Good Morning Ted and Jody:
I am beginning to suspect that my subconscious has contracted with a better supplier of dreams. I do believe I am getting A listings now rather than the B listing dreams I was suffering through. Now if we could get a dream contractor who supplied the dreams to supply an illusion of hot buttered popcorn and ice cold soft drinks while I lay back and enjoyed the dreams, that would be super. Now that the supplier is giving me a better dream experience (I wake up smiling and wanting to go back to sleep at the same time). The only downside to this kind of dream is there is nothing with more than a G rating. Bummer.
My memory is turning to mush. I can not recall if I watered the pots yesterday. I even checked my letter to you and didn’t mention it that missive. So, do I over water, if I watered yesterday or let the plants in the pots die of thirst? I can remember what I had for breakfast yesterday (which I would just as soon forget), but can not remember if I watered. Perhaps I should start keeping notes.
I started on another stamp lot, German stamps. Now all I have to do is find where I keep al the rest of the German stamps as I only have three stock pages so far—9 more needed.
Warmest regards, Ed
024 Do You Believe in Coincidences?
Fiction in 1157 words by T. Edward Westen, 2017
[July 16, 1929, somewhere in the South West] “I don’t care what you say you did,” the man said in a steely calm voice holding up a several days old copy of the Weekly Coal County News, “You idiots killed the wrong woman. Norma Rae, according to this took this Calkins woman in and you idiots killed someone called Aida Calkins. Who in the hell in Aida Calkins that we cared. Now, you have 48 hours to kill Norma Rae or you had better find an abandoned mine and blow up the entrance behind you. Capisce!”
The two men groveling in front of him murmured “Yes, boss,” as they slunk out the door.
The taller of the two said, “What made you think that the woman wore stuff more like a man than a woman?
“It’s what he said,” the shorter man replied jerking his thumb back to the door they had just quietly closed behind them, “about her being bossy and wearing the pants when the boss knew her. Mike, I got the impression she either took something from the boss or she wouldn’t, you know?”
“It really doesn’t matter, the boss wants her dead within 48 hours or it will be our asses,” replied Mike.
“Yup, we better hit the road it is a long way up to Wyoming,” replied the smaller man.
[Present Day] “This fellow Mark Rogers seems to have accounts in every bank and credit union in this City,” Said Special Agent Simpson. “I would wager that he always deposits under the $10,000 reporting limit.”
“But his deposits always predate the robberies,” said Detective Philipson. “What do surveillance cameras show from two years prior to the robberies?”
“Around the time of his deposits,” replied Special Agent Simpson, “the cameras show the same pattern of men making deposits in all the banks. There are at least four different depositors. Do you want to bet that none of them are Mark Rogers?
“As best as I can figure out,” said Captain Batan, “Mr. Rogers hits a series of banks and then makes deposits in those and other banks almost two years to the day before the robberies. It is almost as if he is making withdrawals from the bank accounts he already setup but then puts the money in. A whole new approach to finance. Let us hope Wall Street doesn’t cotton to this approach to building wealth.”
“Someone has,” said Special Agent Simpson. “I think we need Agent White or Special Agent Fleishman to track down who it is.”
“I rather suspect that one or both of them is looking into that very question,” said Captain Batan. “I don’t know how they do it, but they seem to know things before they happen.”
“They are time traveler’s Boss,” remarked Detective Philipson.
[In a Parallel Universe] Special Agent Fleishman materialized in Stephen’s office. Stephen looked up, smiled and said, “I have been expecting you. More properly, I have been expecting someone. So who are you?”
“Special Agent Fleishman of the Agency for Timeline Integrity. I was actually expecting to find Ralph here.”
“Here and gone,” replied Stephen. He reached across his desk to a saucer-like object and picked the tracking device out of it and said, “I had him leave this so he could finish his work unmolested. And, by the looks of you, I would guess Ralph would have been putty in your hands.”
“If Ralph hadn’t cleaned up before he presented himself to you, his appearance was largely due to his laying hands on one of my colleagues, replied Special Agent Fleishman. “She sort of gave him a lesson in swimming. I only restrained him from another encounter with her.”
Stephen was silently belly laughing. He shook his head and breathed deeply. After a pause, he said, “A woman did that to Ralph? My, my, I do think he needs a refresher course in how to handle himself.”
“I recommend he have a refresher course in maintaining his cool and not losing his temper,” said Special Agent Fleishman.
Stephen said, “Yes, there is that too. Now what can I do to assist, who did you say you were with?”
“ The Agency for Timeline Integrity.”
“You will forgive me, but it takes getting used to all these sources of responsibility in your universe,” replied Stephen. “Here we have none of that nonsense.”
Special Agent Fleishman raised his eyebrow. “No, then how do you manage to get things done.”
Stephen replied, “If people can’t figure out what has to be done, I tell them.”
“I have always wanted to meet the person in charge,” said Special Agent Fleishman shaking his head in amazement. “How did you get to be that person?”
“It is not very complicated,” replied Stephen. “One day the former person in charge told me to do something and I told him it would not work. He questioned me as to why I thought that and after I gave him an explanation he said, ‘you now have my job.’ He walked out that door and I have been the person in charge ever since.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Special Agent Fleishman.
“Eleven years,” replied Stephen.
[July 17, 1929, Switchboard] “Turnaround lady so I can take your picture,” a male voice from behind her commanded.
“I had my picture taken once,” said Mrs. Calkins. “I didn’t like it so would rather not.”
“Would you rather I shoot you in the back than have your picture taken?” the man’s voice persisted.
“Actually,” replied Deputy Sheriff LeLoup from a dark corner of the switchboard room, she would rather I shot you instead. Put your guns down and turn around very slowly with your hand out from your sides.”
The smaller man turned very quickly raising his shotgun as he turned. The shotgun went off leaving a hole in the ceiling. Deputy Sheriff LeLoup’s 45, however, went off a split second before leaving a hole in the smaller man’s forehead. Deputy Sheriff LeLoup moved his gun so that it trained on Mike. Sir, I have five more rounds and they can all be fired in less than the time you take to think this over, so drop your gun and hold your hands out and turn slowly, please.
Mike un-cocked his shotgun and dropped it on the floor. “O.K. Mister, I know when I am licked.” He turned slowly. However, he held a Colt in his left hand. Deputy Sheriff LeLoup fired again. Mike fell to the floor with a puzzled look on his face and a hole in his forehead matching that of his shorter associate.
“Mrs. Calkins, would you mind calling the Sheriff and the Coroner, please,” said Deputy Sheriff LeLoup. “I know I am going to catch the dickens for not just winging one of them.”