec used to be parked. The Aztec was never subjected to this kind of attack. I think group of thugs hired by one of the American automobile firms, or a consortium (they recently met with the pestilence perhaps his hand is in this as wall) to leave a clear message of what “they” think of Automobiles made in California by a foreign owned firm. Yes, this is clearly the work of the pestilence as he has only signed a few things of late (Do you recall any present in the past holding up his signed “stuff” for the camera? Do you recall any president in the past signing executive orders on camera? Do you recall any president in the past organizing groups of birds to lay down a “do do” barrage on a parked Ridgeline? I don’t). I didn’t think to take photos of bird droppings, but did think to use the power washer setting on the hose nozzle to remove them. You may ask what the pestilence’s motive was behind this attack. Simple, this section of the country withheld the millions of votes he thought he deserved for being born rich and blessing us with his candidacy.
I did, however, think to point my camera at Silver Lake a couple of times. I am also appending the next episode of the Amanda Saga.
I trust this finds you healthy, happy, warm and your vehicle not parked where the pestilence’s group of birds can get at it.
Warmest regards, Ed
053 Trying to Find Another Way In
Fiction in 1363 words by T. Edward Westen, 2017
Special Agent Fleishman and Outreach Agent Simmons were watching, for the fifth time that morning, Special Agent Fleishman flash into existence on the swing and disappear as Mandy Jumped off the swing which hit Mrs. White who, to put it politely was knocked unconscious on her rear end in the mud. “I wince every time I see her take that hit. It must have hurt,” said Outreach Agent Simmons.
Special Agent Fleishman nodded. “I may have been the reason she got hit. But, I know before I entered the picture she got hit and fell backwards unconscious, so probably not.”
“Do you remember where you when and where you were before you flashed into the swing?” Asked Outreach Agent Simmons.
Special Agent Fleishman nodded his head. “Yes.”
“Take us close enough to watch you leave for here and a few minutes prior to now. You know, just before you flashed in here on the swing,” said Outreach Agent Simmons.
Special Agent Fleishman pivoted them both to a point across the street from the swing set the small park in the 1200 block of Mission Boulevard on December 23rd, the day before Mandy was scheduled to arrive. He pointed to a figure walking around the swing set. “There I am,” he said.
They watched him first walk toward them, apparently deep in thought, then walk back to the swing set and sit in one of the swings. They watched him swing for a few minutes, stop the swing, twirl in it and then laugh, much like a little kid. As they continued to watch he again headed in their direction abruptly reversed course, sat down in the swing again and disappeared.
“You certainly figured that out quickly,” said Outreach Agent Simmons. “Even though you seem to enjoy it, it did not seem to disrupt your reasoning abilities.”
“You ought to try it,” said Special Agent Fleishman. “Wish we had those when I was a kid. There is a sense of flying . . .” Special Agent Fleisheman trailed off with a look of wonder in his eyes.
Outreach Ageng Simmons gave Special Agent Fleishman a few seconds to day dream then interrupted. “You know, we need a mouse.”
“Huh, what do you mean we need a mouse?” asked Special Agent Fleishman.
“A mouse can get into anyplace. We need a mouse to get into level 4 number 7 so we can follow him. Or, we need at least a fresh pair of eyes to tell us what we are missing.” Replied Outreach Agent Simmons.
“Fresh eyes,” said Special Agent Fleishman. He paused and then said, “How about four or five fresh pair of eyes? Say, do you have this recorded?” Asked Special Agent Fleishman.
“Yes, I recorded it from several different angles. And where do you think we will find four much less five other pairs of eyes to look for a way to get a mouse in level 4 number 7?” Asked Outreach Agent Simons.
“A couple of months away and a few of what they call city blocks,” he looked around, “that way,” pointing in the direction of the Hall of Justice.
“Wait,” Outreach Agent Simmons shoved his right hand forward, palm outward toward Special Agent Fleishman in a universal signal for him to stop. “You involved timeline locals in this?”
“No harm. They were already looking into why Byron Mellon attempted murder under his assumed name-Judge Franklin Belemany,” replied Special Agent Fleishman.
“Another murder. My goodness, that man was evil,” said Outreach Agent Simmons. “But you involved locals on the time line.”
“You do it all the time. Besides, said, Special Agent Fleishman, “I did the prerequisite two weeks on their diet and,” twirling around, “adopted clothing appropriate for the period.
“That explains the smell,” said Outreach Agent Simmons. I should have realized, Rule #17. OK. I’d better start the diet now. Pick me up in two weeks and take me to your pairs of eyes. I’ll find some period attire. What is this 600 years or so behind current?”
Special Agent Fleishman nodded yes; and, Outreach Agent Simmons disappeared to go to lunch for two weeks.
Special Agent Fleishman appeared in the
stairwell at the Hall of Justice connecting the parking lot with the stairs leading to the Detective Squad upstairs and Child Protective Services downstairs. He went down stairs and opened the door to Child Protective Services reception room. Millie looked up from her desk and said “Have you seen the morning paper? You caused quite a stir yesterday. How’s the head?”
Special Agent Fleishman put his fingers to the scar on his forehead and said, “Much better, thank you. What about the morning paper?”
Millie handed Special Agent Fleishman a rather frayed copy of the front section of the morning paper with the headline “St. Lucy’s Patient Disappeared.”
Special Agent Fleishman took the paper to a chair and sat down and read it. When he finished reading he got up, handed the paper back to Millie and said, “It sounds like no one had a clue as to what happened.” Then he looked at Millie a bit questioningly. “You know a lot, how is that?”
Millie smiled and pointed at the intercom on the corner of her desk. “There is a reason I don’t let them take that out and put in something more modern.”
She paused and then said, “I think they will have the same questions I and the news folks do. Go in and tell them what happened.”
“I will. Be sure to listen in, I can use all the eyes and ears I can get.” With that Special Agent Fleishman winked at Millie and opened the door to Edith Gunderson’s office.
When he opened the door, Edith Gunderson was seated at her desk looking right at the door. “Speak of the Devil,” she said.
Everyone else in the room turned to look, including Special Agent Fleishman.
“No, silly, you,” Said Edih Gunderson pointing at Agent Fleishman.
Four men tried to speak at the same time. Detective Batan wanted to know, “how has your head healed so quickly.” Detective Philipson wanted to know “Where did you go?” Jeremy Eastman wanted to know, “What the hell happened.” And Mr. Murphy wanted to know “What is the fuss all about?” for he had not seen the morning paper.
Special Agent Fleishman held up both of his hand moving them to dampen down the calliope of sound from four men talking at the same time. After a few moments the men realized they were getting in their own ways of being heard and quieted down. Then Special Agent Fleishman said, “I have an automatic recall program that kicks in if I have not checked into my transport base in 18 hours. It simply takes me home. It is a safety mechanism to keep field agents from getting hurt without recourse to proper medical care, going missing in action or worse. I had already been away for over 16 hours and should have gone back rather than coming here again. But I did want to fill you in on what I learned from my interview with Mrs. White. So, I have been home for a couple of weeks and healed up rather nicely.”
Jeremy Eastman interrupted, “Two weeks. But you only got hit in the head yesterday.”
Detective Philipson laughed. “Yes, it is hard to keep straight Mr. Eastman, but he is a time traveler and two weeks there might only be a second here.”
“Two weeks,” said Special Agent Fleishman. “That reminds me, I need to bring in a specialist if you all don’t mind.”
Once again all the men talked at the same time. Detective Batan wanted to know, “What kind of specialist?’ Jeremy Eastman wanted to know “Is the specialist a man or woman?” Detective Philipson wanted to give his approval “Sure, by all means.” And Mr. Murphy wanted to know “Is this going to take all night? If so I need to get something to eat.”
Finally, Edith Gunderson brought the room to order by picking up a very big book and dropping it on the floor. She then said, “Bring your specialist, I’ll order pizza.”