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14.09.2014
Fresco of Approving of bylaw of Society of Jesus depicting Ignatius of Loyola receiving papal bull Regimini militantis Ecclesiae from Pope Paul 3.
This group bound themselves by a vow of poverty and chastity, to "enter upon hospital and missionary work in Jerusalem, or to go without questioning wherever the pope might direct". They called themselves the Company of Jesus, and also Amigos En El Senor or "Friends in the Lord," because they felt "they were placed together by Christ." The name had echoes of the military (as in an infantry "company"), as well as of discipleship (the "companions" of Jesus). Still, I was smart - smarter than most white folks down here want a black man to be - and I got my degree.
I started out walking a beat in Algiers, just across the river from the French Quarter, the Vieux Carre. I can’t forget the smell - like gutting time at a Cajun boucherie - the snatches of Voodoo gibberish smeared across the walls in blood.
But he didn't tell me where to find the scum that butchered Celie, because something scared him more. Still, as I floated in and out of tortured dreams, I remembered the look in Ti' Joe's eyes. Despair is like frostbite - at first it just makes everything numb, saves up all the pain like a debt you can't possibly afford to pay. Teddy LeDoux's place faced out on an alley near Bourbon Street; Teddy liked to pretend every weekend was Mardi Gras. Papa Jean's address led me to the other side of the Intracoastal - the swampy, desolate outskirts of an immigrant slum called Archahaie.
After one of those juice-heads puts you through a wall, you learn to recognize the look… and to fear it. I stood there, drowning in my own sweat, wondering what the Devil would look like in a dirty black dress. As soon as the nurse flipped on the lights, I started babbling about Voodoo curses and demon arms. I checked out at the end of the week despite Doc Timmons' protests and caught a cab out to Archahaie. I came to with the help of Baron Cimiterre's smelling salts: the slaughterhouse stench of blood and bile and exposed viscera. I lay there, trembling in the borrowed clothes of a dead man, staring into the tunnel that joins the evil we live in and the evil that lives in us.
Ignatius of Loyola, who after being wounded in a battle, experienced a religious conversion and composed the Spiritual Exercises to closely follow Christ.
The fresco was created by Johann Christoph Handke in the Church of Our Lady Of the Snow in Olomouc after 1743. No, the Devil buys on the layaway plan: he trades you a few sins for this piece, a cheap vice for that one, damns you by scraps and slivers. Their members were mostly refugees from Haiti and Jamaica, with a sprinkling of local talent from the Bayou. We managed to push the psycho bastards back over the river, but we couldn't take the West Bank away from them. I'm a man who knows violence, friend - I grew up with it, learned to use it on the football field, fought against it on the streets of Algiers.
I walked to the seedy parking lot around the corner, already planning the moves in my head. The owner, Jean Ducheval, wasn't exactly a snitch, but he was one of my best sources of information on the Voodoo gangs. He saw the truth: I was not a cop anymore, and I would do anything to get the scum that butchered Celie. At the end of a dead-end gravel road off of Bourresouse, I found a ramshackle hut that matched Papa Jean's description.
And a heartbeat - a monstrous heartbeat - like a thousand men pounding on the Petro drums….
When she killed the lights the second time, I pinched my eyes shut, tried to swallow the panic. The cabby - a Haitian - looked like his eyes were going to bug out of his head when I told him where to turn. I was just drifting off to sleep when the door of the room exploded off its hinges and slammed against the opposite wall.
Something black and tarry spattered across the walls, the floor, the ceiling, like engine sludge.
I could see taloned feet, tree-trunk legs, a body covered with hair that wriggled like carrion worms. My sweet Creole princess, chocolate skin wrapped in a gown of milky white, somber face staring down at me from the top of an ebony cliff. By the time he holds the pink slip and consigns your sorry ass to Eternal Flame, you don't even know what happened, or how. Made second-team all-American as a sophomore, had the NFL scouts drooling all over themselves. They spread a crazy fever through the streets, more like cults than gangs: Secte Rouge, Cochon Gris, Vinbrindingue, Bissage. The Voodoo gangs packed a higher caliber of fear than I've ever seen - you could feel it crackle in the air all over Algiers, juicing your nerves. The stink of the place nearly made me gag - rotting chicken guts, fermented blood, other smells I couldn't name and didn't want to.
The doc said it was a miracle I hadn't bled to death, said it looked like the wound had been cauterized with a blowtorch. I figured it was the mambo's idea of a joke, but I parked across from the place and waited.
By the time that grinning piece of shit realized he'd lit the wrong fuse, it was too late for all of us. It looked like somebody had painted that whole room with the Cochon Gris and used Vixama's gizzard for a brush. I jerked the Beretta out from under the pillow and pointed it at the doorway, figuring the Gris had found me. He trades you a few sins for this piece, a cheap vice for that one, damns you by scraps and slivers. Figured I'd go hardship after my junior year, pick up a cool million in signing bonuses, maybe more. God, she was one fine Creole woman - skin as smooth and sweet as milk chocolate, eyes as wet and wide as Lake Pontchartrain. The rest is lost in fog, except for glimpses that sometimes leap out of the darkness and rip another chunk out of my soul before I can kick them back into the shadows. I also knew he had a punk named Ti' Joe in one of the cages, a street soldier for the Cochon Gris. Teddy gave me a spare key to his place and fumbled through a few awkward words of sympathy before he made his escape.


The midday sun beat down so fierce that it boiled clouds of vapor out of the steamy marsh beyond the graveyard… but that place still made me shiver, friend. It was huge and shapeless and impossibly black - a hole torn out of the daylight straight into the bottom of a Bayou swamp. I slipped out the side exit, tossed the suitcase in the trunk of the Buick, and got out of there as fast as I could. I propped my head on a pillow that smelled like somebody’s old socks and planned my getaway.
Something slithered through the doorway where the mambo had been: a featureless blob, black on black.
Then that lard-ass hillbilly tackle blind-sides me in the Georgia game, and my knee is gone. I played hard and clean, never touched a payoff… but if the rules got in the way of a good bust, I bent them. They even stirred things up in the Quarter… and the Mayor won't stand for anybody screwing with the tourists. Nothing obvious… but good vice cops develop an instinct for trouble, or they become dead vice cops. A street cop sees so much human ugliness that the outer layer of his skin hardens into this armor-plated shell that shields him from the madness he has to wade through every day.
I'd broken three of his ribs, shattered his right arm in two places, turned that mocking grin into bloody mush.
I sat there with my head in my hands, afraid to move… afraid that I would blow away like smoke. I dug around in the trunk of the Buick and pulled out the Beretta hidden in the spare tire. He was the blackest black man I’ve ever seen, maybe because I always saw him in baggy white pants, a baggy white pullover, and a battered white fedora. Weird symbols littered the walls, along with newspaper photos of ritual gang murders clipped from the Times-Picayune: Mama Lucille’s shrine to mayhem, New Orleans style.
I just wanted out of there, just wanted to put some miles between me and Mama Lucille's Voodoo Kitchen. The muffled glow of street lamps streamed through the curtains, filled the room with ugly shadows. I had this nightmare vision of my own bloody arm lunging out of the darkness to strangle me, but the place was deserted.
A couple of other punks sat behind what looked like an embalming table, counting out stacks of hundred dollar bills from a leather suitcase. The last thing I noticed was the embalming table, the leather suitcase filled with more cash than I would earn in a lifetime.
I couldn't go home, couldn't go to Teddy's - I didn't want to go anyplace the cops or the Gris might find me.
Mama Lucille stood there, wearing the same dirty black dress, leering at me like a sooty skull.
I stared into a hole chewed through the skin of the world I knew into a shadow world where demons prowl the savage jungles hunting for wayward souls, where dark magic falls from the sky like poisoned rain. She has a contract with the Secte Rouge to take out the Gris; to take out all the competition, eventually.
Ti' Joe had a private cell, because the Voodoo punks scared the shit out of the regular low-lifes. On the streets they say the Voodoo punks are immune to fear, but I saw terror in Ti' Joe's eyes.
A short, plump mulatto woman with coarse gray hair and a dirty, sweat-stained black dress opened it. I glanced down at the place where I could feel my phantom arm resting on the bed, burning with invisible fire. I tightened my grip on the Beretta and slipped across the street, followed the casket delivery boys through the side entrance. I drove around until I found a crumbling flophouse between a strip joint and a Cajun diner on Ascon.
What's left will drip down through that black tunnel into the world he sees in nightmares… into a place he doesn't ever want to be. Maybe there's still time for you to buy it back the same way: with one tiny act of penance at a time. I stuck it in my pocket and steered into the crush of traffic crawling across the bridge into Algiers.
Papa Jean was one of the good guys in Algiers: always helping the ones who needed help the most, trying to keep the kids out of trouble. A casket that size could probably hold a hundred kilos of junk, maybe more, worth a king's ransom on the streets. I saw every nightmare that had ever devoured my sleep - my private horde of horrors snarling and slobbering at the gates of their unnatural habitat.
The Voodoo gangs have some nasty magic of their own, but they never think to use it on a crippled ex-cop who can't do shit.
THESE VERY SAME ENFORCEMENT AGENCIES, WHO HAVE SWORN TO PROTECT AND SERVE, OUR COUNTRY, AND CITIZENS ,ARE BUT SOME, OF THE CORRUPT,GREEDY TRAITORS .ENGAGED IN THE TYRANNY AND TORTURE. A lot of the boys at the Precinct House bought into it, especially the ones who grew up around the Bayou. The righteous part of Lucius Freeman - the part that laughed at Teddy's lame jokes, that slid a few bucks to homeless bums instead of busting them, that made sweet love to his sweet woman after a fourteen-hour shift when he was almost too tired to move - that part just spilled out of the wreckage and turned to dust.
The stink of him… denim marinated in sweat, like the fur of some sickly animal, wrapped in the ghostly scent of ganja. I couldn't go home - couldn't sleep in that house ever again - so Teddy took me in at his place. They had that crazy, invincible glow you see on a junkie's face when he's dropped some PCP. The crematorium would give the Gris an easy way to dispose of enemies - the parts they didn't eat. If I could waste Vixama - the mastermind behind most of the horror in Algiers - that would be revenge enough. Before they know different, they wind up looking like a spilled vat of bloody gumbo - Mama's special recipe. New Orleans doesn't just sing, friend: it jitters and jives and wails like a wild animal that can't be caged. That night, I huddled on Teddy's lumpy couch and suffered through nightmares that refused to end… nightmares that would never end. I paid for the room with a twenty, pretended not to notice while the clerk stared at my vacant sleeve. The siren in my head screaming now, but my heart thumping louder, pounding out one frantic thought.


The Cochon Gris had stolen everything: my wife and my job, the two things I loved in this world. I felt, I heard the brittle crack of bone, the sharp twang of snapping sinews, the meaty rip of muscle tearing like soggy paper. I figured I'd stop by the house in the morning and pick up my passport, then take a drive out to Moisant and catch a flight to Mexico City. She laughed while it crushed the life out of her, cackled while it plucked off her arms and legs like the wings off a mutant moth.
The stolen arm of the loa wrapped me in a tentacle of fire, lifted me above the bed, hurled me across the room. The school district has moved to a biometric identification program, saying students will no longer have to use an ID card to buy lunch.A  BIOMETRICS TO TRACK YOUR KIDS!!!!!i»?i»?A TARGETED INDIVIDUALS, THE GREEDY CRIMINALS ARE NOW CONDONING THEIR TECH! Paul Weindling, history of medicine professor at Oxford Brookes University, describes his search for the lost victims of Nazi experiments. The chairman of the board at ESL a€” then proprietor of the desert wasteland in Nevada known as a€?Area 51a€? a€” was William Perry, who would be appointed secretary of defense several years later. EUCACH.ORG PanelIn a 2-hour wide-ranging Panel with Alfred Lambremont Webre on the Transhumanist Agenda, Magnus Olsson, Dr.
Henning Witte, and Melanie Vritschan, three experts from the European Coalition Against Covert Harassment, revealed recent technological advances in human robotization and nano implant technologies, and an acceleration of what Melanie Vritschan characterized as a a€?global enslavement programa€?.Shift from electromagnetic to scalar wavesThese technologies have now shifted from electromagnetic wave to scalar waves and use super quantum computers in the quantum cloud to control a€?pipesa€? a reference to the brains of humans that have been taken over via DNA, via implants that can be breathed can breach the blood-brain barrier and then controlled via scalar waved on a super-grid. Eventually, such 'subvocal speech' systems could be used in spacesuits, in noisy places like airport towers to capture air-traffic controller commands, or even in traditional voice-recognition programs to increase accuracy, according to NASA scientists."What is analyzed is silent, or sub auditory, speech, such as when a person silently reads or talks to himself," said Chuck Jorgensen, a scientist whose team is developing silent, subvocal speech recognition at NASA Ames Research Center in California's Silicon Valley.
We numbered the columns and rows, and we could identify each letter with a pair of single-digit numbers," Jorgensen said. People in noisy conditions could use the system when privacy is needed, such as during telephone conversations on buses or trains, according to scientists."An expanded muscle-control system could help injured astronauts control machines. If an astronaut is suffering from muscle weakness due to a long stint in microgravity, the astronaut could send signals to software that would assist with landings on Mars or the Earth, for example," Jorgensen explained.
These are processed to remove noise, and then we process them to see useful parts of the signals to show one word from another," Jorgensen said.After the signals are amplified, computer software 'reads' the signals to recognize each word and sound. Our Research and Development Division has been in contact with the Federal Bureau of Prisons, the California Department of Corrections, the Texas Department of Public Safety, and the Massachusetts Department of Correction to run limited trials of the 2020 neural chip implant. We have established representatives of our interests in both management and institutional level positions within these departments. Federal regulations do not yet permit testing of implants on prisoners, but we have entered nto contractual agreements with privatized health care professionals and specified correctional personnel to do limited testing of our products. We need, however, to expand our testing to research how effective the 2020 neural chip implant performs in those identified as the most aggressive in our society. In California, several prisoners were identified as members of the security threat group, EME, or Mexican Mafia. They were brought to the health services unit at Pelican Bay and tranquilized with advanced sedatives developed by our Cambridge,Massachussetts laboratories. The results of implants on 8 prisoners yielded the following results: a€?Implants served as surveillance monitoring device for threat group activity. However, during that period substantial data was gathered by our research and development team which suggests that the implants exceed expected results.
One of the major concerns of Security and the R & D team was that the test subject would discover the chemial imbalance during the initial adjustment period and the test would have to be scurbbed.
However, due to advanced technological developments in the sedatives administered, the 48 hour adjustment period can be attributed t prescription medication given to the test subjects after the implant procedure. One of the concerns raised by R & D was the cause of the bleeding and how to eliminate that problem.
Unexplained bleeding might cause the subject to inquire further about his "routine" visit to the infirmary or health care facility. Security officials now know several strategies employed by the EME that facilitate the transmission of illegal drugs and weapons into their correctional facilities.
One intelligence officier remarked that while they cannot use the informaiton that have in a court of law that they now know who to watch and what outside "connections" they have. The prison at Soledad is now considering transferring three subjects to Vacaville wher we have ongoing implant reserach. Our technicians have promised that they can do three 2020 neural chip implants in less than an hour. Soledad officials hope to collect information from the trio to bring a 14 month investigation into drug trafficking by correctional officers to a close. Essentially, the implants make the unsuspecting prisoner a walking-talking recorder of every event he comes into contact with. There are only five intelligence officers and the Commisoner of Corrections who actually know the full scope of the implant testing. In Massachusetts, the Department of Corrections has already entered into high level discussion about releasing certain offenders to the community with the 2020 neural chip implants.
Our people are not altogether against the idea, however, attorneys for Intelli-Connection have advised against implant technology outside strick control settings. While we have a strong lobby in the Congress and various state legislatures favoring our product, we must proceed with the utmost caution on uncontrolled use of the 2020 neural chip. If the chip were discovered in use not authorized by law and the procedure traced to us we could not endure for long the resulting publicity and liability payments. Massachusetts officials have developed an intelligence branch from their Fugitive Task Force Squad that would do limited test runs under tight controls with the pre-release subjects. Correctons officials have dubbed these poetnetial test subjects "the insurance group." (the name derives from the concept that the 2020 implant insures compliance with the law and allows officials to detect misconduct or violations without question) A retired police detective from Charlestown, Massachusetts, now with the intelligence unit has asked us to consider using the 2020 neural chip on hard core felons suspected of bank and armored car robbery. He stated, "Charlestown would never be the same, we'd finally know what was happening before they knew what was happening." We will continue to explore community uses of the 2020 chip, but our company rep will be attached to all law enforcement operations with an extraction crrew that can be on-site in 2 hours from anywhere at anytime. We have an Intelli-Connection discussion group who is meeting with the Director of Security at Florence, Colorado's federal super maximum security unit. The initial discussions with the Director have been promising and we hope to have an R & D unit at this important facilitly within the next six months.
Napolitano insisted that the department was not planning on engaging in any form of ideological profiling. I will tell him face-to-face that we honor veterans at DHS and employ thousands across the department, up to and including the Deputy Secretary," Ms.
Steve Buyer of Indiana, the ranking Republican on the House Committee on Veterans' Affairs, called it "inconceivable" that the Obama administration would categorize veterans as a potential threat.



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