Max Fly And The JFK Conspiracy



The man in front of me was big with his hair clipped short on the side, military style. He was wearing a white trench coat and a brown hat, brown oxford shoes, white shirt, brown tie, and I assumed he had a government issued revolver on him somewhere.
He didn’t offer his hand and neither did I.
I was wearing my brown Dan Post cowboy boots, brown corduroy sports coat, Wisconsin Badger sweatshirt, Wrangler Jeans, and my silver belt buckle I won for being the runner-up all-around cowboy on the Texas Rodeo Circuit in 1937. I had my Colt .45 belly gun in its rig, situated snuggly under my left arm. I topped everything off with a white Stetson hat. I looked good.
I had a brandy manhattan in front of me and he had a Scotch and some change. He bought the drinks. It was his meeting.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Max. I realize you are a busy man.”
“That’s true but Harry said it was important. Something to do with national security?”
He ignored my question and asked one of his own.
“You and Lieutenant Harry Marshall pretty tight?”
“I guess. What’s this about?”
It was a Monday afternoon, 2:15 p.m. Central Standard Time, to be precise. We were sitting in the back of Rocco’s Pub, near the ladies room and close to the phone where I receive most of my calls. My friend and proprietor, Dan Ciorrocco, known as, The Rocco Man, was busy wiping down the bar and filling the cooler with beer, preparing for the evening crowd that would start arriving around 4:00 p.m. It was dark. I asked Rocco to keep the lights turned down and he agreed. This was a secretive meeting.
”Yes, well, I’m Colonel Jack Clarkston, I’m the Assistant Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.” He paused to let the importance of that set in, I guess. I stared at him.
He continued. “What do you know about the CIA, Max?”
I thought a moment and realized I didn’t know a great deal about the CIA, so I did what I usually do when I found myself lacking knowledge, I lied.
“Quite a bit actually. You are a bunch of weird spooks snooping around in everybody’s business trying to overthrow governments of small defenseless nations. How’s that’s for starters?”
He stared at me nodding his head.
“That’s fairly factual. Actually, we gather intelligence. We deal with two types of intelligence gathering. First, there is white intelligence which is information gathered from open sources such as newspapers and magazines and then there is covert intelligence gathering and this is what I am interested in hiring you for, to work directly for me outside the normal channels of the agency. I believe you are the perfect candidate.”
“Hire me? What for?”
Clarkston stared at me for an instant before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He blew smoke over his head and took a sip of his Scotch.
“Max, you have military and investigative experience. You don’t have a family. No siblings, your mother is dead and your father disappeared years ago, most likely died and buried in a pauper’s grave somewhere. Your history with women is shaky at best. You don’t have a wife or any kids, no attachments. You are familiar with the southwestern states as well as Mexico and South America and you cheat on your taxes. In other words, you are a perfect candidate for covert operations, this operation. We need someone outside the agency, someone we can trust. Are you interested?”
“And why should I do this?”
“Because you love your country and because we are asking you to do it. You don’t need any special talent or high intelligence. If intelligence, talent, and ability were hereditary, we would have to dig deeply into your family tree to find its source,” he said with a flicker of a grin, “and we don’t have the time to do that.”
I didn’t appreciate his failed attempt at humor.
“I don’t know. I’m making some pretty good money now. I would hate to give it up.”
“Max, we know what you are making and it isn’t what you have been reporting on your tax returns. We don’t care about that. We are willing to pay you twice as much as you brought in last year and we’ll lose the information we have on you so the Treasury Department will not get their hands on it. We don’t play games, Max.”
We looked at each other across the table.
I picked up my brandy and took a big swallow.
“Since you put it that way, I guess I’m your man.”
“Good, that’s good, Max.”
He took another drag on his cigarette and continued to look at me.
“We found over the years a man becomes a spy for different reasons, hatred, anger, political zeal, money, and sex and then some of them are coerced. You exhibit all these qualities. Hell Max, you voted for Senator Joseph McCarthy. In addition to theses qualities, you seem to have inner demons which could also help you be successful.This is an opportunity to do something special, something important for your country. Because of your tradecraft, and independent nature, we feel you would be a perfect fit for this job. There is no reverence in what you will do. I have to tell you, now that you are a part of this, there is no way out. You can’t fuck around with these people. They will break you and turn you into something awful.
“I’m just a private dick, Colonel. I’m not a Spook.”
“We’ll make you one and you will be one of the best. Hap Schultz will join you.
We want you guys to fly under the radar. When someone comes to us saying they have some information relating to this job, we want to send you and Hap, someone who cannot be traced back to us. You set up your network of friends you can trust. No more than ten people. We will train you and pay you well. Tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. you and Hap Schultz will meet me in Lieutenant Marshall’s office down at the Milwaukee Police Department’s 16th Precinct. Don’t be late. Hap is being briefed by another agent as we speak.
“Have you heard of a sleeper agent, Max?”
“No, I can’t say I have. What is a sleeper agent?
A Sleeper Agent is an inactive deep-cover agent. What we are about to tell you came from a sleeper agent. It is top secret and if any of this information leaks out, it could cause the death of many people and that will make me angry and you don’t want to make me angry, Max.
After you sign these forms I am going to tell you somethings and you cannot breathe a word to a soul. You are also going to meet some very powerful people who are going to pass along some top secret information to you and you are going to forget you ever met them. Do you understand?
I nodded my head. I figured I had already forgotten more than I know and forgetting more shouldn’t be too much of a problem.
“Good. Your cover will be that you are traveling and writing about life on the rodeo circuit throughout the southwestern United States, Mexico, and South America. We will assist you in getting jobs as a pickup rider at the different rodeo events. Those where we can’t help you, you will be on your own and will have to figure out how to maneuver around the event. We want you to mingle with the cowboys in the area as well as the people who are putting on the event. You will just be another rodeo junkie while you spook some really bad people.
“Since you are a writer and a former newspaper man your background fits.
“We will teach you a code and provide you with a code book.
“Dan Cirrocco will be your contact. You will leave your encrypted reports here at Rocco’s Pub with Dan. You will learn the code. Mr. Cirrocco will have no idea what the codes mean. He will hand them off to Homicide Detective Harry Marshall who in turn will get them to us.
“We will never leave you naked. We will have friends in the area at all times but you will never know who is covering you.
“Your code name will be Cheese Head.”
“Cheese Head? Where the fuck did you come up with that?”
“It doesn’t matter. All your correspondence will be signed Cheese Head. No exceptions. I’m going to leave now. A car will be out front in fifteen minutes to pick you up and take you to the Pfister Hotel. You will be meeting another Harry, Harry Truman.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“President Harry Truman?”
“It’s the only one I’m aware of, the man who created the CIA, this Frankenstein I work for. This is big, Max, real big.
“Oh, and by the way, if asked, I was never here. We never talked.”

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

Red 3 20160722_153458 copy Red 2 20160722_154108 copy Red 1 20160722_154141 copy


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.


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.

Auburn War Eagle? I don’t think so. University of Georgia War Eagle? Hardly.


For over 100 years now a battle has raged between these two schools as to which school originated the war eagle cry. But they are both out in left field because it was in Wisconsin where the true War Eagle originated. One that actually saw combat, albeit, he showed some of his chicken heritage as he feared artillery fire and took off whenever the big guns began to fire. But then, who doesn’t? In fact, he was actually wounded in battle, well, maybe not in battle, but he did injure his leg during a hurricane.

My Auburn University friends say they are the originators of the “war eagle” yell, but I know this isn’t true. I have read that there are three or four different theories on how the Auburn Tigers seized the War Eagle sobriquet and a couple of them have ties to football games against the University of Georgia. My favorite one is when the bird takes off in flight and screams, igniting the fans to scream, ‘war eagle,’ and the Auburn offense to score the winning touchdown. Immediately after the score, the eagle performs a kamikaze act, taking a nose dive onto the football field where it dies. Can you believe that? I can’t. In fact, some of the stories claim Auburn actually stole the war eagle cry from Georgia. Another one claims a Carlisle player was named War Eagle and they would call out his name during a game. But, listen, I’m here to put this silly argument to rest. Whatever side you support on the War Eagle debate, you are wrong. The cry “War Eagle” originated in Wisconsin. In fact, many cries originate in Wisconsin it’s so damn cold up there, plus Lutefisk and bratwurst both produce a case of indigestion that can cause any man to whimper in pain.

The true story of War Eagle began many years ago, a Wisconsin Ojibwe, Chief Sky, one of five sons of Thunder of Bees, Chief of the Flambeau band of Chippewa Indians, part of the Anishinaabe tribe, called the first people, during sugar making time about 125 miles outside the city of Eau Claire, chopped down a pine tree containing an eagle’s nest with two eaglet’s nestled inside. One died. Chief Sky, gathered up the other one and, evidently, not learning from the 1626 bead transaction his brothers conducted with the Dutch for selling Manhattan, sold the eaglet to a Dan McCann from Eagle Point, Wisconsin, for a bushel of corn. Actually, the bead transaction story is also a farce. The Canarsie Indians sold Manhattan to Dutch settlers, but not for some worthless glass beads, but for iron kettles, axes, knives, and cloth. The kicker to the story is that the land that they took payment for didn’t even belong to them. But, I don’t think all the kettles and other gadgets involved in that transaction come close to the $2100.00 per square foot that vacant land is currently selling for in Manhattan.

Now back to Wisconsin’s War Eagle. Dan McCann eventually sold the little eaglet to the commanding officer of the Eau Claire Badgers militia company. Typical of Wisconsin, a tavern was involved in this purchase when tavern owner, S.M. Jeffers, pitched in to help defray the exorbitant selling price of $2.50.

When the eagle was sworn into service, he was adorned with a breast rosette (rose shaped ornament) and a red, white and blue ribbon around his neck. They named him Old Abe.

While in Madison, a dog joined the regiment. Abe and the dog, Frank, tolerated one another because Frank provided rabbits and other small mammals for Abe to eat. Unfortunately for Frank, one day he ventured a bit too close to Abe’s meal, bringing an end of their relationship.

During “Old Abe’s” service, the 8th Wisconsin militia participated in many battles, expeditions, and pursuits of Confederate forces during his namesake’s Mr. Abe Lincoln’s war. Among these were the battles of  Corinth; Island Number 10; Big Black; Champion’s Hill; the Red River and Meridian expeditions; and the Battle of Nashville. “Old Abe” was there every step of the way. In many battles, he would circle the smoky battlefield as the enemy would be closing in and the bullets flew. He would rise high in the sky, all the while screaming at his assailants. After the battle, upon seeing his bearer, he would descend like a shot and fly into his arms. “Go War Eagle!”

Old Abe so infuriated Confederate General Sterling Price he was said to declare that he would rather “capture that bird than a whole brigade.”

Old Abe entered his last battle in the Great Rebellion, also referred to as the Civil War, as well as with many other names, at Hurricane Creek, MS. The war eagle’s shrieks could be heard clearly and distinctly above the victorious shouts of the Eau Claire Badgers militia. Abe seemed to have protected his bearers and dodged the bullets of rebel sharpshooters who had failed to kill them.

Old Abe died on March 26, 1881, of smoke inhalation in the loving arms of his handler when, it has been said, he was reminiscing with his old militia pals while smoking a fine cigar and sipping a brandy. I might be distorting the truth here a bit but it was reported that one time he did get drunk on some peach brandy that was left unattended in his presence. “Go War Eagle!”

Today, a likeness of Old Abe, the original War Eagle, can be found at the main entrance to University of Wisconsin’s Camp Randall Stadium.

And that my friend, is the true story of the one and only War Eagle!

Go Badgers!

Where Is Jane Fonda When You Need Her?

Shot down and captured in 1965.
Shot down and captured in 1965. Captain David Hrdlicker


Vietnam War – What’s Disgusting Is Our Government’s Inaction After 1975.

As our government argues about transgender toilets, we have some GIs from the Vietnam War unaccounted for.

It has been over forty years since the end of the Vietnam War and over 21,000 reports of American prisoners, missing and otherwise unaccounted for have been received by our government. Many of these reports document live American Prisoners of War remaining captive throughout Southeast Asia. According to news writer, Sidney Schanberg, there have been 1,600 firsthand live sightings of American
prisoners after the war.

A photograph was taken by a US spy satellite in 1988, fifteen years after the US had ended its involvement in the war. It showed etched into a rice paddy, an enormous sign that contained the words ‘USA’ as well as a highly classified code, a ‘Walking K’ which would have only been known to US servicemen. It was built to be seen from the air, the ‘USA’ figures measuring 37.5 feet wide and 12.5 feet long.

You can go to this website to see the years of frustration the wife of a POW, Captain David Hrdlicka, has endured as she attempted to receive word on the fate of her husband,  a POW. He was  seen alive in a picture being led around by the Pathet Lao near Sam Neua, Laos. The last known National Archive document indicating that he was alive – 1990 according to his wife.

Due to the public’s demand to end the war, delayed release of the known POWs was not a risk that the administration decision makers were likely to take. No one informed the Congress or the American people that there were captives that had not been released from Southeast Asia and the country turned its back on the POWs in Laos. As the years passed from 1973, the fate of these individuals seemingly became less and less important. (Don Moody

Schanberg said,”But behind the scenes, President Nixon accused Hanoi of not returning a multitude of prisoners. In a private message on Feb. 2, 1973, Nixon said U.S. records showed 317 prisoners in Laos alone. “It is inconceivable,” he wrote, “that only 10 of these men” were being returned.
Hanoi stonewalled and never added any men to its prisoner list. Yet just two months later, Nixon did an about-face and claimed proudly on national television, “all of our American POWs are on their way home.” He had to know he was telling a terrible lie.”  Sydney Schanberg won a Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on the war in Indochina.

American servicemen in Vietnam were called upon to operate in dangerous circumstances and they were prepared to be wounded, killed or captured. It’s doubtful they thought they could be abandoned by the country they so proudly served.