I'm Not An Addict

                   ~Several Days Later~


Dear Honey,

     It was wonderful to talk with you the other day.  I'm glad to hear that your pregnancy is progressing smoothly.  How I wish I could see you and hold you and feel the baby kick inside of you.  Our son!

     I'm not sure that I want to name the baby Stanley Kenneth.  It's awkward to say.  I'm not sure I like that damn Stan too much.  He won't let me near any computers.  And his mother keeps dragging me to "open" meetings of dopers.  I kept telling anyone who would listen that I'm not an addict.  I had a bad time when you left me in Newark.  I didn't know you were pregnant and I didn't know it was mine.  Finally, some old coot named Roger Dodger cornered me and took me out for coffee one night.  I told him the whole story-- that damn Stan and his scary mother both said I ought to.  Apparently he swore an oath or something.  Oh, that's right.  He is a priest.  Seal of the confessional or something like that.  I don't ever want him to babysit little Eduardo.  Only kidding about that part.  A bad joke.  Rodger Dodger is an Episcopalian priest and he lives with his lover.  And no, he doesn't like kids in that way.  Well, the point is, Rodger Dodger carefully explained to Stan and his mum that I'm not an addict.  Even so, that damn woman insists on taking me to open Narcotics Anonymous meetings.  "Shut up and listen," she told me, "Listen to learn and learn to listen."  A couple of times a week there is a meeting of families and friends of dopers at the same time.  She insists I go to that too.  And they got me all the literature.  I've read all the N.A. stuff plus all the C.O.D.A. stuff too.

     I've been calling the baby Eduardo in my head.  It's Hispanic of course.  Good with our cover when we get back together.  You can pick out the middle name, how's that?  Just not Stanley or Kenneth, okay?  (And not your dad's name or my dad's name either).  I think it will be safer for our son if his name is not connected to these two men that are helping us out.  I haven't figured out why they are doing all of this.  Just that they are.  The really good news is that damn Stan says I cannot return to Newark.  I never want to go there again.  Ever.  He said sometime after the baby comes we can settle in someplace for awhile.  The bad news is that I cannot ever show my skills at computers again.  We'll see about that.  I think I can run off of a fingerstick with a vpn and a proxy with a Linux OS.  Naturally, I'd have to have a different alias and all.  I need to hack.  That damn Stan and his mother just don't get it.  It's something that's inside of me.

                             Love Always,


                             Dree

Living in Newark: Settling In, a Dree RainCave FanFic

Stan left.  The cat Majestic sprung from across the room into the lap of Dree RainCave who-- we must admit-- was sitting rather glumly on a rickety metal chair by the kitchen table.  Dree had his head in his hands and sat that way for several minutes.  Majestic flicked his tail around Dree RainCave's face.  When that failed to get his attention, Majestic began kneeding Dree's leg with his two front paws.  Admittedly, his nails had not been cut in quite a long time.  Finally, Majestic bit him on the arm.  Without drawing blood, although the beast certainly was tempted to.

It was Dree's left arm that Majestic bit.  "Dammit it cat," Dree cursed.  He knocked Majestic off of his lap.  The cat landed on the floor with a heavy thud, glared at Dree and immediately jumped back into his lap.  The scene repeated itself several times.  Dree was forced to give up.  A series of head-ramming against Dree's arm yielded some hesitant petting.  Majestic purred.  Dree sneezed.  
Honey finished deftly dividing the clothing into "his," "hers," and "hell no."  She ignored the shouts coming from the kitchenette, pondering her new set of circumstances.  She inspected the contents of the litter box.  Good, at least he doesn't have worms.  She then marched over to the houseplants.  There were six of them, bedraggled and starving from neglect.  She carried them to the tub and then turned on the shower full-force.  Honey watched as torrents of rusty water blasted their leaves and soaked through the mineral-encrusted dirt.  All of them were vines.  She liked flowers and wondered if there were any seedheads in the park across the street she could harvest.  She turned off the water then, noting that the washer for the hot water would soon need replacing and wandered over to the couch.  She squeezed the cushions.  Dust swirled around the room in random patterns.  Honey sighed heavily.  She counted her roll of money that the lawyer guy had given to her-- there were twenty six dollars in stripper singles and two five dollar bills.  At least she had some toiletries in her carry-on bag.  Honey then inspected the bed.  The mattress, to her relief, appeared to be new even if cheap.  She made up the bed and then flopped down on it and slept.

Dree got up from the table finally, shooing Majestic away carefully, and inspected the apartment itself.  He stowed the Obama phone in the freezer after ascertaining that it was turned off.  There were three trays of ice there and five packages of frozen mystery meat, two packages of peas, a package of green beans, and three of orange squash.  The fridge contained a carton of milk, a carton of orange juice [brown-- he knew that had to have come from a food bank], a tub of margarine and a huge jar of grape jelly, and that was all.  He found boxes of cereal on top of the fridge.  In the cabinets were instant coffee, canned soups, rice in one canister and red pinto beans in another.  Some dry cat food sat in a bag by the sink.  Salt and pepper were on a shelf.  No other spices.  Dree found two fry pans, a large pot, a few chipped dishes and bowls, mismatched mugs, the silver-plated silverware.  This really sucks, he thought.  What the hell are we going to eat?  He sneezed again.  The cat followed him around like a dog.  Everytime he stopped moving, Majestic wound himself around one of Dree's legs. 

Dree toured the bathroom-- a few towels, and Honey had laid out some toiletries from her carry-on bag.  There were huge rust stains in the sink and bathtub and toilet bowl.  Otherwise they were clean enough.  Dree noticed the plants on the tub floor with annoyance.  Majestic was purring loudly now.  Dree ignored the massive cat circling his legs and rifled through the cabinet.  There was aspirin but no anti-histamine of any description.  Dree stalked over to the television and turned it on.  The reception sucked.  He turned it back off and flopped down on the couch.  Majestic laid down on Dree's lap and began to wash himself with vigor.  Honey was snoozing on the bed. There wouldn't be any hot steamy sex that night.  Dree heard the tap, tap, tapping on the roof.  Outside, it had begun to rain. 

                                   ~ to be continued ~   

What's Next for Dree RainCave

So, given that the last two entries about Ed Snowd Dree RainCave were fictional, I figure I best tell what really happened.

Dree RainCave had his new identity papers tucked in a compartment of his new cloth travel wallet which was belted around his waist.  He also wore a pair of ill-fitting sandals, some scuffed up jeans which looked like Sally Boutique's rejects-- there were patches all over them plus a thumbnail size hole developing in the "wrong place"-- also; a large floppy washed out pine green tee shirt which proclaimed the word NATIVE in large block letters, and a sombrero which his girlfriend Honey insisted he wear.  "You were born in Reynosa, Mexico" she reminded him.  "You were attending your sister's wedding in Moscow."  He growled at her.  A knock came at the door.  Three stone-faced guards stood stiffly.  "You ready in there?" the senior guard demanded.  "The bus is waiting.  Hurry."

Dree RainCave and Honey, now Mr. and Mrs. Julius Guzman if you please, walked through the door which slammed shut behind them.  The youngest guard indicated the way down the hallway to the winding staircase.  

Not a word was spoken by any of them.  The bus [which the guards all pronounced as buss with sort of an almost long u in spite of hours of English language laboratory practice] was empty save for the five of them and the driver.  It delivered the two passengers directly to the plane.  The three guards made a show of concern that the two suspicious Mexicans [all who stayed at the expensive transient hotel instead of hiding in the hallways and bathrooms were viewed with a collective air of suspicion] boarded the plane rather than eloping down the tarmac to nowhere.  Mr. and Mrs. Julius Guzman were shown to their first class seats.  The bus pulled away.  The announcement on the plane was given for the passengers to fasten their seat-belts.  The plane took off and our two adventurers promptly conked out until touchdown.

The International Airport was a hubbub of activity and pick-pockets on a calm day.  Mr. and Mrs. Guzman deplaned.  A bored-looking man named Stan separated himself from the shadows.  He motioned to them in Ameslam, "This way."  Dree and Honey followed his retreating back.  Just then an alarm interrupted the swirl of conversations around them.  Passengers scattered to the left and to the right.  Stan, Dree, and Honey walked steadily onward toward an unused freight elevator.  Stan withdrew a key from a pocket.  The elevator's ancient doors creaked open and the three friends walked in.  

The alarm continued its' high-pitched squeals as pandemonium reigned on the main floor.  A lone voice instructed everyone via the P.A. system to "stay calm and await orders."  Naturally, no one did.

The elevator bounced and rattled to a sudden stop.  The doors open, revealing the burning sun against a backdrop of truck-lots and junkyards.  Stan, Dree and Honey threw themselves into the back of an old pick-up truck.  They barely had time to flatten themselves on the floor and throw some old smelly blankets over themselves.  The truck took off.  The driver expertly careened through lanes of traffic and out into the bowels of Down Neck.  

The truck lurched to a sudden stop.  Stan said, "Come on.  Hurry."  Dree and Honey jumped from the truck onto the street and looked around.  Slums.  Once again, they found themselves following Stan's back.  This time, they cut through a small park shrewn with steel wool and matches and garbage and then past a fountain that looked like it too-- like the park-- had seen better days.  Water gushed out.  A few kids were using the fountain as a pool and one was using it as a urinal.  Directly across the street from the park was a shack.  Stan led the couple down an alley stinking with heavy smoke and dog shit to a back door.  He worked the locks and with a final kick, the three gained entry.

Inside was an old mangy tomcat of an indeterminate color with one ear chewed off-- Dree regarded it with alarm-- and a few almost dead houseplants, a bed, a couch, an old television set, a kitchenette.  A partially opened door in the corner revealed a dingy bathroom and the location of the litter box.  "The cat's name is 'Majestic' although he doesn't answer to it.  He will keep the local rats from taking over."  Honey sighed.  She thought longingly of her home in Hawaii.  Maybe she could find a way to get away from here.  "Your clothes are in the closet there.  Burn what you have on in the backyard tonight.  No one will notice.  Try hard to blend in."  Dree nodded.  Stan gave both of them a thick wad of cash, mostly singles.  "If you run into trouble, use the Obama phone to call in," Stan indicated a beat-up looking cellphone.  "For crying out loud, don't call from in here and don't leave it turned on.  Call from the fountain at the park."  Dree nodded.  He knew this.  After all, he had insisted that everyone stow their cells in the freezer when they had come to visit him in Hong Kong.  "Food's in the fridge.  Welfare benefit card is by the phone.  Later."  Stan headed to the back door.  "And for crying out loud, stay off the fecking Internet."  Deftly, he scooped up the knapsack that Dree had stowed the four laptops in along with some toiletries and was out the door before Dree could protest.

The couple looked at each other.  "Damn," Dree remarked, "Who would have ever figured that we'd be hiding in New Jersey?"  Honey shrugged.  She headed to the closet to examine the rags she would now be expected to wear.

Majestic uncurled himself slowly from his perch on the space heater and lurched across the room and into the bathroom.  Scratching was heard then and soon the stinky evidence of his doings in there wafted out, curling itself around the two humans.  Dammit, Dree thought.  I'm allergic to cats.

                        ~ to be continued, maybe ~         

Dree Raincave Did Not Die

That last "story" was a tidbit.  A smokescreen.  Dree Raincave didn't land in a tropical paradise.  He is safe.  He is somewhere.  Even his girlfriend Honey doesn't know where.  Wait.  Do you hear that?  The sound of drums off in a distance.  Let's listen.

Narrator:  Dree RainCave is back in the news today after evading U.S. undercover agents in Hong Kong and a foiled drone strike at the Russian airport in Moscow.  Late last night, Dree was spirited out from the window of a secret lounge and taken by flying reindeer to his new home.  We cannot tell you where it is-- only that the natives are all short and slender.  Their leader is a large woman who keeps beating her husband over his bald head with a rolling pin.  It seems they are Arcadian transplants as she has referred to him as "Mister Klaus" several times and threatened his anatomy while doing so.
               The natives have gathered around Dree RainCave [One short person gave me a cup of what seems to be hot chocolate, whispered to me that the proper spelling of his last name is capital R-a-i-n-no space capital-C-a-v-e before dashing off into the writhing bodies dancing madly around a bonfire.  In the distance, reindeer could be heard jousting for the opportunity to be front-runners of an ancient rickety sleigh.
               This is Flop News reporting to you from the Frozen Nort-- Hey give me back my microphone you midget!  We don't have any money in the budget for a repl--

Elven Aggressor:  That's "elf" to you, media whore.  Dree RainCave has been officially welcomed into our community.  He will be given a private igloo on our property and a job inventing robotic toys at our factory.  Now shove off before I throw the lot of you into the ocean.

Narrator:  Hey!  Give me tha--

          ~plunk~      ~plunk plunk~                     ~plunk

Transmission fades out.  

The Death of Dree RainCave

It was another average day of an average life.  Dree woke up still sleepy.  A large bird of some sort-- he thought perhaps it was a macaw-- circled his hammock and settled on a nearby branch.  Something glittered on the bird's leg.

Dree tumbled out of the hammock and carefully picked his way down the hill to the lagoon.  He stepped out of his gauzy shift and tossed it on a nearby boulder.  "Morning love," his sexy girlfriend Honey said.  She motioned to his waiting coffee.  Dree leaned back again the boulder with his brew, enjoying the sight of her supple nakedness as she washed her long hair in the outdoor shower.  

"Join me Dree," Honey intoned, "there's plenty of water."  Dree set his cup down on the boulder.  He bolted for the shower spray.  "Got you!" he yelled.  He embraced her, breathing deeply of the hibiscus soap she used.  She flipped him over suddenly.  He landed on his back, feeling the wetness of the planks underneath him.

A red feather drifted downward and suddenly everything went dark.  The spray of bullets washed over the lovers.  Up and away the macabre macaw flew, mission accomplished.