"Therapy strongly recommended"

Lee made sure to be out of bed early before his mother woke. Her heavy white thigh peeking out from under the gown that had bunched around her waist in the night was the last thing he saw before slipping past her open bedroom door. Previously, it had made him nauseous seeing his mother like that, especially when he’d been forced to sleep in bed with her, but not recently. Now it only made him angry. He’d been released from the Youth House three days ago. He hadn’t said more than two words to her since he came home.
What a joke.

Stupid psychiatrist…

He ran up the stairs from the basement flat and out into the dirty Bronx sunshine. The lively heat on his skin was a contradiction to the coldness he was feeling beneath it and he continued running until he reached 183rd Street where he ducked behind a pillar and breathed in heavily the smoky shade of the subway terminal.

It was May 10th, 1953. Mother’s Day.

He muttered to himself in a Texas accent as husbands and children passed by, probably taking the moms out for their special day. Or to church. Flowers and pretty hats and red lipstick and grotesque smiles.

I’m my own father…  mother never gave a damn…
There were a dozen cigarette butts beneath Lee’s cowboy boots when an elderly lady walked by, handing out pamphlets. He had no idea what she was selling. On a whim, he reached out. He related to what he read.

Six years later, when a reporter in Moscow asked him what prompted his embrace of Marxism and defection to the Soviet Union, Lee HarveyOswald responded, “I became interested about the age of 15, an old lady handed me a pamphlet about saving the Rosenbergs...”


...to Pedro, and thanks for the "follow!"


If All You Have is a Hammer...

An ashen-faced man stood on the curb at 1201 Pennsylvania Avenue holding an umbrella. He scraped the frost from his watch to see that it was nearly 10 pm. A late winter rain was beginning to fall.

A siren gave yelp from around the corner as red and blue streaks splashed off the building’s shiny façade. A trio of Suburbans rolled up and the passenger door of the middle vehicle opened and the man dove in. The motorcade roared off, sirens blaring, leaving the man’s umbrella rolling in a puddle behind them. It didn’t slow down until it reached the Emergency Entrance to George Washington University Hospital some fifteen blocks away.
A few minutes later, another motorcade departed a mere four blocks west of the previous one. It too double-parked at the hospital and two men dashed inside. With jaws locked and fists clenched, the groups came face to face at a feeble patient’s bed-side. After a few tense minutes of threats and pointed fingers, Andrew Card and Alberto Gonzales departed, defeated.

The bed-ridden man in the middle of the commotion was John Ashcroft, US Attorney General, awaiting surgery for pancreatitis. Behind him was James Comey, acting Attorney General while Ashcroft was incapacitated, and he’d just heroically refused to give the Justice Department’s assent to the President’s 2004 eaves-dropping initiative amid constitutional concerns.
Heroics though, are short-lived.

Laws were “adjusted.” And after a private White House meeting, Comey dropped his concerns. His ensuing private career was a charmed one and he was even considered for the Supreme Court before being nominated as head of the FBI. Incidentally, Alberto Gonzales quickly replaced Ashcroft…
By June 6, 2013, the 64th anniversary of Orwell’s warning, word had leaked that the question of the warrantless wire-tapping of every American citizen was now beyond debate.


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