Sheriff of Cheyenne







White clouds streaked against the blue sky. From this elevation, I could see the whole valley sweeping below and to the ridgeline beyond.
It was the edge of dark when I finally rode into the fairgrounds on the outskirts of Cheyenne.
I recalled how this place was nothin’ but one street with a hotel and a saloon and occasional gunfire. Now we got us a church, a store and a place to bury people properly. Even the ladies in the saloon are darn good at singin’ them songs they know and I swore to fight anyone I had to so to keep it good.
My body ached as I climbed the rail to watch as a horse finished up bucking in a tight circle in front of the catch pen. Old age is a cruel thing. It lays waste to body and mind and I damn well felt it after riding all day.
The whistle blew, so the rider grabbed his rein with his free hand and looked for the pickup men. Just another day at the office, I guess, or so I thought.
I heard a shot ring out in the crowd. The horse was still bucking his ass off in a circle. The pickup men were having trouble riding in to get him.
I looked around as I jumped off the rail and ran over to where Old Waco Thompson, one of my deputies who served mostly as the jailer, stood slouching. He was one of those men, born with nothing, who had spent his life proving he could be less than that. He was in his work clothes, a denim shirt and denim pants that were hitched low and a corral-stained western hat cocked on his head. He was in his late thirties, pushing six feet tall. He was tough and stubborn, but not very ambitious, a combination that could make you someone’s lackey or, at the very least, dead. The Wyoming wind and a few well-placed fists had hardened his face. His nose was slanted from an old break .
He was studying the cartridges in his hand before he inserted them in the loops in his belt.
He looked up at me and stood, fingering out a cigarette and lighting it with a kitchen match.
“Didn’t you hear that?” I shouted.
“Yep, sure did, Sheriff.”
“You know what happened here?”
“The son of a bitch was shot,” he said, pointing to a small patch of gravel and grass, and a body stained and coated with what I knew wasn’t rust.
“Who is he?”
“Don’t know, Sheriff; don’t think I never seen him before.”
I walked up and turned the body over. It was Juan Guitterez.
“Do you know who shot him?”
“Kid over there. Killed ‘cause he draw’d down on him, so’s he said, Sheriff. Here’s the gun that did it.”
He handed over the gun and I sniffed the chamber and sighted down the barrel for burned powder. It had been fired. I looked at the young man sitting on a bale of hay. I could see his face was written on by the wind and sun and he had a body shaped by working in the outdoors. The boy definitely belonged in the open.
“This gun’s in bad shape, Waco. Looks like it was used hard at one time.”
“I guess, but it still shoots purty good. Just look at ol’ Tex-Mex over there.”
“He’s dead all right. What was he doing?”
“He and another one was breakin’ in that trailer over there and running out with a bunch of stuff and throwing it on their burros. When that boy told ‘em to stop. Guess they didn’t, so he dropped ‘im.
“Where’s the other one?”
“Got away, I guess. He rode off on one of the damn burros with a bunch of the boy’s stuff. The boy said he woulda got him too if that damn old Colt hadn’t a misfired. One thing I would bet on. He ain’t dead, damn your eyes. The boy said he climbed that ridge,” nodding his head in the direction of the Grand Tetons far off in the distance. Wish’d I’d had my horse. I woulda got ‘im, that’s for sure.”
His eyes were streaked with red and his face was swollen, most likely from crying.
I did feel sorry for him.
“What’s your name son?”
“Ryan, Ryan Jackson, from Meeteetse”

“Long way from home, ain’t you. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I was down watchin’ the boys work the horses when I noticed some goin’ ons up here that just din’t look natural. So I mosied on over and caught this beaner and one of his friends stealin’ my stuff outta my trailer here. I dropped that son of a bitch, but his compadre got away with all my belongings. Now I ain’t got nuthin’ but what’s on me. Took what little money I had too. Damn, wisht I woulda plugged the other one too.”
“Aha, that so?”
“Yep, good thing I had that ol’ Colt with me or I’d a be lying where that beaner is lying now.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Cuff this boy and take him to the jail and book him for murder?”
“You heard me. I’ll be along shortly.”
The boy stared at me with hate filled eyes and said, “The hell you will,” and reached behind his back and brought out a small revolver, pointing it at my face.
Damn Waco, I thought, he should have made sure this boy was disarmed.
“Now listen to me, Ryan Jackson from Meeteetse, put that gun down before someone gets hurt.”
“It’s gonna be you, Sheriff,” he said cocking back the hammer.
My hand went down to my sidearm and I was clearing leather before young Ryan could blink. My .44 caliber round pierced his neck and he dropped to the ground, bleeding out next to Juan.
“Why’d you have to go and do that, Sheriff?” Waco asked.
“Waco, if you’d a been a little more alert, you’d a known that Juan is blind. Has been all his life. No way he could have drawed down on that boy. That little burro of his carried his entire life possessions and lead him around Cheyenne like a seeing eye dog. I have known Juan his whole life and he was the nicest young man I knew and he wouldn’t steal from anybody. I’d stake my life on it.”
“But what about the other beaner?”
“There wasn’t another beaner, Waco. Ryan said he took off in the direction I had just ridden in from. If there was someone heading out that way, I would have passed him. I was the only soul on that ridge today.”

Beanie and Ike Cowboy Up





Sometimes there are two rodeos, one inside the arena and one outside. No buckles are awarded for the one outside.
When the sun goes down the west Texas heat lets up a bit making it tolerable to sit outside at night and enjoy the quiet of the evening.
Beanie Franklin and Ike Stovall were sittin’ on the rail watching the stock eat the hay they had just thrown out. Ike watched Beanie as he took his time filling a blanket. He twisted both ends and licked the entire stick with his tongue before placing it in the corner of his mouth. He struck a match against his leather chaps, lighting the freshly rolled cigarette. He squinted as the smoke rolled out of the side of his mouth and drifted up into his eyes.
“That little one is fine as cream gravy,” Beanie said, as he exhaled a stream of blue smoke.
“Yep, but you don’t want to get by that boy’s ears,” Ike replied. “That gray one over there the horse you rode today?” Ike asked, pointing in the direction of a dapple gray gelding.
“Yep, he just didn’t seem to have it. He is just plum fagged out. Four years ago he bucked me off and hung me up and dragged me for a few trips around the arena before I learned saddle broncs and I don’t mix too well. Then I went bareback. That was ‘bout three years ago. He’s been around a long time. These damn small rodeos ain’t got the cash to bring in good stock like they should.”
“How’d that bareback work out for ya’?”
“Not much better. I got jerked down in the well and stomped on a few times. Now I do a little roping’ and ride pick up whenever I can land a gig. When you’re younger you live like the road goes on forever and the party never ends. But it ain’t long before you begin to see the bend in the road and you begin to fear what’s around that bend, the unknown.”
They both sat and let the quiet of the evening settle in while listening to the stock quietly chomp on the hay.
“Well,” Beanie said while standing and slapping his thighs, “if that sun don’t come up tomorrow, you’ll know I at least had a good ride. You hungry?”
“Yeah, how’s the food at that joint, the Crystal Cactus?”
“Purty good and so are the drinks. It’s a right nice place. They even give you eaten’ irons but it’s the afterclaps you gotta look out for. I was on the shitter all night the last time I ate there.”
They heard a gunshot, then another before the telltale crash of panels and a cry, “Get the horses saddled.” It was the night watchman, Felix Dunn.
“Who fired them shots, Felix?”
“A couple of ol’ drunks came ridin’ through here yellin’ and a cussin’ and firing their dadgum pistols.”
They looked up and watched as a corral full of bulls came running past, led by none other than Dirty Sam, one of the meanest bulls neither of them never rode and never wanted to.
“Did you see that? It was Dirty Sam. He lit out of town like his dick was on fire.”
“Well, let’s go git him.”
They grabbed their saddles and tacked up their horses and took off after a half dozen crazy-ass bulls as they left the fairgrounds toward the stockyards that ran parallel to the tracks of the Santa Fe Railroad.
Beanie and Ike were just about to catch up with the rest of the cowboys when someone yelled out, “There they are,” pointing in the direction of the levee road that snakes its way east toward Pumpkin Vine Creek.
They all turned and headed out at full gallop, the steel shoes of the horses throwing sparks off the asphalt as they rode in pursuit of the bulls.
As they got closer, one cowboy tossed his rope around Dirty Sam’s big old horns and proceeded to dally it around the saddle horn when Dirty Sam busted free, taking the rope with him while he headed back for the train tracks and a platform loaded with boxes with the rest of the bulls following him. As they passed the startled cowboys one of the horses reared, tossing its rider in the tall grass lining the road. The riderless horse took off in the direction of the bulls with the rest of the cowboys in close pursuit.
When they arrived at the platform, Dirty Sam proceeded to hook the boxes and toss them all over the yard while the other bulls stomped on the contents that spilled out on the ground.
A train whistle and the clanging of metal on metal startled old Dirty Sam and he turned and ran off across the tracks and dropped down. His left front leg got stuck under the rail and was broken and twisted grotesquely in an oblique and unnatural angle to the rest of his body. He was snorting and bellowing in obvious pain while the rest of the bulls, not knowing what to do or where to go, just stood there milling around.
“Well, one of us has gotta fix his flint,” Beanie said. “You been know’d to always carry an equalizer, Ike. You got a rifle in that scabbard?”
“Ya, I got one. Damn!”
“Just put it between his eyes and git it over with.”
“I can’t do it Beanie.”
Dirty Sam let out a deep moan and whipped his head back and forth slinging snot over Beanie and Ike’s legs and both their horses. His eyes were red and still filled with hate.
“Aw hell,” Beanie said, dismounting from his horse. “Gimmie your gun.”
The crack of the rifle echoed in the night. Ol’ Beanie’s eyes filled with tears.
“It ain’t right, Beanie. Dirty Sam shouldn’t have ta go this way. He was one of the best there ever was.”
About this time a couple of railroad dicks drove up in a white pickup truck with blue lights flashing on the top of the cab.
They saw the carnage and what was left of Dirty Sam and asked, “What in the cornbread hell is goin’ on?” the bigger of the two dicks asked.
“A little rodeo,” Ike replied.
“Well, who’s going to clean up this mess?”
“I reckon you should call the owner of the fairgrounds back there. We’ll take the rest of these bulls back and put ‘em away. They played enough for one day.”
“That’s it boys, the monkey’s dead and the shows over. Let’s throw a rope around Dirty Sam and get him off the track and get the rest of these boys back so we can go eat.”

An Old Cowboy Just Doesn’t Know When To Quit

Mustangs Rounded up by Helicopter copy-small-17

Ol’ Jughead Thompson and me were leavin’ outta Spooner, Wisconsin heading for Eau Claire for our next rodeo. It was 11:00 pm Friday, August the fourth and we had to be in Eau Claire by 10:00 am Saturday for the draw for Saturday night’s rodeo. We got a late start because we had to wait for Jughead to stop pissin’ blood.

I been knowin’ Jughead for going on thirty years now and I was hopin’ he learned a lesson in Spooner. At least he wouldn’t take a full finger tuck this time. He would play by the rules. Earlier tonight his bronc stood quietly as he pulled his riggin’. When he nodded, I opened the gate and he got wadded up into the gate. I thought they would give him another chance to nod but before he could get settled back in, that big flathead saw the crack in the gate and he blew out of the chute. His head, neck, and everything just disappeared as he bucked and kicked. For a moment ol’ Jughead actually looked like a bareback rider again until that damn flathead jerked the handhold out of his hand and it wasn’t long before Jughead was flat on his back. He was out for a few seconds and didn’t remember much when he came to. He said he recalled the horse’s head almost touching the ground and then the lights went out.

We picked him up and loaded him in my rig and then I went and got our horses and loaded them before we took off for the Spooner Hospital.

The doctor there in the ER wanted Jughead to spend the night but he didn’t want to forfeit his rodeo fee in Eau Claire, so we left. We no sooner hit the outskirts of town when I had to stop so he could piss out some blood.

My name is Bill Toft. My friends call me Buck, or when they are jabbin’ at me, Buck Toff. When I was younger, I rode saddle broncs and bare backs, but now I’m too old for that. No way I want to put myself through that pain anymore. My body hurts just gettin’ outta’ bed every mornin’

We arrived in Eau Claire in the middle of a heavy rain. Jughead drew #88 name of Widow Maker.

“I’m gettin’ on that son of a bitch,” Jughead declared.

“Don’t you think it’s about time you acknowledge the corn. You just ain’t made out for riding bucking stock. You have a lot of heart, little talent, and no quit in you. Like a bull, you don’t know when to quit. That’s a recipe for a quick death, little buddy. Let’s just stick to being pick up riders and hauling rodeo stock and leave the rest of this shit to the young ones. You ain’t going to like hearing this, Jughead, but…”

“Some things are better off left unsaid,” Jughead replied, glaring at me.“But you are going to say it anyway, aren’t you,Buck?”

“Yep, can’t help myself. If you do this, you will be sucking blended food through a straw for the next six months. Worse case, you’re going to end up in the bone orchard.”

“Hell, I still got some kick in me, Buck. I know I can ride this horse. Look at him. That horse looks dead.”

“So do you Jughead. I gotta say this, you lasting eight seconds on that horse is as likely as the Pope leading a gay pride parade.”

“Well, we’ll just see, won’t we?”

“Yep, common sense is like deodorant. The ones that need it the most don’t use it.”

“I assume you are referring to me?”

“Yep, Jughead, I am. Listen, if you feel yourself losing it, just choke that horn, will ya?”

“No way. Ol’ Jughead never has and never will be caught choking the horn. It just won’t happen.”

Well, that ‘ol dead horse threw Jughead ‘bout up to heaven and when he landed, he landed on his head before a hind foot from that bronc landed down on his chest.

I was looking down at Jughead in a crowd of cowboys and he gave me a warm smile as well as a thumbs up. Then I heard someone say, “Okay boys, let’s get as many hands as we can under him and lift him onto the stretcher.”

They put him into what I assumed was an ambulance. I crawled in after him and we took off. The driver was cursing as we hit some pot holes.

“I don’t know if I’m going to survive this one, Buck Toft,” Jughead groaned.

“You’re going to make it, Jughead. I remember that time in Noches, Texas, about twenty years ago, when you were in the recovery room and your spleen ended up in the operating room trash can. You walked away from that one. You’ll walk away from this too. From now on, we will spend our time spreading hay and hauling bucking stock, not trying to ride ‘em.”

Jughead nodded, smiled, and closed his eyes.

“You all right back there?” the driver asked, as the stretcher rolled across the floor and slammed into the side of the vehicle.

The ambulance driver wasn’t actually an ambulance driver, he was tending the beer tent and he had to close it down when they asked him to drive Jughead to the hospital. Actually, it wasn’t an ambulance, it was an old yellow cab and the driver was slurring his words.

“Damn, the gate is closed. Hey, girls, have them boys open that gate,” he yelled. I was sitting next to him. He turned around and was holding a can of Blatz Beer.

“How’s he doing?”

“Not good, he’s rolling around like a damned billiard ball,” I yelled.

“God damn right it’s rolling. We’ll get him there in no time. Now don’t let him die on me. He’s pretty old to be doin’ this, ridin’ broncs, ain’t he?”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell him.”

Turns out Jughead didn’t last the ride. I don’t know if it was the ride on the bronc or the ride in that old Yellow Cab that did him in, but deep down in my heart, I know’d it was his stubbornness that finally did him in. He just didn’t know when to quit. I think the good Lord finally did him a favor calling him home but I sure am going to miss that boy.

Max Fly – U977 German U-Boat

UFO Athens Ohio 1965
UFO Athens Ohio 1965


Max Fly and Hap Schultz are recruited by an outed CIA agent who heads up a clandestine element of agents that believe that the JFK assassination was orchestrated by former Nazis and their boss, Allen Dulles and that it goes higher than that – much higher.
Max and Hap resurrect their rodeo career as the cover for their covert activities as they travel the circuit from Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before they head to Mexico and finally South America as they search for missing Nazis. There, Max and Hap find themselves falling into a vortex of a bizarre hidden society and the unknown living hell framed by the Nazi Party.

In the beginning…

You work like a son of a bitch for weeks on end and nothing makes sense. You begin to wonder why you are wasting your time and your client’s money. You are confused and lost in a convoluted world of lies and misleading statements. But then one day it clicks. Somebody tells you something. You think of something you saw, read, or heard and suddenly, everything makes sense but here’s the kicker, most of the time you wish it didn’t. Because the things we are hired to figure out are some of the most revolting things in the world.
One day you wake up and find yourself thrust in the midst of other people’s flotsam and you wonder how you got there and that is exactly what happened to me. The story I’m about to tell you is true. It happened a long time ago and some of the details are becoming blurred in my old age. It all began in the winter of 1969, December to be exact, six years after the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Let me rephrase that, my involvement began in December of 1969.
The story of the Kecksburg incident begins at 4:45 PM, December 9, 1965.
From northern Canada to western Pennsylvania, thousands of witnesses described “an orange fireball tearing across the evening sky towards the southeast, followed by a trail of smoke. Thirteen witnesses included pilots spread throughout Ontario, Michigan, and Ohio. They were along the flight path of this bell-shaped object.
Once over Ohio, however, the object clearly demonstrated that it was not a typical meteor, nor a crash in the ordinary sense of “space debris,” for according to witnesses, it stopped, stood still “for a few seconds” and then changed its course towards Pennsylvania.
Then I got that phone call, the one that would change my life forever.

The Best People Are The Ones We Don’t Know

I just received word that another man I knew died. It happened on July 3rd and his name was Duane Spruill. He lived in Cedartown, Georgia and at my age, this is happening more than I care to experience and I doubt it will drop off much in the coming years. I also lost two dear friends in the past two years prior to Duane and it has been hard. I only met Duane in person about a half a dozen times, but something about him struck a chord with me. The first time we met, I was wearing a shirt with the rearing horses, the mustang rescue logo, and he asked me how many mustangs I had. When I told him sixteen, he turned around and shook his head and laughed and asked me how I found the time to gentle sixteen wild horses. It was comical the way he did it and at that point, I thought he was kind of a quirky guy. I told him I ran a mustang rescue and I just took it slow. He proceeded to tell me he had two mustangs that he was gentling and from that moment on he and I had a common core, we both loved the mustang horse.

He would call me off and on and ask me about the rescue and would order a couple of hats with our logo on them and we would talk and he would tell me how he was progressing with his training of his two horses. He always invited me to come out and see them and I really intended to do so, but somehow, I always put it on the backburner. Now I wish I hadn’t.

He was very unassuming and wouldn’t have stood out in a crowd. In fact, in a room, more likely than not, you would have walked past him without even noticing he was there. His shoulders were stooped and he was small in stature, balding, and spoke in a slow southern drawl that would have made most folks in southern Georgia sound like Yankees, but he had an essence about him that reached into the recesses of my heart.

He had brain cancer and the first operation was considered a success. He was optimistic about his chances of living but he took a realistic view of his life and knew that the day would come when he wouldn’t be here anymore. He loved his mustangs almost as much as he loved his wife and children and he asked me if I would find a home or take care of his mustangs for him when that time came. I told him I would.

Time passed and I didn’t hear from him and, to be honest, he slipped from my mind. That is until this afternoon when his brother Larry left me a message informing me of Duane’s death. When I listened to what Larry said, tears welled up in my eyes and I choked up.

As I said, I didn’t know Duane that well. He will go down as just another soul that passed through this world who most people didn’t have the opportunity to meet. But I did and I am so glad I did and I am glad his two mustangs did too.

I wasn’t able to get back to Larry. I’ll do that tomorrow and then I’ll help him find a good home for Duane’s beloved mustangs.

JFK Murder Solved – Fiction By David Hesse

He glanced at his watch. It was 11:45 pm and the street was still deserted. He had been standing there for fifteen minutes. It was a Sunday night and the buildings were dark. A lone streetlight cast shadows across the street and sidewalk and he watched the mist as the wind blew it across the yellow beam put forth by the light. It was remarkably quiet. Not a sound. Nothing!
Earlier that evening, the fog moved in and soon after the heavy mist began to fall. The tall thin-faced man pulled the collar of his trench coat up around his neck and pulled down the brim of his hat to keep the dampness out. Nothing about him drew attention. He kept an eye on the phone booth down the street. It was still empty. He reached into his breast pocket and removed a package of Chesterfield cigarettes. He tapped the package on the back of his hand and bent down and removed a stick with his teeth. He replaced the package in his pocket and removed his lighter. He spun the wheel, igniting the flint and a flame shot up momentarily illuminating his lined and haggard face. He hadn’t slept in two days. He snapped the lid shut and returned it to his pocket. The smoke he exhaled was lost in the thick fog that enveloped him.
He looked around. He didn’t see anything, but he felt it. He didn’t like the feeling. He stuck to the plan to make sure he wasn’t followed, but you just never knew. From experience, he knew he couldn’t trust anyone and it was one helluva way to live your life.
He glanced at his watch once more. It was 11:53. He took one last drag of his cigarette and flipped it in a nearby puddle. He listened to the brief hiss before the butt was extinguished.
He inhaled deeply and looked to his right and left once again to make sure nobody was around before he moved out. Hurriedly, he crossed the street to the phone booth. He stepped in and closed the door. A light went on. He wrapped his hand in his handkerchief and smashed the light, enveloping him in darkness. He lifted the receiver and dropped in a dime. He knew the number by heart and had dialed it many times in the dark. The phone rang once before it was picked up. There was complete silence on the other end.
The tall man said, “7-1-1-3-4. I’ve been burned.”
“Where are you?”
“Zone three, drop one.”
“Stay there.”
The line went dead.
He hung up the phone and took a deep breath. He lit up another cigarette and hungrily sucked in the smoke. His throat was raw. He had been smoking too many of these things. He opened the door and tossed it across the sidewalk. He reached under his coat and removed his gun, a 9mm Beretta. He chambered a round and put his hand and gun in his outside right coat pocket. Even though he dry cleaned the area he could never be too careful.
Quickly he walked to the corner and turned left heading toward an alley behind an old warehouse. He stepped into the shadows and waited. His mind wandered to his earlier conversation with Serena and he couldn’t erase it from his mind.
“Paul, she said, “I have the bona fides, documents that prove the CIA along with a German expat, one of those Paperclip Nazi’s, named DeMohrenschildt, a Dallas oil geologist and close friend of Lee Harvey Oswald’s, was in on the plot to kill John F. Kennedy and it goes higher than we thought. Paul, this makes me sick.”
It had been so long since anyone called him Paul, he had to pause for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Okay, put it together and meet…”
Was that a click on his phone, or hers? “Selena, did you hear that?”
“Yes, I have to go. I’ll meet you…”
Those were her last words. He heard her scream and a moment later an unknown voice came on the line.
“You’re next Paul. We know where you are.”
The line went dead.
It wasn’t long before a black Lincoln limousine pulled around the corner and came to a stop in front of the alley. The back door opened as it slowly rolled by and Paul jumped in closing the door behind him.
When he caught his breath he said, “We lost our Asset, Selena. They got to her this morning and they outed me. They called me by name.”
As they drove away his handler looked at him and gave him a scotch. “We are going to have to bring you in, Paul.”
“Why? I am about to tie this whole thing up. We got ‘em right where we want them. What we gathered isn’t chicken feed. It’s some serious stuff.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Your swallow was killed last night. She was beaten and raped and dumped in the East River. They found her body this morning. She is currently at the morgue. Her apartment was trashed and her camera, typewriter, and files are all gone. Nothing.”
The tall man was quiet for a moment, taking this all in. If this was true, all the work he put together for the past year was ruined, compromised. Without supporting documentation, all he had was his word and he would be going up against some of the most formidable men in the world, not just the CIA but the President of the United States himself.
Paul threw back the scotch and looked over at his handler and found himself looking down the barrel of a silencer.
“I’m sorry Paul.”
Phatt, the sound of the silenced gun was the last thing Paul heard before the .22 caliber slug entered his skull, mixing up what was left of his brain. The slug didn’t exit his skull. It was the perfect caliber round for an execution.
He died instantly.

Historic Red Mill, Elm Grove Road in Brookfield Wisconsin Is Haunted!

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When we checked into our motel in Brookfield, Wisconsin, Jacqui wanted to find a good fish fry, seeing as it was our last night in the Badger state, home of Ol’ Abe, the original War Eagle. She went online and Googled “Best fish fry’s” in the Brookfield Wisconsin area” and came up with the Historic Red Mill. Its official name is Butch’s Red Mill Pub & Eatery but not to its regulars, it’s still the Historic Red Mill.

The Historic Red Mill isn’t a restaurant, it’s a SUPPER CLUB and it opens at 3:00 p.m. We arrived  at 3:07 p.m., not as promptly as I wanted to, but we were driving a Toyota Yaris, which scared the bejeezus out of me every time we drove on a highway.The only people present were Joe the bartender and Jackie the bar manager. So, after ordering a well-brandy, which was the 5 Star Brandy, for which we received an apology for the second time in two days from a bartender who served it. We told him we didn’t care, we were just happy to be able to get brandy wherever we went in Wisconsin because many places in Georgia don’t carry it. I am told that the Wisconsin Synod of the Lutheran Church sometimes substitutes wine with brandy for communion. That rumor hasn’t been confirmed yet. We told Joe and Jackie we were visiting from the Atlanta area and that I grew up in Brookfield and my Jacqui was one of the former 14,000 busy beavers from Beaver Dam, but we both had left before the invention of the gas engine and were amazed at how much the Brookfield area had grown from a rural community when I lived there, to where it now appears to be an extension of the city of Milwaukee.

It wasn’t long before the “regulars” started to mosey on in and sit down around the bar. Joe was kept busy slopping brandy in glasses while Jackie the bar manager, not to be confused with my Jacqui, kept up a lively conversation with all the patrons sitting at the bar. We found out one lady had just purchased a 2016 Chevy Camaro. I asked her what she had under her hood and she thought I was referring to the car as she replied, “485 horses with a six speed because my son can’t drive a standard transmission.” But I meant was she crazy for buying a General Motors product not the size of its engine. She told us she only had it for a couple of weeks and hasn’t had a chance to drive it “wide open.” She got up to 120 mph before she backed it down, afraid she might hit one of the many orange traffic cones that litter the side of Interstate 94 outside of Milwaukee.

When I grew up, I don’t think there was a young man around that didn’t know how to drive a standard transmission, but I have to admit, 6 speeds may get a little confusing. I might lose count of what gear I was in once I passed 3rd while winding that monster out.

Among this eclectic crowd were two octogenarian ladies who had just finished moving out of their house into a condominium. As they walked through the door, Joe the bartender, prepared their drinks, a Rose wine on the rocks and a vodka tonic. I was the fortunate one as they sat down beside me. They were regulars, obviously, at the Historic Red Mill, as were the others at the bar and Jacqui, my Jacqui, and I felt like we were sitting in a private home in a family recreation room as the family members brought each other up to date on what they had done since they were last here. In a few cases, some only left at 1:00 a.m. that morning. These were the ones with red noses.

It wasn’t long before everybody started to tell us about the history of the Historic Red Mill.

The building dates back to 1847 and is one of the oldest buildings in the area. It started out as a farmhouse with over fifty acres of farmland and then became a home to an intriguing variety of other businesses, including a general store, a stagecoach station, and even a brothel. It has been a restaurant, off and on, for the past 80-plus years but what local residents may not know is that it is haunted.

Evidently, one of the original owners named Ellen experienced a miscarriage and died and she is the one whose spirit is unsettled and is wandering around the house.

Jackie, the bar manager, not to be confused with my Jacqui, the brandy drinker, told us that on a couple occasions while she was closing up, she would turn around and all the bar stools would be turned around in the opposite direction of where they had been previously. She said it wasn’t just her, other employees experienced seeing an apparition in the mirrors while they were closing. When something like this happened to me in years past, I just  assumed I had too much brandy in my belly, but now I’m not sure.

I was getting a little nervous so I ordered another shot of 5 Star.It was 4:30 p.m. the time the kitchen was supposed to open but the cook still hadn’t arrived, agitating Joe the bartender. We heard him utter a few good Wisconsonite words aimed at anyone who doesn’t respect their job enough to arrive at the designated time agreed upon when they were hired.

Finally, the cook showed up and it wasn’t long before some patrons headed to one of the dining areas, and those who decided to eat at the bar so they could keep a close eye on the 5 Star Brandy, started to receive platters of fried perch and fried cod. By this time I had caught on to my Jacqui’s ongoing attempt to clog my arteries by forcing me to eat all this fried food, so I ordered baked cod. It was awesome! It didn’t taste like fish; it didn’t even taste like chicken. It tasted like good old Wisconsin butter. Every time I bent over my platter, not a wimpy plate like you get at a regular restaurant, a platter, I was overwhelmed by the aroma of that wonderful Wisconsin butter.

We said our goodbyes to all of our new friends, including Ellen, in case she was listening, promising a return visit when we were back in the area.


Partners A Short Story By David Hesse

The gray-haired man appeared to be sleeping in a chair in the back of the room. His ball cap was pulled down, covering his eyes, dark dangerous eyes. He sat deadly still but remained alert, something he learned while in Viet Nam, in Cam Rahn Bay, a deep water bay, located in the province of Khánh Hòa, on the South China Sea. He caught some shrapnel in his right shoulder shattering the bone while hunkering down waiting for a chopper on a Hot LZ. It never mended properly and the doctors at the Veteran’s Hospital broke it twice to reset it, hoping it would finally heal. It hadn’t.
He peered down at his hands. A slight tremor started in his left hand. This was his first episode of the day. He first noticed the tremors when he returned to the states in ’69. His nerves were damaged when the United States military started the strafing of the Viet Nam jungles with agent orange. He had been waiting twelve months to get into the local Veteran’s Hospital for treatment. They told him it would be another three months before they could get him in; before it was his turn. Be patient they said. They should try living with this excruciating pain and tremors every day. Then see how patient those fuckers would be. To top everything off, he was still dealing with the sweats and shakes from the bout of malaria he got while in country.
They kept promising that things would get better at the VA Hospital, but, if anything, it got worse. Now the Nam vets are jockeying for time with the Gulf War vets. They keep piling up. Hell, he’ll be dead before he gets in to see one of the VA doctors.
His brother finally stepped in and got him an appointment with this doctor, a former classmate of his brother’s at Marquette University. Nerve damage wasn’t his specialty, broken bones were, but he said he would see him as a favor to his brother. The doctor promised to check him out and get him to the right specialists to deal with his injuries. The gray-haired man didn’t care who saw him, he just wanted some meds to stop the damn pain and the uncontrollable shaking.
The waiting area was filled with people wearing casts and braces on their hands, arms, feet and legs. A young man, wearing an arm cast on his left arm up to his elbow looked nervous. He sat, guardedly watching everyone who walked through the glass doors that connected to the congested parking lot. The cars were mainly Lexus’, BMW’s, and Mercedes, bearing witness to the wealth in this community. The gray-haired man knew who the young man was.
These people were trapped in the game of acquiring more accouterments then their neighbors. He saw it in the quality of their dress and in the sparkle of their diamonds, gold, and silver jewelry. It appeared people were getting more careless, the gray-haired man thought, as he assessed the people sitting by him. Along with their expensive jewelry, they were wearing Gucci shoes and carrying their Kate Spade Purses, all of which cost more than he made in the past year. The way they dressed communicated their wealth to everyone who saw them.
An extremely obese woman was dressed in slacks and a fox fur wrap. She wore an expensive necklace of diamonds and emeralds so large, they beg to be seen. She had a matching cocktail ring on her right hand and a diamond engagement ring that he estimated to be at least four karats on her left hand. Another middle-aged woman was garnished with gold; gold necklace and multiple gold bracelets running up her arms and rings filled with diamonds and rubies.
His gaze returned to the young man. He wore a navy New York Yankees baseball cap, navy short sleeve shirt that buttoned down the front and matching navy shorts and socks. That and his red Keds canvas shoes made him stand out from the other patients . His clothing was disarrayed. He wasn’t sloppy or unkempt, he appeared to be hygienic and well-groomed. But something about him seemed odd, he didn’t fit in. He was sitting in the reception area of one of the most famous orthopedic surgeons in the world. People came from all around to have him perform what they thought would be a miracle on mangled arms, legs, and knees that other surgeons were unable to fix or made worse through inexperience, ineptitude, or even negligence. So maybe the young man had a serious fracture that wouldn’t heal. No, the gray-haired man knew the young man and there was something off about him today.
The young man in the red Keds looked around the room and felt the security these people perceived while being in this place. Of being in the presence of like people; the monied people. He was sure these patients never experienced personal physical attacks that the common people faced every day when they entered places like convenience stores or liquor stores. The common people are conditioned to be on the lookout for muggers. No, these people lived safe lives in their insulated little universe, like this waiting room of one of the most highly respected orthopedic surgeons in the world, located in the wealthiest section of this city. Nothing to worry about today. Relax, plan your day, make out your grocery list, worry about when the kid’s soccer practice starts, and what to feed the family for dinner.
The young man had different thoughts going through his brain. What better place to pick up some nice pieces of jewelry and cash, he speculated. Plus, when someone is injured, or not feeling well, their level of resistance is going to be lower than if they are at the top of their game physically and everyone here was banged up. That old codger in the back isn’t looking too good; looks like he is beginning to shake. Maybe he is having some kind of drug withdrawal. I ain’t gonna worry about him, I gotta concentrate on cleaning house and then getting outta here fast.
Nobody is expecting to be ripped off in their doctor’s office. Well, they are going to be in for a surprise today.
He looked around and sized up the different people in the reception area. There was one guy, wearing a high school letterman’s jacket who looked like he could be trouble, at least physically, if the occasion arose. But like most of the jocks he knew, they were mostly talk; but he would keep an eye on him anyway in case he tried to be a hero. If he did, he would make quick work of him. He didn’t want any surprises when he was gathering the valuables off the other victims. The rest of the people were older and most were women.
Oh boy, was his aunt going to be pissed at him? She was the only one in the family to agree to help him when he was released from juvie hall last month after a year’s stay. His asshole father didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Especially after he stole his Porsche 911 and wrapped it around that stop sign going one hundred miles an hour. He was lucky he survived that mess. Probably because he was stoned out of his gourd. He couldn’t even remember what he had taken that evening, but he was told he took everything anyone offered him.
Talk about an absent father. His dad was never there for him; didn’t have time when he was there except to beat him when he got in his way. He traveled to the far corners of the world, as he put it. He was an important person and his time meant money, to himself and many others.The few days he was home, he spent it with his cronies, planning more ways to make money. His mother wasn’t much better. Oh, she was home most of the time, but the pills and booze had her mind someplace else. Finally, they took her someplace else, to her grave. After she died, he pretty much lost all contact with his dad. His aunt, his dad’s younger sister, came to live with them and finally became his full-time nanny. Basically, she raised him for the past ten years. She was actually a better mother to him than his real mother was but she was content to let him have whatever he asked for if it kept him out of her way. It didn’t take him long to realize all he had to do is yell and scream to get anything he wanted. She would give in to him, just to shut him up.
Well, he was fed up with everyone and if his aunt is pissed then to hell with her. After this score, he’ll be heading to New Orleans. A buddy of his told him it’s easy to hop a ride with a Vietnamese shrimper down there and they will take him to any island he wants to go for a price. Just one of that obese woman’s rings should get him there with plenty to spare.
He knew he could get Silky Zimmerman to help him get rid of the ice for a percentage cut. There is more than enough to spread some of it around. Hell, he wasn’t greedy. He just wanted what he deserved.He had been screwed all his life. Now he was getting his.
He stood up and removed a semiautomatic pistol, a .32 caliber Ruger, from the cast covering his left arm. It wasn’t a big gun, but it was deadly. He walked over and grabbed the receptionist by the back of her neck and pushed her into the waiting room area. He gave her a large cloth bag that looked like a pillow case and started to brandish his gun around, turning to his left and right while commanding everyone to remain seated. “Everyone, listen up and you won’t get hurt,” he said. “Throw your money and jewelry in this bag as the pretty little lady comes around and hurry. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I will if you do anything stupid.”
When the receptionist returned the cloth bag to the young man, it was filled with cash and jewels. He noticed she hadn’t walked back to where the gray-haired man appeared to be sleeping. He probably didn’t have anything worth stealing anyhow.
“Okay, sweetheart, now I want you to go behind your desk and pull out the phone line and please, for your sake, don’t try anything funny. You are so pretty and I don’t want to put a third eye between those two baby blues.”
The young receptionist was obviously shaken as she walked back behind her desk sobbing uncontrollably.
After she disabled the phone, he pushed her to the floor and quickly ran out the front door, heading to the woods behind the parking lot his adrenaline pumping wildly. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and he was breathing hard as he approached his pickup truck parked at the fast food restaurant across the street.
He did it. He did it. This was his first time and he didn’t know if he could pull it off, but it was easy, damn easy, he thought.
He took out his keys and fumbled with the lock.
“Damn, calm down,” he whispered to himself. “You made it. There is nothing to worry about.”
Finally, he was able to insert the key in the lock and open the door. He threw the bag containing the money and jewelry on the floor and stuck the key with a shaking hand into the ignition. He turned the key and the old truck sprung to life. He let out a sigh of relief. He reached up and grabbed the gear shift then the door opened.
“Turn it off,” a gruff voice commanded. “Give me your gun.”
The young man found himself looking down the barrel of one crazy looking gun in the hands of that gray-haired man who he thought was dozing in the doctors office. He turned off the ignition and handed over his gun.
“Okay gramps, what now?”
“Slide over.”
“You heard me, slide over or this Mauser will splatter you all over that passenger side window.”
“Hell, old man, your hand is shaking like a dog shitting razor blades.”
“At this range, I could shake and shimmy myself to death and still be able to put ten holes in you before you could blow a fart.”
“Okay, I’m getting over.” He slid over to the passenger side and stared at the old man and his gray eyes. He could see a controlled danger hidden there and he started to fear for his life as the old man got behind the wheel. He started the truck and put it in gear and slowly drove out into traffic heading south toward the Interstate.
“How’d you break your arm?”
“I didn’t. I put it on so I would fit in with all those assholes in the waiting room.”
“Pretty smooth thinking. How long have you been planning this caper?”
“None of your business. Where are you taking me?”
“Where were you planning on going?” The old man asked.
“Now why should I tell you?”
“If you want to get where you were planning to go, you better tell me since I am driving.”
“You’re shittin’ me, right?”
“No, I’m not. I figure you have a plan, right? Don’t tell me you don’t.”
“I do, but I ain’t telling you, old man.”
“Oh, I think you will and I will tell you why. First of all, I’m driving. Second of all, I have control of the loot and last but not least, I have this C96 9mm Mauser that says you will.”
The young man just stared at the old man and his strange looking gun, not knowing what to say next. They drove along in silence until they approached the Interstate.
“You better tell me which way or you are going my way and the ride won’t be that long. I can guarantee you that.”
“Go south,” the young man mumbled.
“What? You’re going to have to speak up. I spent time in Nam with all kinds of shit exploding all around me and I have a difficult time hearing sometimes.”
“I said go South.”
“That’s better, much better.”
They rode along for a few minutes in silence with the old man looking over at him periodically to make sure he wasn’t planning anything.
“What’s your name?”
“Frankie what?”
“Frankie Perino.”
“Oh yeah? Frankie Perino? You connected?”
“Yeah, I’m connected. I just been made too,” he lied.
“Sure kid, you’re connected and made. By the way, that was pretty slick in there, what you did. Who would have thought they would get robbed in a doctor’s office? I mean by someone other than the doctor. Very smooth. I’m impressed.”
“Like I care?”
“You better care, you little turd, or I’ll drop you like a hot potato and throw you out along side the highway somewhere.”
He looked over at Frankie and smiled shaking his head. “Damn, you, I mean we, made quite a haul, didn’t we? I would never have thought of holding up a fucking doctor’s office. Damn.”
Frankie just stared at the old man wondering if he was pulling a fast one on him or just what it was that he wanted. Why hadn’t he just left him and kept the jewelry and cash? What’s his plan?
“Listen, old man, we gotta turn off up here at the next exit. My fence is waiting in a bar there for me to come by with the goods.”
“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”
“Shit, where do you fuckin’ kids come up with these names, off some fuckin’ milk carton? Silky, shit.”
Frankie just stared at the old man. Who did he think he was? He is riding on my success at pulling off a pretty cool heist. He even said as much. As long as he has that gun I don’t have much say in what we are going to do and he may be old, but he not only looks tough but cold, like a stone cold killer. Frankie was beginning to fear for his life.
“And how much were you thinking this Silky would give you on the dollar, huh? Twenty-five, thirty-five? Shit, with this ice we should be pullin’ in at least sixty. That is if you know where to take it.”
“And I suppose you do old man?”
“I suppose I do. We’ll go to my guy and cash in and split everything fifty-fifty. If you want to go your own way after that, fine. But I’m taking this truck. Now tell me where you are going?
“New Orleans.”
“Shit, New Orleans? You ever been there Frankie?”


“Well let me tell you, those Cajuns don’t fuck around down there. They’ll make you into crawfish bait before you step out of this truck.” the old man started to laugh. “Little Frankie, the Cajun Queen. My God, how they are going to have fun with you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can, Frankie, seeing you’re a made guy and all.”
“Anyway, I ain’t plannin’ on stayin’ there long. I’m meeting up with a buddy.”
The old man looked at him and shook his head and turned back to watch the road.
They rode along in silence again for about thirty minutes before the old man asked, “So, what’s his name?”
“Your buddy, the guy you are meeting up with in New Orleans?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Cause I asked, that’s why.”
The way the old man said it made Frankie nervous. He couldn’t see any harm in telling him the name of his pal. “Johnny Morelli. We go way back.”
“I can tell. What, you both nursed off the same titty? Shit, go way back. Kid, you don’t know what way back means. This Morelli kid, is he a made guy too?”
“No, but he will be. He goes by the name “Shiv.”
“Oh, that’s cool.Handy with a knife is he?”
“You don’t want to find out, old man.”
They drove for thirty minutes before the old man broke the silence again.
“What’s your final destination Frankie. I mean after New Orleans?”
“I’m arranging a boat to take me to the Islands.”
“A boat? And what kind of boat are you going to arrange to take you to the islands?”
Morelli’s got connections with some Vietnamese shrimpers who said they would take us if the money was right.”
Oh boy, Vietnamese shrimpers? You speak Vietnamese? Does The Shiv?”
“No, but money talks, old man, and we sure got enough of that, don’t we?”
“Yeah we do, Frankie. We sure have enough of the green stuff. Enough for all the women, booze and good times we can stand, but not Morelli. I’ll take you along since we are partners, but there ain’t room for nobody else.”
“What are you talking about, old man? Not enough for Morelli? He’s my partner.”
“Not anymore, Frankie, I’m your new partner.”
“Well, he ain’t going to like it.”
“He’ll just have to get over it. Listen, kid, I speak fluent Vietnamese. I’ll keep these gooks from screwing you over. They get all uptight and nervous when they find out a round-eye speakees their talk. We won’t let them know until we are in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico and well on our way to Costa Rica.”
“Who said we are going to Costa Rica?”
“Maybe you don’t hear so good either. I just said that.”
Frankie just stared at the old man wondering who this guy was. He had a feeling the old man knew a lot about all of his plans before he told him. But how?
“Where’d you get that strange gun?”
“I took it off of a gook, a North Vietnamese Colonel.”
“He didn’t mind?”
“I don’t think so. He was dead.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Well, he didn’t kill himself. I blew the fucker’s head off. I never seen a gun like his before; it’s a rare breed, so I took it. Notice the magazine?” The old man asked as he turned the gun sideways. It’s fitted ahead of the action and this grip? It’s called a broom handle. It makes it easy to shoot holding it with one hand. Made in Germany before the big war, by Mauser. It’s a beautiful piece. Just looks different because of the position of the magazine.”
They continued to drive South on the Interstate for about sixty miles before the old man took an exit onto a County Road that was deserted except for a couple of farm houses. They drove about five miles on that road before turning off onto a dirt drive that wound through pastureland for about a quarter of a mile. It ended in front of an old white two-story farmhouse like a thousand others that can be found along every country road in the Midwest.
The old man reached down and picked up the bag containing all the jewelry and money.
“Get out.”
“Listen, Frankie, I’m going to let you live and come along with me as long as you do as I say and don’t try to screw me over. We are partners now, whether you like it or not, and I’m the boss. You got it?”
Frankie nodded.
I guess I didn’t hear you, Frankie.”
“Yeah, I got it old man.”
“Good, then come along. I got a friend of mine I want you to meet. I think you’ll like him. But don’t get sideways with him, you might regret it.
They walked up the steps leading to the farm house. The old man opened the door, “Get in,” he said.
Frankie walked in and stopped cold in his tracks.

The Big “H” A Short Story By David Hesse



Hat and Boots

“We’ve been waiting for you.”
The sound of the blast had been deafening. Blood and brain were splattered against the mirror hanging behind the couch. One of the hinges on the door to the kitchen was blown off. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The guy who stood next to me was now in my grasp. I could feel the flutter of his heart against my hand as his life left him. His face had been ripped like canvas; whoever I was holding, would not have an open casket at his wake. I felt something warm running down my face; blood. I was shot. My left shoulder was also covered in blood, my blood. It oozed out of the holes put there by the rat shot fired from the twelve gauge sawed off shotgun in the hands of the person standing against the far wall. I heard the cha-chunk of another round being chambered. There were two of them. They were small and thin and dressed in black and covered in tats. They looked like kids, both were wearing white hockey goalie masks. Their eyes shone like black obsidians through the slits in the masks. One held the shotgun and the other held an automatic Tec 9 with a 32 round clip. Both weapons illegal. The Tec 9 since 1994. The sawed-off shotgun since1934. But that doesn’t matter. The bad guys still have them.
I was paralyzed and numb; frozen where I stood. The black eyes behind both masks stared at me. The one holding the shotgun pointed it at my face and squeezed the trigger.
I sit up in bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, another fucking nightmare. My body feels limp and I am unable to speak. My head feels like someone is applying hydraulic pressure to it. I don’t know where I am at first. I look around. The surroundings are unfamiliar to me. The furnishings are cheap. So is the television sitting on the maple dresser against the wall at the end of the bed. On the wall over the television set hangs a mirror. I see my face looking back at me. I hardly recognize myself. What I see scares the shit out of me. I look like a fucking zombie, an upright cadaver. I am pale and clammy. My cheeks are drawn-in; my breathing is slow and shallow and erratic. I feel for a pulse, it is erratic as well. I must have lost twenty pounds. I look at my hands. My skin and fingernails have a purplish-black color to them.
It all comes back to me slowly. I am an undercover agent with the Drug Enforcement Agency and have been for the past ten years. Now I am through. I wanted out for a long time and finally, they came for me. During those years undercover, I did some shit I would just as soon forget. I started on flea powder, the big H, about three years ago and that’s why they brought me in. That and the fact my cover was blown. I was told to stay away from the heroine, that blue magic. They said that it would kill me. I now wish it would have.
I was forced to shoot up by members of the Mara Salvatrucha gang, better known as the MS-13 gang, considered by the FBI as the most dangerous gang in America. I think the FBI has that right.
I leaned over the side of the bed and vomited into the trash basket. It looked like it wasn’t the first time.
I smelled. I couldn’t remember the last time I bathed. My clothes were torn, threadbare and filthy. I couldn’t remember the last time I washed them.
I throw the bedcovers off and stand. My legs are shaky. I stagger into the bathroom and turn on the cold water, I throw it on my face before cupping my hands and greedily drinking. My stomach begins to toss and convulse again. I grab the toilet bowl and let it go. Nothing but yellow bile comes up. I can’t remember the last time I ate.
I flush the toilet and turn to leave and notice a prescription bottle on the counter. It says Buprenorphine. It comes back to me now. A woman brought me here yesterday and gave me this drug. It is supposed to stop withdrawal symptoms and my craving for heroin.
There was a knock on the door. I freeze and my heart feels like it will burst through my chest. My breathing is shallow.
The handle on the door turns slowly and I hide behind the bathroom door. I look out between the door and the wall and see a statuesque woman walk in with a purse over one shoulder and carrying a paper bag and two cups of coffee. She has short dark hair and is wearing a dark skirt and jacket.
Tentatively I walk out into the room.
“Where am I?”

Where Can We Find Silence?



After raising two daughters and discussing with other men what a man really wants, I have come to the conclusion that every man desires – silence. That’s right, Silence.
Well, in the Chihuahuas desert, the largest desert in North America covering more than 200000 square miles most of it south of the Mexican border, there exists an eerie area of land called La Zona Del Silencio or the Zone of Silence. It is just 400 miles west of El Paso, Texas, this Zone of Silence gobbles up radio and TV signals and it has a documented history so this isn’t just one of my many prevaricating stories. To make this even more mysterious, it is believed that an old Nazi woman by the name of Maria Orsic ended up hiding out in this area. Why you may ask, does that have anything to do with silence, since most men believe you can’t have it when women are around? Well, here is the story. Maria Orsic was a noted Austrian medium from Vienna, Austria, who started the Vril Society which sought to form a New World order, a utopian world driven and led by alternative science. And they believed an alien race could help them achieve their objective. They actually believed that by cutting an apple in half and concentrating on the core of the apple, they could communicate with an alien race called Vrillerinnens.  I’m not making this up, really. They also believed if they twisted their hair into ponytails the hair would act as antennas to facilitate contact with the extraterrestrials. They also wore disc medallions on necklaces around their necks. Many of the hippies in America during the ’60s were similar to the Vrilians.

Now don’t stop reading this. It gets better.
Evidently Maria Orsic received some strange messages. She claimed the messages came from the Aldebaran solar system located 68 light years from Earth, in the constellation of Taurus. the scripts were examined and determined to be an ancient Sumerian script, a rare language used in ancient Babylonian times. When they translated what they could they found that the messages contained instructions for building a circular shaped flying machine that operated off the mysterious Vril energy. This is the translation:
“Strong and durable must the body of the Vimana be made, like a great flying bird of light material. Inside one must put the mercury engine with its iron heating apparatus underneath. By means of the power latent in the mercury, which sets the driving whirlwind in motion, a man sitting inside may travel a great distance in the sky. The movements of a Vimana are such that it can vertically ascend, vertically descend, or move slanting forwards and backward. With the help of machines, human beings can fly through the air and heavenly beings can come down to Earth.”
A thousand years earlier, in the Saramangana Sutradhara book, which I highly recommend you read, there exists a description on how to construct flying machines that sound eerily similar to the Vril aircraft and it is reminiscent of the Old Testament’s “fiery chariot” mentioned in the book of Ezekiel that spun “like a wheel within a wheel”
Maria Orsic presented her information to be examined in detail by Dr. Winfred Otto Schumann, a noted German physicist, and electrical engineer, who predicted the Schumann resonances, which are a series of low-frequency resonances caused by lightning discharges in the atmosphere. Shumann concluded that Orsic’s papers did indeed contain viable engineering specifications and the flying machine that the construction specs mapped out “could quite possibly work.” The decision was made to attempt to build the strange energy powered craft that was named Vril.
Construction began in 1923 and in 1934 the Vril spaceship, christened the RFZ-1, took off on its maiden flight. The craft wobbled to an altitude of 60 meters and was quickly brought back down. Upon landing, the craft spun out of control and was ripped to pieces. At the end of 1934, a second craft, the RFZ-2, was test flown successfully. In 1941, the Nazis were at it again. This time, the Vril-2, was in production. The Nazi craft employed the Schumma-Levitator drive for vertical lift. The Vril-2 production crew noted that the unusual engine produced dramatic effects when the engine was accelerated. Reports of blurred contours and emissions of luminous ionization colors were received.
On January 22, 1944, a meeting with Hitler, Himmler, Dr. Schumann, and others, discussed
their escape by flying through a dimensions channel”, or what we more normal humans refer to as a wormhole, from our solar system to Aldebaran.
Later that year, the Vril-7, authorized by Hitler and Himmler, made its first test flight. The project reportedly produced a very surprising result. Onlookers claimed that the Vril 7 looked “as if it had been flying for a hundred years”. Upon return, its outer skin looked aged and was damaged in several places.
At the conclusion of WWII, Orsic disappeared along with many other Nazis and it is believed many ended up in Antarctica.
Immediately after Orsic’s disappearance, it is rumored that an American expedition to Antarctica was launched. It was widely known that Americans sought Nazi technology after the defeat of the Germans. Dr. Schumann worked from 1947–1948 at the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio before returning to Munich, Germany. Although the Antarctica expedition, known as Operation High Jump, proclaimed their objective was to study Antarctica, it is believed by many that Admiral Richard E. Byrd’s true objective was to flush out Germans in Antarctica and capture alien UFO technology. The expedition began in 1945 and ended abruptly in March 1947. Strangely, reports of the first flying saucer sighting by a gentleman named Jeff Arnold occurred in June 1947. Could it have been the mysterious space ship Vril-7, emitting luminous ionization colors while ascending to the heavenly solar system Aldebaran with Adolf Hitler and his merry men, and women aboard? Who knows?
Now, you may ask, what does this have to do with silence?
…! I say.