Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I'm so confused! Flirting with you should be negative reinforcement?And this girl believes in just the opposite... so watch it!
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The Agent, The Girl, and the Fidelistas
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
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Always a good idea to keep guys confused. Basic tactic for all women. Confuse and conquer, right?
He's got Barb sussed, sure enough!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
There the girls go again, using wiles and reverse psychology and brainpower to confuse men! Warning, be careful! If you confuse us men (which isn't hard to do, BTW), we'll have to go back to out best and oldest tactic.!
Knock you over the head with a club and drag you by the hair back to our cave...er...I mean the man-cave in our rented condo!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
If you were my agent, I'd work hard to keep you sense arous.....er...alert!An agent has to keep all senses alert....
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
The aroma of a fine Cuban Cigar?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
An author referenced in upcoming Chapter Ten is Lawrence Block. Here is one of his covers. One suspects it is full of gratuitous sex and violence.
OK by me!
OK by me!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Isn't it nice how that girl can hide a kitchen in her tight little...please wash before chopping the vegetables.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Kitchen knife! The is a frequent need to emendate my posts!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
For the whole kitchen you would need big, fat butt, not tight, little. apologies Oh lovely one!It’s hardly the whole kitchen, just a kitchen knife
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
How true!!!While our stories here are full of entirely necessary sex and violence
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Yes, Eulalia! The key point is its necessary!
connoisseurs
Senator
That pistole is only good for beating your outfitter. You make more damage throwing the cartridge than shooting them with the PPK
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Chapter Ten -(recommend reading slowly)
CIA Censor: Security details properly redacted or omitted.
October 10, 1960 4:05 PM; near Playa Larga. Provincia Santa Clara, República de Cuba.
When someone is waiting to shoot you as you come around a door, they usually have their gun aimed where they expect your heart to be. My best tactic is to go low, in a deep knee bend. I did that as I came around the door frame and faced squarely into the barn. No one shot at me.
At that moment I drew on thirteen years of training and experience, lessons that had been drilled into my brain over and over and over.
From my position, I could see most of the interior, but I couldn’t assume I wasn’t missing something. Slowly and carefully I searched the entire interior of the barn, leaving no corner or stall uninspected.
Then I went back outside and did an equally careful, thorough search of the perimeter to guarantee there were no Fidelistas around. Once I had completed that, I entered the barn again, facing straight at the back wall. The scene was exactly as it had been when I entered before. I was staring at the body of my dear {Eula}. Then, and only then, I fell to my knees and cried like a baby.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
A couple of minutes later, I got up on my feet and walked close to the young woman who had been so full of life just a day before, laughing and joking about rolling cigars on her “virgin” thighs. I forced myself to look closely at her; I looked at her tortured and broken body. I needed to see her as she was. I owed that to her. Someone who cared for her, who loved her, and would be there as a witness that she had been a special person.
The men who had done this had made her last hour on earth a living hell. They had laughed; they had mocked her as they hurt her. They had taunted her and had humiliated her, even as their physical cruelty had inflicted searing, unendurable pain upon her young body. These men had hated her and had wanted to destroy the beauty and the love of life in her; they had wanted her to never have mattered.
I, who loved her, needed to speak out loud and clear and from the heart.
“I’m sorry, {Eula} you mattered”
A six foot by half foot plank was newly nailed to the back wall about six feet off the ground. {Eula}’s arms were spread on the plank with her wrists nailed to it. Her body was in an “X” as her legs were stretched painfully wide with slip knots of barbed wire around her delicate ankles and tied to beams.
Her midsection was covered by cutting whip marks, her breasts and cunt seemed to have been subjected to repeated and deep burning both from irons and torches and every inch of those fair treasures of loveflesh was burned and blackened. What had been a cute, deep navel was mutilated by an angry red burn. Deep red welts covered her sides and arms and legs. All her toenails were gone.
Her head was high and her lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. A strand of barbed wire had been put in a noose around her neck and hauled tight and high to the wall, almost decapitating her.
Strangely, as I stood there, taking the horror of it all in, the thing I most hated was the buzz of dozens of flies drinking her sacred blood.
Then, {Windar}came around the door, weapon at the ready as I had taught him. He relaxed at first as he saw me, then froze when he saw his sister. His face turned beet red, he dropped his gun and let out one of the saddest groans I’ve ever heard. Then, just as I had done, he dropped to his knees and cried.
I felt for the boy more than you can know, but a voice in my head told me I didn’t have much time. I let him sob while going around the barn to look for things I needed and planning my next move. After a few minutes, I grabbed {Windar}’s shoulder tightly and said. “We have things we must do; for her and for others.”
The boy showed his quality then. He dug deep in his grief and seemed to tap some of his sister’s strength. Tears still flowing, sobs still racking his body, he nodded. I got him up, and together we used the hammer, pliers and cutters that I had gathered to release {Eula}’s body from the wall. Lovingly, we laid her gently on the straw covered eaeth.
I explained what I had to do and what he could do to avenge this detestable crime. He nodded. If {Windar} agreed with something, even with the slightest nod, I knew there wasn’t a force on earth to stop him from following through.
I left him, kneeling, still sobbing over the body of his sister. I ran at three quarter speed through the underbrush toward the dinghy. My head kept hearing, now louder:
Something had gone terribly wrong.
Author’s Personal Comment.
{Eula}’s death affected me deeply. Even 27 years later, the wound isn’t healed and drives pain deep into my heart.
I have seen many agents killed, some horribly killed; but none, before or since seemed as cruelly unfair and against nature as was {Eula}’s. While she could be tough and domineering and certainly did not suffer fools lightly, she had an amazing joy of people and life at 19. Her faith and her dedication to her martyred namesake set her apart from any that I have known. Her death was the closest thing to a modern martyrdom that could possibly happen.
I suspect that it is impossible for you to understand my feelings of celebración, celebration, when I heard in 1967 that Che had been executed in Bolivia. Some people call him a martyr. I know that he and his Fidelistas were devils and the true martyr was {Eula}.
A few years back I was approached by a crime series writer in New York, named Lawrence Block. He had good police and intelligence sources and had gotten wind of {Eula}’s story. He wanted to know if I could tell him more. Being very protective of her memory, I hesitated. After a few weeks, I agreed to meet. Then, we met frequently for over a year. I came to see he also appreciated {Eula} and wanted to honor her memory. My mission was and is still classified, and {Eula}’s part was cut so tragically short that it clearly couldn’t be told as it really happened. We came up with the idea for a totally fictional book about {Eula} being leader of a group trying to assassinate Castro. The story there is made up, but the depiction of {Eula} is faithful and true. The book came out quite well, I have attached a copy of the paperback cover for reference.
The model doesn’t really look like {Eula}, she was taller and slimmer, and prettier. For my money, she was also much sexier. But the pose and expression do somewhat capture {Eula}’s determination.
Rest in peace, my {Eula}.
CIA Censor: Security details properly redacted or omitted.
October 10, 1960 4:05 PM; near Playa Larga. Provincia Santa Clara, República de Cuba.
When someone is waiting to shoot you as you come around a door, they usually have their gun aimed where they expect your heart to be. My best tactic is to go low, in a deep knee bend. I did that as I came around the door frame and faced squarely into the barn. No one shot at me.
At that moment I drew on thirteen years of training and experience, lessons that had been drilled into my brain over and over and over.
From my position, I could see most of the interior, but I couldn’t assume I wasn’t missing something. Slowly and carefully I searched the entire interior of the barn, leaving no corner or stall uninspected.
Then I went back outside and did an equally careful, thorough search of the perimeter to guarantee there were no Fidelistas around. Once I had completed that, I entered the barn again, facing straight at the back wall. The scene was exactly as it had been when I entered before. I was staring at the body of my dear {Eula}. Then, and only then, I fell to my knees and cried like a baby.
Something had gone terribly wrong.
A couple of minutes later, I got up on my feet and walked close to the young woman who had been so full of life just a day before, laughing and joking about rolling cigars on her “virgin” thighs. I forced myself to look closely at her; I looked at her tortured and broken body. I needed to see her as she was. I owed that to her. Someone who cared for her, who loved her, and would be there as a witness that she had been a special person.
The men who had done this had made her last hour on earth a living hell. They had laughed; they had mocked her as they hurt her. They had taunted her and had humiliated her, even as their physical cruelty had inflicted searing, unendurable pain upon her young body. These men had hated her and had wanted to destroy the beauty and the love of life in her; they had wanted her to never have mattered.
I, who loved her, needed to speak out loud and clear and from the heart.
“I’m sorry, {Eula} you mattered”
A six foot by half foot plank was newly nailed to the back wall about six feet off the ground. {Eula}’s arms were spread on the plank with her wrists nailed to it. Her body was in an “X” as her legs were stretched painfully wide with slip knots of barbed wire around her delicate ankles and tied to beams.
Her midsection was covered by cutting whip marks, her breasts and cunt seemed to have been subjected to repeated and deep burning both from irons and torches and every inch of those fair treasures of loveflesh was burned and blackened. What had been a cute, deep navel was mutilated by an angry red burn. Deep red welts covered her sides and arms and legs. All her toenails were gone.
Her head was high and her lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. A strand of barbed wire had been put in a noose around her neck and hauled tight and high to the wall, almost decapitating her.
Strangely, as I stood there, taking the horror of it all in, the thing I most hated was the buzz of dozens of flies drinking her sacred blood.
Then, {Windar}came around the door, weapon at the ready as I had taught him. He relaxed at first as he saw me, then froze when he saw his sister. His face turned beet red, he dropped his gun and let out one of the saddest groans I’ve ever heard. Then, just as I had done, he dropped to his knees and cried.
I felt for the boy more than you can know, but a voice in my head told me I didn’t have much time. I let him sob while going around the barn to look for things I needed and planning my next move. After a few minutes, I grabbed {Windar}’s shoulder tightly and said. “We have things we must do; for her and for others.”
The boy showed his quality then. He dug deep in his grief and seemed to tap some of his sister’s strength. Tears still flowing, sobs still racking his body, he nodded. I got him up, and together we used the hammer, pliers and cutters that I had gathered to release {Eula}’s body from the wall. Lovingly, we laid her gently on the straw covered eaeth.
I explained what I had to do and what he could do to avenge this detestable crime. He nodded. If {Windar} agreed with something, even with the slightest nod, I knew there wasn’t a force on earth to stop him from following through.
I left him, kneeling, still sobbing over the body of his sister. I ran at three quarter speed through the underbrush toward the dinghy. My head kept hearing, now louder:
Something had gone terribly wrong.
Author’s Personal Comment.
{Eula}’s death affected me deeply. Even 27 years later, the wound isn’t healed and drives pain deep into my heart.
I have seen many agents killed, some horribly killed; but none, before or since seemed as cruelly unfair and against nature as was {Eula}’s. While she could be tough and domineering and certainly did not suffer fools lightly, she had an amazing joy of people and life at 19. Her faith and her dedication to her martyred namesake set her apart from any that I have known. Her death was the closest thing to a modern martyrdom that could possibly happen.
I suspect that it is impossible for you to understand my feelings of celebración, celebration, when I heard in 1967 that Che had been executed in Bolivia. Some people call him a martyr. I know that he and his Fidelistas were devils and the true martyr was {Eula}.
A few years back I was approached by a crime series writer in New York, named Lawrence Block. He had good police and intelligence sources and had gotten wind of {Eula}’s story. He wanted to know if I could tell him more. Being very protective of her memory, I hesitated. After a few weeks, I agreed to meet. Then, we met frequently for over a year. I came to see he also appreciated {Eula} and wanted to honor her memory. My mission was and is still classified, and {Eula}’s part was cut so tragically short that it clearly couldn’t be told as it really happened. We came up with the idea for a totally fictional book about {Eula} being leader of a group trying to assassinate Castro. The story there is made up, but the depiction of {Eula} is faithful and true. The book came out quite well, I have attached a copy of the paperback cover for reference.
The model doesn’t really look like {Eula}, she was taller and slimmer, and prettier. For my money, she was also much sexier. But the pose and expression do somewhat capture {Eula}’s determination.
Rest in peace, my {Eula}.
That pistole is only good for beating your outfitter. You make more damage throwing the cartridge than shooting them with the PPK
Making a note of that ... they never said that at the academy 
One last gruesome touch to an already macabre scene ... bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I am not a gun expert, and the author is unavailable. But quoting from "The Shooters Log" (http://blog.cheaperthandirt.com/walther-ppk-good-carry-gun/)That pistole is only good for beating your outfitter. You make more damage throwing the cartridge than shooting them with the PPK
"Among the most respected small self-loading pistols is the Walther PPK."
"The PPK became known as the carry gun of one Bond, James Bond. I do not wear a tuxedo, and I drive a Ford Truck, not an Aston Martin. However, I still appreciate the Walther PPK. It is a simple pistol in most ways. The trigger action is double-action, first-shot, and the operating action is a simple blow-back without the complication of a locked breech."
"It is heavier for a reason. The recoil is light, and the pistol is also very accurate, even surprisingly so."