Walking the five lakes of Copenhagen. It's a time machine, bro........don't be fooled by the innocence of weekend, the blue Seurat enigma, the pale faces of biological debris floating past you. Its THE time machine. The ultimate in universal, bleeding edge, magic carpet ride. This is the leap zone. Is where you walk back or forth in time......depending on your direction and your intention. Howzat?....will not be disclosed at this juncture. If your mind is not blown apart into little ridiculous cartoon bubbles afore and your intelligence is real, rather then imagined constructiveness, i.e. the warped tunnels of intellectualism, all you have to do is stay tuned, be cool, find space, within your own vehicle of perception. Where space around you is within you. At the very epicentral core of universal balance, the revolver of eternity. The very place where "steady-state universe" meets the "big bang hypothesis". The room of contradiction, the lab of Gawd. This is the deep green door in the woods, leading to the vehicle of multiversal travel, the Ghost Ship, mentaIconic metamorphic mindGasmic word. The word of truth.

The word of Gawd. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. For you mortals, this is all strange and perhaps even utterly absurd, probably so. Your world of diapered nursery reality, conflicting heavily by natural cause. Stay away then, don't go there. It's dangerous. You could so easily end your days in the clutches of Poe madness even, the abyss of Orwellian vortex, screaming with Edward Munch. Fossilized into perpetual hunger, by your immaturity, your insincerity. Beware mortals, this is the land of unlikeness, where nothing you see touches recognition.

Thirty years ago, in mid-August 1977, something happend. By the way, coinciding with the death of Elvis Presley. Took place. In Ohio. The land of Hart Crane. Here is a short - a very short rerun:

 

By BBC News Online science editor
Dr David Whitehouse

A detailed look at the point in space from where an intelligent signal might have come has revealed nothing unusual.

The Ohio Big Ear detected the Wow signal

 

The observations, using the multiple radio dishes of the Very Large Array (VLA) in New Mexico, US, add to the mystery of what has been called the "Wow" event.

In August 1977, radio astronomers detected what could have been a 72 seconds signal from intelligent life in space. But it happened only once.

Now, two researchers, Robert Grey and Kevin Marvel, have used the VLA to look at the source location with unprecedented sensitivity. They saw nothing strange or anything that could explain the signal.

 

We are moments away and counting down now. A 3½ day event of magical proportion. The Hart Crane Bridge from beyond death, right here in central Copenhagen, thru the time machine of the five lakes. And only I at this moment, the metaShaman fabShadow, knows where exactly this transmutational species jump will take place. It will be a significant event. April 27th 2008. The wondrous day of days, broken by the sky's rip-tooth acetylene, leaking thru canyoned walls, into the prodigal mind of mankind.

138,803 years prior to the WOW……..something happened. As with the 1977 signal, it lasted only 72 seconds. And like the 1977 signal, it devastated the tracks of mankind genetically, propelling it into a wholly new species, almost overnight. At that point in time and space, central western Africa took the blast, head on, ripping through soft tissue on a tribe of relatively sedate early Homo Sapiens beings, only thirty four in number. Just lounging by the now well known Chari river, doing their thing, thang......as if nothing, nuffin.....was going down, man. Nuffin....and his sister. This signal - a powerful genetic transformer, could have, might as well have penetrated the structure of another evolved species, the sibling mankind framework known now as Homo Neanderthalensis. These, were however located elsewhere on the blue planet and never fathomed what was going on. Just didn't have a clue, now did they? Tough luck, bro.....bad break, huh?.....The cutting edge received by Homo Sapiens, which ultimately provided them with the bleeding edge, becoming Homo Sapiens Sapiens, irrefutable masters of a moist lump of hot rock, swiveling a mediocre ball of fire, located somewhere in the bland suburb of a trashy galaxy, revolving a common black hole. Wazzap wit dis.....?!

12th cycle – last cycle : 4857 BC ~ 4781 BC to 7155 ~ 7231 AD – Pisces
7th subCycle : 1150 / 1226 AD to 2151 / 2227 AD – Libra

 

Hart Crane....?.......speaking of Harold Hart Crane, where is he anyway? On a Jimi Hendrix wild thing moon somewhere, scattered all over dawns highway, with string for hair. Laying low in Melville's tomb perhaps, following that infamous solar boat leap? This sphinx from Ohio who chose to evacuate hisself from hell of being, by his own tortured will. But was it sheer desperation or premeditated intent, instigated with or without his own awareness, according to some cosmic blueprint, perhaps?

 

These figures below could be describing the number of co-existent extra-terrestrial technologically intelligent civilizations in our Milky Way Galaxy alone:
Number of planets with intelligence and civilization right now – 53,156
Average light years between - 961

 

On July 3rd [Julian Calendar] 2566 BC, The Pharaoh Khufu [2nd King of the fourth Dynasty - Old Kingdom] passed away and was transported by amd on his custom-built solar boat, the first of its kind, into the next life, to the bosom of his father, The Sun God RA. This is the first known instance of the new species Homo Ethicus Cogitensis [HEC], giving away light, into the mind of human awareness. The first known breakaway flare, as far as is recorded, from Homo Sapiens Sapiens, this antiquated, degenerating species, of whom we know all but to well, its dire excess, its vile tendencies. Incompassionate animal. Driven, from its core, by personal desire. Predator at heart. In general, HEC have been created and move at a certain speed - inside themselves and among one another - known to all initiated as khufuSpeed. Whereas Homo Sapiens Sapiens [HSS] dwell within light speed. As is well known.

 

The Calabrian looked up. There was a shadow in front of him he recognized. Of all the shadows passing him by on this lazy afternoon in Mindelo, Sao Vicente, Cap Verde, at the hardly overly busy café, where he sat outside on the dingy pavement, slouched with a cold beer of the foreign kind, this one he recognized. Of all the anonymous shadows, which passed him by on numerous voices and tones, the waves of background audio from the relaxed natives, this huge hulking shadow, now poised directly in front of him, brought his mind fast away from the three day old newspaper he was grinding.

International Herald Tribune, the only newspaper he ever happened to pick up, when inevitable trivialities of Cabo Verde, notably on the northernmost island of Santa Antao where he resided, awoke his always latent capacity for global gossip. Ever since his initial retirement, four years earlier, he had increasingly in intervals, pined for the fast life of mainland Europe and even Africa, the excitement of his former profession and the satisfaction of performing a trade, not least harvesting the reward for aforementioned work and enjoying its spoils to the hilt, with extreme prejudice. He used to be a killer for hire. A jack of all trades. Shady variety.
                
                 - Been looking for you, Calabrian. Long time no see.

                 - Wazzap bro. Long time no see. Looking for me?

                 - Yeah. You never check your mail. Never pick up your phone. Living like a hermit on some godforsaken island, don’t make it easy neither. Had to come here in person. Do you know how far away you live? Can’t you return to civilization again? There’s plenty of work out there. Can’t you use the money?

                  - Boy, dude……that was some speech. Motor mouth. How did you find me here?

                 - Took a chance. Thought you might be over here, day like this. The plane got in at Sao Pedro an hour ago. With the boat to Santa Antao not leaving before six, as you know. Took a chance. Here’s today’s Tribune by the way. Got it in Praia.

                 - Great stuff. Grab a seat. So, what do I owe the pleasure Michael? Beer?

                 - Nah, on the wagon. Waiter……coffee!.......[ his voice as deep as caves ]

                 - Really good coffee here. French’ies own this place. [I like the way he pronounces "coffee" - a slow southern, rusty guttural, like drawn from the annals of Mark Twain. Or Samuel Langhorne Clemens. Ain't that German?]

This world is the cold reptilian variety. Mess with it and you embrace its consequences.

You are alone. You enter as a single, autonomous being and thus you depart. Back to the dust of ages. No emotion. Hardly any tears, just being. In the moment. Not living for tomorrow, not pining for yesterday. Life is now and you better not fall asleep. Beware of false moves. Keep an eye on your friends. Tomorrow they could be your enemies. Don’t tell them all your secrets either. Could be your downfall. Michael Merisi. King of the netherworld, here on business. A trusted exception to this rule for The Calabrian. Starting out together, patrolling the streets of Lyon, as mean men for a local boss, they had taken over his game, as surely as sunshine follows rain. They were in their early twenties and didn’t give a damn. It was all about fast women, easy money and reputation. Rep was everything back then. Word of mouth into myth. Before cell phones and Internet. In the late seventies. Last millennium. Read 2007 folks. Now.

Sweltering black coffee arrived on a tray, flown with a smile by a beautifully black girl, wearing blue eyes and a red dress. Her eyes shone with the basalt reality of living conditions dominating this vast barren Cabo Verde Archipelago. Like Galapagos a volcanic world. Where hot lava seethe beneath the surface of a vast sea off the African Continent. Like Galapagos, brought to attention by Charles Darwin back in the early nineteenth century. Not as important to the man who collected the vision of Origin of the Species, but nevertheless. Same story. Hard to imagine a more significant thesis, than the one breaking away from two millennia of religious mindset. Michael Merisi, being extremely intelligent, could not see a contradiction between the two however. What’s wrong with the concept of both realities. The reality of Jesus, arriving here from the mind of God and the accumulative revelation of time on the face of a planet, following . Many planets for that matter. He could see no problem here. It was just a question of being creative. Bending time and space. Reality is not what you think it is, is his walking, talking philosophy. Wake up!

She slyly flirted with him as she inched the bright red cup towards his slot of the table. This is Cabo Verde, probably the most promiscuous location on the planet. No one takes relationships seriously here. Far the majority here are women, with the men-folk emigrated to every corner of the globe. The work situation on the islands being hopeless. The entire population, in a wide sense on private welfare. Subsiding on checks or transfers, come their way from relatives abroad. Certain areas in the United States harboured more Cap Verdeans than the entire present population. Take that for cosmopolitanism. Goes without saying, any man here, especially the foreign kind, is hot currency to any fit woman, her potential ticket to relative luxury, perhaps even life abroad. Shopping!

Michael gave her his smile. He numbed his deep sense of futility, while simultaneously warping his perceptions, sensual as well a mental, lending him a short space in time, where his consciousness didn’t protest wildly. Shut the fuck up. Bastard. His volcanic mind erupted again.

The girl slunk indoors. Her pouting mouth and coy demeanour belied her age. She wasn’t fifteen. At least twenty-five, but she knew from experience that men, foreigners in particular, preferred  woman young. Fifteen to eighteen. Resulting in a perpetual battle among females on these male starved islands, to radiate innocence, youth, fresh meat. Naturally at times resulting in comicality and farcical treats of show. Anything to get ahead.

   if you say so
darling
the sun is a blue mirror
leaves are strands of sun in pain
      filled with the nausea    
reacting upon whim
                         for Agnete, May 25th - 2007

VIEW darling video on youTube <<<<<<<<

 

 this tree of cedar
five thousand years here    
stands like a monument     stuck   
in time's throat
just passing thru    
been there
did that

VIEW of cedar video on youTube <<<<<<<<

 

The fabulous shadow of your bewitched cathedral gaze.

Who the devil put that line in my head? Can't seem to get rid of it. Brings me back to your eyes. Back to Mexico. Back to Taxco - and those damned belles. The bells I say, kept us awake for days. What's wrong with those catholics anyway? Who put milk in their honey? And mixed it with lime. Has to be some kind of law against it. The bells, I mean. Not the belles. And who the hell put the devil in my drink.....?......what time is it?....time for another drink, that's what.......Emil......Emil.....the cobalt of your eyes has become embedded in my own, this azure water.....were it not for time, I would kiss your soft masculine lips with all the ecstasy of a rotting carcass, caught inside the termination of a malfunctioning frame.

The reaper. The reaper. I can smell him, and his effervescent evaporating death. The glue in my nostrils distinguish his predatory glare, this succulent fabulous shadow of his bewitched cathedral gaze......Emil....EMIL....why hast thou forsaken me? What's that.....what you say, woman.....bitch!......sure, why not.....it's that time of day....an hour till noon and the ship is doing good speed, riding this steamer into the violence of the sun..... my naked ears are tortured by sirens sweetly singing.....riders on the storm, broken by the evangelical determination of a song sung to the end, not to be unsung.....until death us do reunite, my eternity.........................cathedral sweetheart trauma.......gaze. That one, false move....behind blue eyes. Beyond.

Ever wondered how the metaShaman took care of the worst bitch in the world? Here's how. What he did was construct a metaSoftwareProgram, which was then executed into the metaMainframe via metaHighway.

then she was there singing the brown walls      reverberating light demon       without warning        cutting through the air   like wings     butterfly wings                                                     for Lisbeth, June 20th - 2007 VIEW then video on youTube <<<<<<<<

This is the pregnant moment within the eye of a storm. This is the split second driving truth, like wildfire from the chaos within your eyes - hurt - from betrayal. Like crutches hurtled against glass. Yet another devastating Hart Crane dagger - cutting through air. Like butterflies wings.

starring into the abyss       
eyes gone cold  
pregnant dawn murmurs shattering
insane shadow    sulfurous body   

d r e a m      lost at sea - a novel              

The Studebaker’s doors were wide open. The woods were lovely, dark and deep. And he had promises to keep. And miles to go before he could sleep. Miles to go, before he would sleep. From the opening of one of the doors to the car, the left side door, a body slumped. Hanging half outside the car, as if he had been stopped dead in his tracks, attempting to escape the vehicle. He was a very powerful man, which was why the body hadn’t fallen clear of the car and onto the mossy and tangled forest floor. It was being held up by its own massiveness. Several species of flying insects, had already latched on to his supply of blood, sweat and assorted microorganisms. His protests would have been futile, anyway it didn’t matter. The stupefied expression in his wide open eyes, narrated a tale of confounding surprise. The surprise of dying. He was dead, dead, dead. No longer breathing. Pretty difficult when you are dead.

He had a hole in his head. Right above his right ear. Liquid was pouring out of the hole. Which was not a good thing. The hole in his head, or rather two holes, since there was an exit-hole as well, but this hole was less flamboyant. The entry hole was definitely of recent origin and it had been created by some terrible force and at very close range. As a matter of fact, you couldn’t get any closer than this. The cavity, was the word of a powerful handgun, a revolver, firing a .480 caliber Ruger, which under normal circumstances, would blow the head clean off any unfortunate target. But the head and skull of this victim was so massive, the handgun had only been able to penetrate the skull and exit the same skull, approximately seven inches later. Which didn’t really matter, since the .480 Ruger bullet had fulfilled its objective, by purging the head and its body from exuding further evil. The man would no longer be a nuisance to society. A threat to ordinary, law-abiding citizens.

About ten yards away another, equally powerfully built man, was hovering on his knees, praying for his life or so it seemed. He was visibly shaken, wearing the look of those, who have just experienced sudden, explosive and inexplicable, out-of-the-blue events. Stunned, chocked, paralyzed by fear, but just as much by lack of comprehension concerning what had happened. Just gone down. Like traffic accident victims or plane crash survivors seem to exert. This man was so afraid, you could smell it. He had lost control of his intestines and frankly the odor was unpleasant, as was the lack of character seemingly displayed, in extension thereof. Sniveling, pleading, promises. From a man that size, it seemed almost blasphemous. Bizarre at best.

The final figure in this scene, one of the two alive out of three possible, was not crying. On the contrary he seemed very fit and his body language displayed superiority, carried in a relaxed air. He had a gun in his left hand and its ridiculously short barrel was pointing straight at the sniveling mans head. The diminutive hand-gun was officially a hunting and target practice piece of no-nonsense trickery, but it could also be used for other things. Other kinds of action. Such as threatening. Coercing. Exhibiting anger. Here was a textbook case of insignificant but lethal. The man brandishing the dwarf-sized handgun, was himself rather large. As a matter of fact he was as large as the dead man in the car door and the whimpering man on his knees. Larger even. At least taller.

That fact and the fact he had just killed one of the two other men, as easily as if he was taking candy from that trademark baby, somehow did exacerbate the seriousness of the kneeling mans misfortune, in a few minutes revolving full circle, from in-charge inquisitioner, one half of a fearless, successful, enforcer duo into defenseless patsy, Joe Doe. Big little man. And all because of the ill will, exerted by one man and his trivial looking snubnosed sidekick. Like a cobra, taunted into retaliation, the combined efforts of Eduardo and his favorite deputy, the Super Redhawk .480 Ruger Alaskan, had turned tables and Eduardo was demanding answers. Lots of answers. Gun barrel in your mouth kind of answers. Fast. There were no two ways of viewing that situation. He was angry and he wanted to know what was going on. Now, not in two minutes. NOW, or else……

........A dude ranch. Hmmm. Perhaps not a bad idea, Eduardo was reflecting, just as the slick, white and maroon colored, 1955 Studebaker President State Sedan, resembling a shark slid through the tremble of posh Alto de Santo Amaro evening, streamline and mean. With edgy young couples and more boisterous families promenading, throwing glances at the low-humming cruiser, looking like it was about to devour that sold looking gent, dressed in black suit, hat pulled down, hanging at a lamppost. Sweating.

“Get in”, a voice from the drivers seat commanded. Reaching Eduardos ear, wrapped in an accent he couldn’t place right away, but knew he had had heard before. And not a tone of voice anyone was likely to question either. Eduardo intended doing as he was told. He had to hand it to his boss.

First the sex part and now this. What a flashy vehicle. Eduardo was impressed. Real impressed.

“Where should I sit” he asked, noticing there were two available seats, one up front and one in back, holding the door, waiting for the reply.

“Get in” the guy in the back echoed, just as brusquely as the driver had, and in the same recognizable accent he just couldn’t place. And Eduardo was impressed. The way they spoke to him. El Ogro, underworld notoriety, serious enforcer, made it clear this was the cream of all villainousness represented. Anyone else from the nether plane, would’ve appended most sentences addressed in his direction with Sir. Deciding not to ride his luck and repeat the query, he got in the back, partly because that option made him feel better. Less prone to accidents, less exposed than the front seat. Explanations unnecessary, huh?

He got in the back seat and the car drove away, this time more in tune with its character, pushing the speed limits along the avenue instantly. Eduardo wondered where they were headed and why they were leaving the vicinity of the imperious yellow hotel. Then he realized they were heading for the airport. Shortly thereafter he had to accept his job was most likely over. Maybe cut short, maybe something had happened and the boss had had a change of heart. None of these two gents, both in their mid-thirties, looked like they were about to share, either their thoughts or enlighten his curiosity. They just stared straight ahead, not even bothering to look at him.

The problem, or rather one of them was, he couldn’t place their origin, which was strange, since Eduardo had been to every shade on the planet. He was usually able to correctly place ethnicity, within ten seconds at the most. If only these dudes would say something in their native tongue and he would in all probability have them pegged. And most likely immediately recognize, if he was in a fix or not. But the dudes were silent as graves. Dead silent. Nothing, no hint. Eduardo felt his adrenaline pumping like crazy. His mind was firing all cylinders. In all directions.

He was prepared for anything. Worst case scenario. Friendly fire? Getting done for being an accomplice, to something Eduardo had no idea, in his rather square-shaped head, what was all about. But he came to the conclusion, being a seasoned killer hisself, these guys were just escorting him to the airport. Killers about to whack someone, especially other killers, smell differently. They release a remarkable odor. Fear, nervous energy, madness, lust. All kinds of aromatic distinctiveness and these gents were just stone cold voids. Might as well be made of marble and live in a museum. Still, he clenched his fists and mentally went through the spinal routine, of what to do, how to reach his knife sheathed inside his shirt and better still his hand-gun strapped to his ankle, should things get messy. With him as clear underdog, for once. Very precarious situation indeed for our Eduardo. Eduardo Grazziano. Jack of all trades. El Ogro. Maybe it was all in his head...............

...................Eduardo was getting more worried by the minute. He had a 2½ inch snub-nosed with crowned barrel, satin-stainless finish, Ruger revolver with Hogue/Tamer monogrip, Sorbothane insert to help cushion recoil, harboring six .480 Ruger caliber ammo, nestled inside a black Alaskan nylon holster manufactured by Michael’s of Oregon. Strapped to his left ankle and that was side where the other guy was seated, meaning he couldn’t even put his hand anywhere near his gun, thereby risking tipping him off. He also had eighteen extra bullets in a magazine carrier strapped to a Ruger Leather Black Sport Belt. This gave him options, but it was crucial, should his paranoia pay off and he had to fend for his life, that he gain some distance between him and his could-be-assassins, at least two to three yards and preferably behind some kind of cover. He also had a deadly Ruger lightweight hunter knife, with red rubberized handle. Good, solid, no-nonsense grip. 10 inch overall with 5 inches of swept skinner blade, a reception gift from an Afghan warlord, whom he was hired by to take out a certain dangerous individual, incognito max stuff, which he did, using the dagger, before using the silenced Redhawk. Though not too fond of the associated, harrowing narrow-escape memories.

The surprisingly slim, yet robust dagger, was securely lodged in a shouldered nylon sheath. All made in good ole USA. He could get at it with either hand. It was point blank lethal, due to its blade curvature and it was his only option, lest reaching his revolver was blocked and should the bad deed unfold inside the vehicle, now traveling at eighty miles an hour, north-bound. The airport had long since been discarded as possible destination. They could be in Porto soon at this rate. Somewhat unlikely. Putting himself in their position, ruining the interior of this beastly fine car, seemed far fetched. They knew he was a pro killer, he was probably the most notorious contract killer still performing. So it was more probable, any kind of bumping off at his expense, would mean exiting the vehicle and that is where he would go for his double-action Redhawk and start barking, while unloading the magazine from his Ruger belt simultaneously, as he pounced for nearest cover.

“Don’t worry”, the dude up front driving suddenly said, looking at him through the rear-view mirror, “we’re not gonna axe you”. His pal behind him and next to Eduardo, turned his head and smiled at him reassuringly. “There has been a change of plans, that’s all”, the second dude, now smiling and looking friendly, continued. “So you don’t have to make self-defense plans either, we know you have an ankle-gun and shoulder–knife too”. Eduardo had to admit, he was taken aback and with the two honcho’s breaking into guffawing, marveling at their own wit and perception, at Eduardos expense, it was difficult to suppress his annoyance. But he did. Instead he started asking questions.

Like “When can I get back to my hotel. All my heavy stuff is there, not a joke if they are found by the police?”

“Your stuff is in the trunk. We took the liberty of checking you and your luggage out of the hotel. They know us. And we did remember your toothbrush”. More guffawing, which didn’t help improve Eduardo's mood, but at least they had his stuff in the car.

Next question, “”Where are we headed?”.

“North, that’s all we can say. Not far from a city called Coimbra, a village outside, probably thirty miles or so. The name is irrelevant. But anyway, it’s called Simontorta, weird name, huh? We still have at least sixty to seventy miles left, so snuggle in, feel free to ask, we’ll see if we can answer, not to private okay. We really don’t care about each others personal lives, do we…..haw-haw……”. Both of them seemed to relish that one.

“When can we stop, so I can pay a visit to the head?”, Eduardo was so free as to inquire.

“We’ll stop half-way, grab a coff, hit the john, bum a fag, down some grub, fondle a dirty magazine. Whatever. Can you hold it till then?”, the backseat guy asked.

 “Sure thing”, Eduardo said, knowing it would give him ample time to think his situation through. Heading for central Portugal, Sima-something. His plans all fucked up. And were these guys legit? Who said they weren’t just trying to make him relax, so it would be easier for them to off him somewhere? Why should the name of the village they were headed, be irrelevant? Could be a slip from their side? Did that mean he wouldn’t be able to care anyway, what it was called? Everywhere he looked he saw secluded spots. Hills, mountains, gullies, forests, vast ranges, rivers. This place was paradise for killers looking to stash a freeze. Eduardo shuddered, his body still tense. Ready for worst-case-scenario type action. Better not be too cushy about this. If they actually did stop at a café somewhere, that would change things, meaning they probably were just taking him to the boss. The Jewish guy who had hired him for surveillance. Until then, half an hour or so, it was about not relaxing one bit. Not even one bit!.........................

.............With the seven year anniversary of nine-eleven looming a little more than a month ahead, Eduardo was reminiscing the day he was momentarily stuck on the 37th floor of the North Tower. He was there on a job. Nothing easier than doing what he did best, fulfilling a contract, with thousands of people milling about, everyone mostly strangers to each other. As easy, as if he been alone with his prey and the vicinity vacuumed of witnesses for miles around. Later, while pouring over the pictures of the three thousand victims, he realized that  his contracted target was among those officially deceased, which left him with half his pay, twenty-five thousand dollars, solely because of the force majeure aspect. And the fact Eduardo had succeeded in convincing the bad guys who hired him, he had actually snuffed the target, only ten minutes before the plane struck and arguing that most on the 37th floor survived the event.

He could not prove his murder, damn, but his contractors couldn’t disprove either, that he had fulfilled his contract before ground zero became ground zero, even though it was a lie, therefore ending in the settlement. Not a bad deal for Eduardo. He regarded the lie as part of the job. Hazard benefit or we’re sorry you almost got killed by turrorists doing a job for us Eduardo refund. In real life, Eduardo had not yet located his target, before he died from a heart attack, because of the event. Suffering from a rare, genetic flaw, unknown to him or his connected stats. But lucky for Eduardo. Win some, lose others…………

The nine-eleven episode was in many ways, the prototypical situation for Eduardo. Like his victims, he was often, for reasons only explicable as destiny, karma, fate and down that road, finding himself in last moment escape situations and freak luck getaways. It was uncanny. He had become accustomed to it, it was now part of his self understanding. Eduardo Grazziano, a.k.a. El Ogro, for hire, for a price. P.S. Moonshines as escape artist. Take the nine-eleven thing. Of all places he had to be there, right there at that particular time. Jeeeez, Eduardo thought, someone has my number. He had no opinion of Osama Bin Laden or the Hijackers or Al Qaida for that matter. His life was far to explosive and primetime packed, for him to have opinions. Harbor that kind of luxury. Only when it came to understanding of methods to pull off some scheme and get away with it, did he pay attention. For professional reasons. No other reason mattered, to him. Some TV-documentary for example. Great for getting ideas. And be tipped off, what route not to venture. That kind of knowledge.

At this moment, four days after escaping the fatal woods, so lovely dark and deep, not far from Zibreira, central Portugal, he was packing a wad into his valise, which he had just unloaded from the Studebaker. He had moments ago received the wad, always cash, remember that son, from an American gentleman. Another ninety thousand euros going into his project, fundamentally supplied by someone else, in this case the two gangsta’s, he reluctantly was forced to bump off. After finalizing the transaction, the gentleman decided to have a coffee at an outdoors, in the little river-based border town, from where Eduardo was about to board a ferry, negotiating the short trip to Spain.

Which he duly did. Eduardo was headed for Seville and the American gent, also the owner of a luxury yacht harbored in Tavira’s rather extravagant pier, was your run-of-the-mill vintage vehicle buff. Eduardo never had it so easy, offloading anything. Ever. He was practically swamped with several offers, just driving about, even just walking, enjoying the quaint, cozy, winding, petit town. His anonymity factor was in danger of becoming potholed. So this guy, a wealthy stock broker from Los Angeles, bent on having it shipped over there, being the most persistent and it seemed, the best prospect, in terms of time period expected to lapse, before unforeseen events could occur. By that time, if anything was to transpire, however unlikely, Eduardo would be long gone and hard to track. He thought Eduardo was headed for outer Mongolia, just dying to take the Nestea plunge and Eduardo did nothing to correct that supposition. Always paid to cover your back. This is hard earned gut experience jiving, so listen up...............

And so it was - tetriano metamorphosed into fabShadow - not only symbolically as seen in the HSS transition into HEC, but literally - behold the wonder - behold the man.