"THE RABBI WHO KNEW TOO MUCH," part 2 of 2, Bryan Adrian filmscript about an East Village punk rock musician, with a scion of the Chabad-Hassidic mafia working for the Bronffmanns, & their duel on the rim of a Mexican volcano

"THE RABBI WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
(ABOUT THE RAPE OF THE ANCIENT SABINE WOMEN) part 2 of 2
Continued from Part 1"

It is definitely more enjoyable here! I once lived in the East Village
of Manhattan. I found it not nearly as interesting as my hometown in
the Pampas of Argentina.

But this little family is the best tribe of all! We are an assortment
of Indian, New Mexican, Mexican, and Pampas bloodlines here. My father
was Norwegian. He died in Alaska some time ago. My mother is from Buenos
Aires. How about you?

I'm just a Jew from Jersey. Not anything so exotic as New Mexico. My
father is Jewish and my mother was Irish Catholic. She died.

Well Bransteen. We are modernizing several ancient peyote rituals.
Would you like to help us?

Bransteen looks tempted and uncertain. Medea lifts a wooden bowl filled
with a potion to his lips.

Bransteen drinks eagerly from the wooden bowl. The potion goes down
without duress.

Medea signals to her compatriots that all is okay. Then she fastens a
pistol and gunbelt around her waist, and grabs a rifle that had been
standing against a cactus.

Bransteen and Medea leave the dancing men behind with their still
persistent hard-ons. They go away from the campfire, but not completely away
from the light of the fire.

Bransteen grins sheepishly and follows directly behind her. Her figure
is absolutely fetching.

And the second law of the West is never interrupt a spontaneous
pleasure if it seems a natural act.

She takes Bransteen by the hand and runs with him out of view and out
of all light cast from the fire. Only gentle moonlight frames the pair.

Medea throws her rifle against a rock and hastily removes her holster
and ammunition belt. The Bowie knife falls down as her hotpants are
discarded. She falls onto her back, completely nude.

The last time I tripped on peyote was incredible! I dreamed that I was
walking with my friend, Tempestina, who is an art historian, and ...

A beautiful naked woman is seen lying unconscious beneath a very large
painting in a major museum. The painting is somewhat damaged.

Tempestina hurries toward the unfortunate woman. She rubs the unconscious and
prostrate woman's body to try to awaken her. Several attempts are
unsuccessful. The woman at last suddenly awakens. She is in severe shock.

Some of the museum security guards rush over. They question the naked
woman but she doesn't answer them. She only shouts out the word
"Romulus," over and over.

My friend, Tempestina, in my hallucination last time I tripped, began
speaking Latin with the naked woman in this vision.

Tempestina is seen speaking in the FLASHBACK with the naked woman in a
mix of ancient Oscan and early Roman-Sabine. The naked woman abruptly
begins to cry and cannot stop crying, � for ages. Tempestina questions
her with gentleness but receives no reply.

The naked woman admitted her native tongue was Oscan and that her
spirit had been miraculously compressed into both the famous Poussin and
Pietro da Cortona paintings "The Rape of the Sabine Women", one of the
very same paintings she was lying under in the Met!

CAMERA PANS THE PAINTING IN THE NEW YORK METROPOLITAN MUSEUM, "THE RAPE
OF THE SABINE WOMEN" DIRECTLY OVERHEAD

Yes. Her soul cannot rest until she sees that humanity knows the truth
about the trick against the early pre-Solomonic Jewish tribes, and
later in history, the rape of the defenceless Sabine women.

She says that before 3050 B.C., the Semitic races of the Mediterranean,
from Algeria, to Greece, to

Egypt

and Israel, Lebanon,

Persia

and
Turkey, were not so warlike. The Jews then, maybe slightly more stubborn
than a few dozen other neighboring tribes, were not really very different
from other people of the area.

Spiritual and moral leaders came from all tribes during that time.
There were no monopolies on trade or god.

Suddenly, among the Hebrews, a cult sprang up around the Red Heifer,
which today is known as a scapegoat. It was to ward away a strange new
lifeform which was predatory against man.

This superior intelligence needed to partially infiltrate a human race
and camouflage itself thoroughly.

That's incredible!! All this was revealed to you in your peyote
vision??!! Are you sure the Oscan was correctly translated?

No. Let me continue. Many Jews resisted, those that were most
perceptive. But eventually their leaders were compromised and their high priests
joined the alien Kabal. The old concept of a Messiah springs forth from
the Jews who wouldn't forget this trick against humanity. The hope
returns over and over throughout history, but doesn't have much of a
chance, unless ....

.... don't laugh! until we break the language barrier with dolphins ...
before nefarious secret police networks accomplish this. Many friends
have told me that if you ingest LSD near a school of dolphins, they can
telepathically contact humans who are specially gifted and will use
audible cries of their as yet never decoded language, in celebration of
their breakthrough. It's a kind of harmony of the spheres.

Because the highest priests of almost all religions since then have
been compromised. It's suspected that dolphins were not penetrated during
this takeover because they use an echolocation sensory capacity that
requires an extraordinarily complex brain ... and they don't sleep like
other mammals -- they have two brains and voluntary breathing -- so when
they sleep they must keep one brain alert so as to breathe.

This protected them during the trick against humanity and intelligent lifeforms on
Earth. Bats have echolocation but were profoundly compromised, they
must sleep!

Enough of seatalk. Even Pythagoras spoke often of Atlantis, teaching
Socrates and Plato to never forget this crime against humanity. They also
taught of a way to identify and kill this foreign alien lifeforce �

�but all those works and texts have been annihilated. But we do know that
some Druid tribes were not compromised and they worked in tandem with
the kindred tribes of

Israel

that had defected from the monotheistic
Hebrew cult of the time.

Astonishingly .. the Sabine people of the time of Romulus, around 700
years before Christ, tried to drive out these invaders with the help of
many allies of many different races, Jewish tribes included.

It failed. But one day it won't. I repeat, this is the real crime
against humanity. We've already had one themonuclear war on earth ... over
twelve thousand years ago ... certainly before the time of the oral
legends recorded in the Old Testament.

New cultures sprang from this destruction, and irregular shifts in the
Earth's tectonic plate changed military inroads.

One was predatory to Man, and built a capital in

Mexico

and

Egypt

and

Peru

and

Tibet

and Anyang, among other places, like maybe Moldovia.

The other, friendly to humans ... a guardian angel creature ... settled
where it could make a defense against this warlike lifeform that began
interbreeding with us, and controlling human history.

The friendly lifeform is more cosmically civilized, and cannot afford to rest. They are
vulnerable to the predatory species - that which creates falsehoods out
of our deepest wishes and needs, specialists at turning man against
man.

Hey! Watch out! You're plowing the wrong field now since you slipped
out! That's forbidden fruit there, you arrogant Mule!

Bransteen and Medea get dressed after their love making session. She
dresses more quickly than he. Bransteen then struggles with his pants in
the sand, standing on one foot.

A large southwestern brown rat is scurrying quickly in the sand near
Bransteen, looking for flesh. She fires and kills the rat. Running over
to her quarry, she grabs the dead animal by the tail and brings it over
to Bransteen. She removes her Bowie knife from it's leather sheath and
skins the rat like a virtuoso.

I can sense that you have cause now, so you'd better learn. This is not
the only rat. I'll teach you plenty before sunrise.

If all mankind had the economical sensibility of a true hunter, we
would have few wars, and those few would end in a hurry!

A good hunter only kills what is lowest on the food chain first, prey
that provides little other utility, ... such as clothing, secondary food
sources, tool-making potential, or ornamentation.

Animals such as sheep, oxen and cows are fantastically useful, they are large, good for
labor, provide dung for heating and cooking, supply milk, cheese, wool,
hides ... their excrement is worth more than coal or oil in vast provinces
of the world!!! Should they be slaughtered on production-line scales?
They have so many other purposes, alive!

Did you know that the ratio of blood to body weight is largest among
mammals, and that the ox, wildabeest, elephant, whale, buffalo, sheep,
and yes, the human itself, are virtual blood bags with feet?

If there is a Dracula and Bride of Dracula, we know where They and
their children would look to slack their insatiable thirst! The large
mammals.

Hunters eat their game and use every bit of their prey for useful and
utilitarian purposes. Dead animals that simply rot in the open due to
excessive killing are an ugly sight, a complete waste, a crime against
the balance of Nature.

If man were forced to eat his victims in warfare, for at least a time
on Earth, or required by law to eat entirely another human whenever
taking its life away from it, we'd have much less war and murder because
there would be an oversupply of meat --- and

The perpetrators would end up killing themselves through overeating, a
quite painful death, I might add. This alone could end the repeated
suffering of humanity since the building of the great pyramids in Egypt.

My goodness! A 250 pound man killed by a 95 pound woman, and she must
eat her victim! She would die of puking! Absolutely horrible!

A battlefield full of thousands of rotting corpses would bring out a
sense of shame in everyone involved. Like wasted food or unsanitary
conditions in a restaurant.

I get it. Each soldier would at least value his opponent as food.
That's better than giving him no value at all and killing him only out of
sheer spite, or in blind obedience to a military officer, or to a slave
merchant!

Military professionals, in this future world, would have to be highly
trained in ethics, in addition to armed struggle techniques, they must
be prepared to handle, on their own, sudden hostile incursions into a
sovereign state, and assess the situation from a moral standpoint in very
little time. This takes a phenomenal amount of education and honor.

Each soldier himself and herself would be under law to hold a
democratic vote to judge whether an actual war engagement is preferable, or not
preferable.

The generals cannot dictate in this scenario, ... they have one vote
also, and only one ... but once war is decided by the majority, the
general is the top of the chain of command, and his commands are inviolate
until the end of his campaign.

Man's appetite for wealth and power may be nearly infinite. But his
appetite for meat has definite measurable limits.

CACTI ARE SEEN IN THE MOONLIGHT. A BEHEMOTH RAT SKIN IS PINNED TO ONE
OF THE CACTUS WITH A BOWIE KNIFE.

Bransteen is holding a pistol. Medea is standing behind him,
instructing him in the use of the gun. She is quite generous with her body
language while giving him pointers on how to be a better shot. He tries
several times, again and again, until he gets much better at aiming and
firing. Finally he begins to score hits directly into the rat skin target.

There is an air of jolly conviviality and easy compatibility between
Bransteen and Medea as they train in weapons together.

Here is my other revolver. I'm giving it to you as a gift. It is cold
and clean and hasn't been fired in several weeks.

But I'm years behind the Bloods in the projects for this kind of
education. I'll never be fast enough with a gun!

No need to. Look. The sun is about to rise. You said you must return to
your partner before dawn. Better get moving. Vayate! Me too!

Bransteen walks a little dejectedly back towards the limo. The sun
rises and the birds begin to sing. Bransteen enters the car. Rotmesser is
still sleeping. Bransteen turns on the radio. Rotmesser awakens.

I think you had too much to drink last night, or else you need more
sleep, you're hallucinating.

Rotmesser and Bransteen are talking as they drive ever closer to
Mexico. Bransteen is at the wheel.

You're an impetuous youth! You're not listening carefully to me. First
I was at the Frankfurt Book Fair. Then I was in the Hamburghaffen, one
of the largest harbors in Europe, for other commercial purposes. That
was before Prinkipo Island,

Turkey

. So I'm internationally connected,
but no ... not published throughout ALL of Europe.

Err ... yeah. I was doing a job for a shipping company. They own lots
of governments.

I'll tell you some other time. Meanwhile, let me get on with a joke I
learned in Europe.

But .. have you heard?. Dreamwerks is building a giant studio on the
ruins of the former Howard Hughes Aviation headquarters.

Did you know their never was a film coming out of Hollywood, to the
best of my recollection, showing that Jews also make mistakes ... and have
bad apples in their bushel, too?

I'm always having to justify to Gentile friends why so many drunken
priests drown themselves in alcohol in Graham Greene stories or, why
Hollywood relishes characters like Robert Mitchum's portrayal of a sexually
perverted homicidal Christian minister in "Night of the Hunter," or why
we don't see blood sabbaths in synagogues and temples, but we do see
Harvey Keitel's "Bad Lieutenant" wade through blood pools and vile
desecrations within a Catholic Church. Someone even asked me if Keitel was
suggesting that he was a new incarnation of the notorious SS Officer for
the Nazis named Keitel!

Actor's have responsibilities to themselves ... and to the public too.
Playing a role is a responsibility that weighs heavily on the shoulders
of an actor ... "he needed money" is a flimsy excuse for bad judgement.
We are talking art, not junk bonds!!! Do you know how many times I've
heard Spaniards and other Europeans complain bitterly about Burt
Lancaster's morally deficient preacher, in "Elmer Gantry"? They utterly detest
this Hollywood confabulation based on Sinclair Lewis's novel. I've been
asked if this film was a Golem or a Dybbuk creature programmed to
destroy American culture!

Blacks, by and large, are given fraudulent film roles in the Hollywood
hell ... not only belittling but showing an underlying feeling of
superiority from the producers and directors --- it's true that Hollywood
insults the intelligence of all Americans by ladling out such cliches and
divisive stereotypes to the public. Whenever there is a dignified black
portrayed, he or she is such an unrealistic fantasy -- something that
does not nor can not exist in any race, not even a race of Gods! ...
it's a damned insult to everyone ... I admit it ... it's clear it's damned
purgation of guilt --- and no real change of heart or politics ---
business as usual!!! Haven't you heard that before!!!

This contemptuous dimension to Hollywood's racial voodoo and black
magic is not a token of white supremacy. It's a very ancient religious
conceit and it's extended throughout the Middle East too, against
non-Jewish Semitic peoples. Ask any middle Easterner walking the streets of
London or Jerusalem if I'm wrong!

Get back to the outskirts of town. We'll ditch this car, walk a ways,
and then get a cab to bring us here to the car lot again. I haven't seen
anyone staring at the bullet holes in the back, but I don't want to
risk it anymore. Step on it.

Bransteen and Rotmesser collect up their things, most importantly
Rotmesser's very large black leather satchel, push the car into some dense
foliage between several trees, and then cover it up with lots of leaves
and debris.

They head towards town on foot for a short time and then hail a lone
passing taxi.

Through the large easy-view window of the business office of the used
car lot, Rotmesser can be seen tendering cash as payment on a red, used
Ford Mustang. The manager of the car lot ceremoniously hands the title
over to Rotmesser in exchange for bundles of hard currency. Rotmesser
departs briskly once business is concluded and strides over to the red
Mustang, where Bransteen patiently waits on foot. Rotmesser swings the
door open on the passenger side of the Mustang, slides in and gestures
to Bransteen to get behind the wheel and drive on.

They park the car in front of the diner. A waitress seats them and
takes their order very quickly. There are bilingual conversations in
American-English and Mexican-Spanish going on around them. They are very
close to the Mexican border.

Mort. Are you really Rabbi Feind? I'd like some kind of explanation
now. Especially since we've been shot at and your Penthouse alibi about
desert pirates doesn't convince me any longer.

Fine fine Mr. Feind. You must have been only teasing me, when you told
me back in New York City that your name is Mort Feind, Rabbi Mort
Feind.

The waitress arrives, serves their main orders, and then moves on to
serve other customers.

I'm still waiting for a plausible story. My life is at stake here, so
I'm in no mood for bullshit.

My name is Rotmesser. They call me "Running Rabbi" because a powerful
man in the mob named Wolfsheim would like to see me dead, rather than
only running.

Don't worry kid. Everything in life can be reduced to a matter of
money. I'll pay you double our original agreement. Shall we revise our
agreement?

I didn't read the papers much when I was playing music in little clubs
in Manhattan. Who is this Wolfsheim?

Look. We will go so deep into

Mexico

that we won't even have to wipe
our asses carefully. The less you know about this character, the better
for you ... if we are found one day. But I won't let that happen, I
assure you. Eat your food before it gets cold.

Listen. Mainly because I thought if you knew, you'd quit on me and I
would be stuck without an excellent driver.

I've been pretty good at concealing my movements for years now. Why
should my luck change?

Ara and Fatt are at the Seven-Eleven convenience store. Fatt buys
cigarettes. They are both drinking coffee in styrofoam cups. As they leave
through the door to their bikes in the parking lot, Ara catches sight of
Rotmesser in the Diner.

Fatt sees Rotmesser discussing something seriously with Bransteen. The
twin sisters both run for their bikes, dropping their coffee onto the
pavement in a splash. Ara pulls out a large shotgun. Fatt positions her
Uzi as she mounts and starts her motorcycle. They begin cruising toward
the diner window.

Murder is not my business. I'm only a musician. Let's get the hell out
of here and down into

Mexico

as soon as possible.

(as radiant as a Lotto winner) We'll get out of here just as soon as I
pay the tab!

Rotmesser signals to the waitress for the check. She brings it to him
and then pivots on the ball of her foot hurriedly so that she can
service a new table of customers that just took a table nearby.

(coaxingly) Don't go just yet my princess. (plucking a large bill from
his shirt pocket) Keep it doll.

Ara and Fatt are just feet from the diner window now. The sound of
motorcycles approaching somewhere in the parking lot arouses Rotmesser's
sixth sense of danger. He deftly opens his large satchel and pulls out
his canon-like revolver.

The shotgun blast rips through the window and kills the waitress
instantly. Rotmesser fires rapidly from his automatic handgun and scores a
hit on the headlamp of Fatt's motorcycle. She fires her Uzi and a streak
of holes appear in the restaurant wall just over Bransteen's head.
Rotmesser fires back at them in a raging salvo as the hit women both try to
maneuver out of the parking lot on their motorcycles. They turn out of
the parking lot in a hurry and onto a main boulevard.

(to Bransteen) Get your ass in high gear! We must kill them now and be
done with it!

Bransteen gets a handle on himself and they both run quickly to the
Mustang. He jumps behind the wheel and they drive in rapid pursuit of the
Fatwah Sisters. When they are near enough, Rotmesser lets out another
burst of deadly fire from his gigantic handgun.

Ara and Fatt nervously turn around in their motorcycle seats and fire
the best they can in the direction of the approaching Mustang. Rotmesser
takes deadly aim and Ara's motorcycle bursts into flames after being
struck by a direct hit. She leaps from her flaming bike like a circus
acrobat and onto Fatt's motorcycle. She then straddles her sister from
behind, holding her around the waist with one arm, and repositioning her
shotgun with the other. The sky is nearly pitch black from an
approaching storm.

The Mustang draws nearly directly behind the single motorcycle
transporting the twins.

Ara turns in her seat very adroitly and manages to hold onto Fatt with
her free arm and to aim the shotgun with the other, facing the Mustang.
She fires the shotgun just as the motorcycle hits a bump and blows the
front hood off of the Mustang, just missing both Bransteen and
Rotmesser and the higher windshield.

(standing tall in the back seat and regaining his firing position) Now
it's time for a double play!

Ara fires again from her shotgun forcing Rotmesser to duck for cover.
The upholstery of the back seat is blasted to bits, leaving a crater
sized hole in the backrest. Bransteen loses a little bit of control over
the Mustang during the close call.

Rotmesser reaches into his satchel and pulls out a grenade. He lobs it
onto Fatt's lap. It gets caught in her silk tunic. She tries
frantically to remove it.

Ara and Fatt are thrown onto the road and are left utterly motionless
like two disfigured Raggedy Ann dolls.

If the turkey buzzards don't eat them, the people who run McDonald's
will know what to do with those bodies.

One of them is decapitated, the other is ground round. Keep your head
about you and get us to the border. The police will be all over the place soon in this hick town.

Bransteen notices a trickle of blood running down Rotmesser's arm and
soaking his shirt.

Standing just outside of the overturned car, little Bransteen is
staring at his bloodied hands. His boyish face is transfigured into sheer
terror and he begins to scream with abandon.

Maharal Maharal. Guti Lord. What's wrong little red Bransteen, never
seen blood before? Never had porphyria?

Rotmesser looks concerned. Bransteen is meditative as he drives them
closer to the border. The clouds are beginning to clear and the sun
shines intermittently.

Bransteen is driving a Rambler sedan now, on a wide and empty road,
near sunset. They are already in Mexico.

You got a good price on it, didn't you, at that last sleazy used car
lot just before the border.

I didn't want trouble with the Mexican border officials. This Rambler
is perfect to travel inconspicuously ... and it's reliable and sturdy.

We'll eat when we get to the first large Mexican village. Arroz con
pollo, isn't that what chicken and rice is called?

Rotmesser has a clean tee-shirt torn and tied around his wound on his
arm. He is also wearing a fresh shirt, without bloodstains. He is drunk
and snoring heavily. His hand still holds unconsciously a half empty
litre bottle of tequila.

At the high speed at which he is traveling Bransteen cannot easily
distinguish well a blurred shape as he passes it on the side of the road.
He slows the Rambler, stops, and then backs up to meet the approaching
object.

Bransteen studies the subject intently as it slowly comes into focus.
When the features of the object are distinctive, he lets out a shout of
surprise.

It is the DOG from the Williamsburgh Bridge. It looks very tired and
thirsty. The dog doesn't bother to look up at the Rambler and continues
jogging with its tongue hanging out slinging off globules of saliva.

Bransteen pounds his forehead when he realizes for certain that this
dog is the same one which the attractive young lady lost in New York
City. He drives safely up to a few feet from the dog, blocking its path on
the shoulder of the road. After parking, he jumps out of the car and
calls out to the dog.

The dog comes nearer and sniffs Bransteen's leg. Its tongue is moving
in and out of its jaws very rapidly. Bransteen leans against the car
first and then sits down beside the dog in silence. The dog then rests its
chin on top of Bransteen's knee. They resemble for a moment an ancient
Egyptian healer with his sacred dog. A blinding light reflects off of a
passing car.

Hey pal. Didn't you remember me at first? New York City. Williamsburgh
Bridge? Don't I smell the same? Worse, huh?

You're a long ways from home, Boy. Do I bet you have a hell of a story
to tell me. Heading further south like us? Following the dolphins?

I'd like to take you with us, but my boss drinks heavily and lives very
dangerously ... it might not be your style.

They both hop into the car and Bransteen drives further into the
cooling evening air. Rotmesser is asleep and lays stretched out across the
back seat, like a partially wrapped mummy. Bransteen leans across the
front seat to open the dog's window.

(opening now his window too) I could use a shot of that fresh air
myself Blondie.

The dog protrudes its head out of the window and respires in short
strong snorts.

Two heads now protrude, one from each side of the car. They
simultaneously pant and breathe in snorts.

Rotmesser moves around in annoyance and sneezes in his sleep, mainly
due to the cool draught whipping around the inside of the car now.

I told you to --- (seeing Bransteen with the dog he reaches forward and
grabs Bransteen by the shirt) Have you gone mad? What's that sack of
dog doodoo and fleas doing here in my car!

Bransteen pulls the Rambler over to the shoulder of the road. The dog
looks at Rotmesser and warningly bares its teeth.

... think it's the same dog that once helped me through a tough night
of demons on the Lower East Side.

Rotmesser hears sounds of laughter. Two forms are somewhere in a dark
background. They are young men sitting around a table and drinking. A
young Rotmesser and Wolfsheim are chatting together with pleasure.

Our blood is like this wine, brother. Our cup shall runneth over as
long as we're partners.

Rotmesser and many Mexican locals at the diner are staring with
astonishment in Bransteen's direction.

Bransteen displays total disinterest in his meal, even though he loves
Mexican cuisine. He slides his plate over towards Blondie. The dog is seated in a chair
and has a napkin fastened around its neck. The plate is licked clean in
seconds flat.

Blondie gives Bransteen a look of fervid appreciation. Bransteen pats
the dog on its head. Rotmesser looks around and sees that all the
Mexicans are staring in their direction.

(pointing at Blondie and making hand gestures with his free hand to
indicate water for the dog.)

Rotmesser glowers as he pushes recklessly through the splintered Dutch
doors as he exits the diner. A Mexican waitress is seen bringing water for Blondie and Bransteen.

Rotmesser is puffing on another Castro cigar in the back seat.
Bransteen is driving and caressing the dog with his free hand. Blondie licks
Bransteen's face. Bransteen then leans over and kisses the dog on the top
of its nose.

Your conscience is as puny as your little goy nose. Who do you think
you are, Confucius? Words about conscience bore me. I prefer law. It's a
far better tool of subterfuge.

Bransteen leaves the dog penned up in the car and follows Rotmesser a
distance away from the car. They stop a few yards away. The dog watches
them from the window.

Bransteen disagrees. Rotmesser argues. Bransteen and Rotmesser begin
gesticulating wildly at one another. Bransteen starts to return to the
car. Rotmesser grabs Bransteen and spins him around. Bransteen breaks
Rotmesser's hold on him and ignores Rotmesser's shouting. Rotmesser grabs
and spins Bransteen around a second time, only this time with much more
force. Bransteen turns around and brings his fist curving with all its
centripetal force, punching Rotmesser and knocking him instantly to the
ground.

Rotmesser quickly gets back onto his feet. He draws out his pistol with
a silencer attached. Running up to Bransteen, he pistol whips him on
the back of the head, knocking him out. Bransteen falls to the ground.

Rotmesser then marches purposefully towards the car. The dog barks
loudly and jumps nervously around the inside of the car.

The dog licks Bransteen's face. Rotmesser steps closer. He gives the
dog a hard look, aims, and fires. The dog drops dead instantly next to
Bransteen.

Rotmesser stares angrily at the two bodies. He then lifts Bransteen,
who is still unconscious, and carries him to the back seat of the
Rambler. Before getting behind the wheel, he takes one last look at the
bleeding corpse of the dog. Some of the bats are already feeding. He then
takes the wheel and drives pensively down the dark road.

Rotmesser is driving. He turns his head to look toward Bransteen as he
regains consciousness. Bransteen sits up and looks around mutely.

Rotmesser says nothing. Bransteen looks into Rotmesser's eyes reflected
in the rear view mirror and realizes that his dog is really dead. In
total emotional confusion, Bransteen reaches for the door handle abruptly
and leaves the car in a jolt, slamming the door behind him.

Bransteen walks for about ten yards. He stops to think. Shortly
afterwards he returns to the car.

Rotmesser is grinning maliciously. Bransteen then returns and reaches
for the front passenger door. He then changes his direction and reenters
the car through the back door. He sits silently in the back seat alone.

The new one will have Mexican fleas. I hope that's okay by you, maybe
you're partial to Big Apple fleas.

We're not trained to be nice guys in the Hebron settlement as young
'Hets va-keshet', bow-and-arrow lads, nor as 'Sayanim' liaisons for the
Mossad military intelligence. So quit your whimpering.

I'm half Jewish by race and fully Jewish through conversion, but I hate
you types, like Mick Hararfi and Robert Maxwellhouse.

All I will say is that I admire his work. He was indispensable to
Noriega in Panama. Maybe we'll visit him and many other old friends down in
Central America. We have over 3500 years of experience there.

You know. You make me feel much better. It will be empowering to see
Hararfi again!

Why didn't Hararfi's men know that they murdered an innocent Moroccan
waiter, who had a very pregnant Norwegian wife, and that this Moroccan
was not one of the Black September liberation soldiers Hararfi's men had
been tracking down and executing?

. . . In your first Midas-sized nightmares, I'll be waiting for you
there, ... on the other side.

I never worked for Israeli spy networks, nor Amercian, and I'm no
Rabbi, but I did go to Hebrew school in New Jersey.

Well spoken. Actions and reactions. Like quantum mechanics in physics.
We'll find out some day if you're right. But for the meantime, quit
sitting there like Joan of Arc. No catharsis for you junior here today.

A series of dissolves shows the Rambler going from the north to the
south of Mexico, through the brown northern flat country to the greener
mountains deep in the interior of Mexico.

Bransteen is driving once again. The engine of the Rambler starts to
steam. Shortly afterwards, the car clunks to a halt and dense vapor
plumes steam from the radiator. Rotmesser and Bransteen get out to survey
their bad luck.

A view from a distance reveals a small village hanging safely just
below the rim of a dead volcano. Straining the eye, one can see an empty
main plaza, or Zocalo, with an attractive fountain circulating water. No
one is present. On a street in the vicinity, kids are running to play
inside the ruins of a rusty and abandoned Rambler. A skinny dog is
following on the heels of the kids.

Rotmesser is wearing a large sombrero and sharpening a machete. Mexican
peasant clothes fit him loosely.

MARIA, a young and presentable earthy Zapoteca Indian girl is snoring
softly with the crown of her head resting gently on Rotmesser's lap.
Rotmesser reaches down and tickles her feet.

Maria's dreams thus interrupted, she awakens in a state of confusion,
until her eyes meet Rotmesser's. Her body shudders with affection and
she puckers her lips for a kiss.

Why did I ever pick YOU out of all the live-in house help offered to me
by the mayor of the village?

Maria shrugs with a triumphant smile. She then wraps her arms lovingly
around Rotmesser's neck.

The house is dimly lit and quiet. Maria crosses through the kitchen and
into the main room. She passes Rotmesser's empty bedroom and proceeds
to the adjacent bedroom. She hesitantly places her hand on the doorknob,
and then with more certainty opens the door very quietly and steps into
the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Bransteen is sleeping naked on his bed. Maria tiptoes to his bedside
and stops to admire his well formed body. She puts her hand on
Bransteen's upper leg and massages it gently, climbing higher and higher towards
his crotch. She is biting her lip as if unaware of how unexpected this
activity has consumed her.

Maria bites her lower lip, with suppressed desire and kneads the flesh
of young Bransteen's thigh, reluctant to let go. Bransteen suddenly
wakes up and Maria jumps back.

Maria shrugs. Bransteen gets out of bed and puts on his trousers,
perplexed and discomforted by Maria's lingering gaze.

She slowly leaves the room, lingering a bit to watch over her shoulder
as Bransteen dresses himself. Bransteen follows shortly afterwards, and
completes dressing himself while in motion to cross through the room at
the same time. Maria stops to drink some water in the kitchen.
Bransteen exits the kitchen. Maria hurriedly follows him, water dripping from
her chin.

Rotmesser watches them coming toward him. He continues to sharpen his
machete. Maria sits herself next to Rotmesser and looks at him with
contrived adoration.

Don't you like working for me, or did you have a long solitary walk
back to Manhattan in mind?

You're even more detestable than the biggest red-eyed weasel on a
prominent Washington lobby.

Get me my damned tequila or go to hell with your revolution! And take
your restive airs with you.

Four months here and you've been only drinking tequila or working on
your book or screwing Maria.

What's your book about anyway? I'm bored living holed up with only your
ugly face and cut off from everything.

My book? It's about the pattern of Judaism following on the heels of
Christianity for thousands of years, improving, in a business sense, the
structures laid down by the Christian cultures.

Much like Zoroasterians, Sufis, Buddhists, Islamics, and post-Christian
Shintos. Those specialist groups too swept in immediately behind the
civilization-building theologies. Show me a book today that is authentic
Confucian, or tablets from pre-Egyptian Jordan, or from the Elder races
of the Druids ... their languages have conveniently been "misplaced".

Look. Here's a map from the Oxford Atlas of World History. See
"Diaspora and Christianity"? I'm talking about the Hebrew Diaspora, not the
Anyang-Mongolian Diaspora, nor the Portuguese-Irish, nor the
Finnish-Magyar Diaspora. There are slight differences.

I myself believe that Moses was a member of the ancient Mongol Hsiung race, that later crossed the
Steppes into Bulgaria during the time of that Welsch military intriguer
St. Patrick, a Roman "clergyman" who did a lot to bring down the
Celtics and the last of the Druids. The ripples of that were felt all the way
to the remnants of the final few Shintos in Japan.

Follow all the different colored arrows around Europe, Turkey, India,

Tibet

and

China

... and then ... yes -- to the Americas!

See here, the time around 600 AD had lots of movement. Then again,
really lots of activity during the Crusades and again around the 1400 and
1500s, until it culminated in the auto-da-fe public executions of the
Spanish Inquisition.

Did you know Torquemada killed less than 2000 Jews? True, they were
heinous public displays that drew huge crowds. It was symbolic and
dreadful enough, however, to scare all the Jews out of

Spain

--- those who
didn't convert to Christianity. However, as in earlier exoduses, almost
all the Jewish high priests in the Spanish Treasury stayed behind,
without incident.

Bransteen. Tell me. Have you ever seen a military general crying in the
streets, weeping for the dead? Well ... let me remind you of something.
The best military strategy books have been written, by not only
graduates of national military universities, but also from among the finest
theological universities and seminaries.

If only Hitler had shared Torquemada's frugal sense of proportion, he
could have spared Jewish, and equally, non-Jewish deaths -- Torquemada
never reached into the millions, and withheld his troops from wreaking
worldwide destruction -- for this he lost the inevitable reconfiguration
of wealth that changed the globe forever after the holocausts of
Alexander the Macedonian, and Caeser, and the Mongolian hordes before even
the Muslims, and the Templars during the Crusades, and Napolean, ... need
I go on?? They all had their faces minted on coins that controlled vast
empires.

Weren't Mao Tse tung and Stalin responsible for over 30 million deaths
apiece around the same time?

Let's stick with Adolph Schickelgrubber. He was so twisted up by his
personal physician, Doctor Morell, and by grossly deformed mythologies
about the Aryan Indo-Europeans of ancient

India

and the sacred swastika
of that prehistoric time, ... he confused them with the old Nazirite

Israel

tribe of the Gutis

they were forbidden to go near the dead, even their own dead family
members. The Red Heifer time ... wasn't that part of your education?

What I started to say --- Adolph couldn't have been more deluded from
his private madness run amok than he was from his physician and
advisers. .. nearly wasted from all his physician administered narcotic
injections and intestinal microorganism preparations ... near the end ... it
seems he was used by historical and occult forces that are nothing at
all what they seem to be today! ... I believe little Shickelgrubber lost
his mind before he lost his soul.

Mierda! Look. Menacham Begin killed more than Torquemada, in

Lebanon

alone, in his 1980 invasion, against the cries and protests of the entire
United Nations!

Listen kid. War has always been an instrument of religion. Technology
too. Just look what Intel computers are leading up to now!

First spearheaded by a Hungarian, then plowing through Silicon Valley, Intel went on
to Israel, and now virtually shares a monopoly with Microsoft Windows �
together becoming ever so thoroughly the sole owners of
telecommunications in France and Germany -- and their telephone and internet
connections. I tell you, it really is a net!! The fish will be caught and the
net will grow larger. There is no Fisher King, I told you first!

In modern

America

... Finally!! No substantial reason for religious
revenge or hatred. No ideological pretexts for persecution. Yes, the
blacks have grounds for racial animosity, their tragic origins in slavery
have never been adequately addressed. Their anger, even today, is well
justified. But never before has there been a cultural base so large and
so secure, with the enormously powerful potential to turn completely the
tables on the sorcerers of this hoax.

And that is why Hollywood is so pivotal in the global dynamics and the
political orientation of American energies. Without religious grounds
for war, nor ideological motivations, since Americans are historically
apolitical in the true sense of a Polity, dream merchandising is the
same as shouting at the top of Mt. Olympus! Mark my words, someday soon
Spielbird will make an epic war film! If you see this in your lifetime,
then hold your hat. That will be the watershed event!! That is the end,
my friend.

CAMERA PANS THE MEXICAN MOUNTAIN VISTAS, FORESTS AND OLD COLONIAL
SPANISH ARCHITECTURE

Egypt, Baghdad, Armenia, Romania, Turkey, Punjab ... India's coastline
and mountain passes, Thailand, Korea, Mongolia, Tibet ... a special
breed of nomadic war mongerer has been nearly everywhere since recorded
time immemorial ... Galicia, Lithuania, Sweden, ... and now we can stop
up! It's a relief! The rest of us can stop taking the rap for their
intrigues.

For this load of crap I'm sitting here in the middle of nowhere

Mexico

and listening to you. Jesus help me!

Look Mort. When you gonna pay me in full. I'm sick and tired of making
do on the meager allowance you give me every week, and I'm getting
uppity staying here all holed up and never getting laid. Plus, I've got to
listen to you humping Maria every night, and making long moral
speeches, like you're a good person that should be honored.

(back to sharpening his machete) You're whining more than a bellyaching
slave. Run and get the tequila or you'll never see your sack of silver.
Go!

Bransteen walks slumped shouldered back into the house and retires to
his bedroom.

Bransteen listens to their animated discussions and wants to join them
in their fun and spontaneous games. He gets up from bed and leaves the
house through the back door. Easily humoring the kids, he kneels down
and joins them in their activities.

Rotmesser calls in a terrifyingly loud voice for Bransteen again. There
is no reply. Rotmesser laughs sinisterly. Still no response. Rotmesser
turns toward Maria, who is propped against him at his side, and pinches
her teasingly on her lush buttocks. Maria giggles submissively and
leans into him suggestively.

Maria walks slack postured back into the house. Her feelings of
rejection are written on every contour of her sensuous figure. Rotmesser looks
in Maria's direction thoughtfully, and then suddenly remembers
Bransteen's impudence. Rotmesser turns his head away from Maria and stares
pensively at the distance where he can hear Bransteen's voice mixing with
the laughter of the children.

The kids are following Bransteen along the bank of a brook that is
almost empty of water.

They all reach a large murky pond where a few large slow moving fish
are treading water near the surface. The fish don't seem too healthy and
make ponderous movements. Their sluggishness defies the dogmas of famed
ichthyologist Louis Agassiz when he argued with Charles Darwin over
glaciers and survival of the fittest.

Bransteen and the kids' faces are reflected in the water, seemingly
photocopied onto the surface, alongside the barely living fish, in a
strange pop-art looking montage.

One of the fish, a large one, goes belly up and spreads a brackish
cloud of secretions in the water. Its death destroys the artsy effect that
had just existed moments before.

Bransteen unexpectedly draws a revolver from behind his waistband,
tucked under his shirt; the same revolver that Medea presented to him in a
happier time.

He fires six shots in the vicinity of the large dead fish. It rolls
around a bit before breaking into pieces. The pond's water becomes even
more brackish.

The kids stare at Bransteen in wonder and fear. He winks at them and
they laugh excitedly. Bransteen reloads his revolver. The kids inch
closer to the edge of the pond to get a coroner's view of the bits of dead
fish. They are so fascinated that they completely forget Bransteen. He
tucks the gun behind his shirt and into the back of his pants before
heading back home, unnoticed by all.

On the way home Bransteen goes through the town center rather than
backtracking along the banks of the brook. He stops at the fountain in the
square to refresh himself, drawing several splashes of cool water onto
his face. He then swallows a few gulps and continues on home.

Bransteen enters the kitchen and looks for something to eat. He hears
sounds of moaning coming from his bedroom. He pushes forcefully his door
open and sees Maria and Rotmesser making love. She is riding her
partner like an Indian warrioress, high on her war horse.

Rotmesser seizes Maria's ass with his large fleshy hands and pulls
himself into her again, regardless of the intrusion and loss of privacy.

Bransteen exits the house in a major state of aggravation. On his way
out the door he sees the machete hanging from a nail and takes it with
him toward the big shade tree. He sits beneath the umbrage of the tree
and runs his finger along the edge of the razor sharp machete. He cuts
himself accidentally and stems the minor bleeding by sucking on his
finger.

Rotmesser appears later wearing no more than a large sombrero and a
pair of old broken-in Levy jeans and a 'cat just ate the canary' smile. He
takes the machete away from Bransteen, tosses his sombrero to one side,
and then stands a large ripe watermelon that had been ripening in the
sun onto its end. With a swift and powerful stroke of the machete,
before the watermelon loses its perpendicular balance, he cleaves the
watermelon into two clean halves.

Maria loves it. Must be the sunlight in your bedroom. She blossoms like
a cactus flower in there.

Bransteen remembers with a twinge of regret the stealthy caresses Maria
had once applied to the insides of his thighs, and then banishes this
sudden surging of desire from his boiling blood.

He then picks up Rotmesser's sombrero from the ground and leaves for
the town center wearing the sombrero without saying a word.

Rotmesser sits upon a bench eating down the sliced watermelon in loud
smacks and slurps, washing it down with generous gulps of tequila from a
large open bottle.

The CHIEF is somewhere over 100 years old and still has a marvelous
sense of humor. Bransteen, Maria and Rotmesser are present at the party,
along with many VILLAGERS.

Many of the villagers are seated around a large table that stands
before the village's most prominent adobe home. Women are serving food and
drink. A local band is playing regional Mexican ballads. Kids and dogs
are present in large numbers. Someone offers a toast to the very old
man.

Every man at the party lifts his glass in honor of the Chief, except
for Bransteen. Thinking that Bransteen is hard of hearing, an off-duty
Mexican policeman looks directly at Bransteen and repeats the toast.

Bransteen joins in the toast. Numerous toasts and testimonies are made,
each followed by a shot of tequila and a small glass of beer.

Bransteen toasts and drinks so much that eventually he is drunk. Maria
finds his drunken vulnerability irresistible and begins to brazenly
flirt with him. In time, Maria is sitting on Bransteen's lap. He gets
carried away and kisses Maria passionately, proceeding to uncover one of
her breasts and suckle her bosom with a nipple kiss.

Maria is tremendously excited but well aware that others present may
judge her poorly, especially Rotmesser. She gets up from Bransteen's lap
and takes his hand.

The crowd eats, dances and drinks in merriment. Rotmesser comes on to
several of the senoritas. The Old Chief is enjoying his party immensely.

Bransteen and Maria are shown showering together as she tries to
straighten him out with a cold shower. Then she makes some hot coffee and
forces him to drink an entire cup. Afterward, they return to the party
from the adobe. Bransteen seems transformed, a new man. His face is
radiant and he possesses a newfound strength he had been lacking before.

Maria sits beside Rotmesser again, but now she seems extraordinarily
wistful. Rotmesser adds up mentally the changes of behavior in both of
his companions and correctly deduces why. He smiles like an old master of
love and betrayal.

Bransteen. I want you and Maria to go to the market tomorrow and buy
the Chief his own television set. (winking at Bransteen) We want to get
him used to The Big Sleep. TV will certainly do it for him, especially
American TV. Bransteen! Make a toast to the Chief!

Bransteen drinks down a double shot of aged tequila. Everyone is
feeling merry and offering numerous toasts and stories.

Bransteen passes out during the party in the wee hours of the morning.
Rotmesser offers to take Bransteen home. Maria stays behind to chat
with her village friends, who she hasn't had much time to see for four
months.

Rotmesser props Bransteen up on the saddle of a horse that one of the
old villagers had lent him. Bransteen slides downward letting his head
rest against the horse's neck every time he is set up straight in the
saddle by Rotmesser. To secure Bransteen to the horse for the journey
home, Rotmesser borrows Maria's shawl and uses it to tie Bransteen into
the saddle.

Rotmesser is leading the horse by a rope and singing to the melody of
'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean' with his own lyrics.

Rotmesser ties the horse to the plaza fountain railing and quenches his
taste for alcohol from a large bottle of tequila that he carried away
from the party.

When alongside the fountain pool Rotmesser stares into his reflection
and begins talking to himself.

I want to sleep without the help of a bottle. ... without meeting my
past at every dark turn of my mind. (in theatrical self pity) Every row
of my memories is a hung jury.

Rotmesser begins to swill from his bottle again, catching for a second
time his reflection on the surface of the fountain pool.

You've tried everything. Changed your name, change your lifestyle,
changed your women. Never changed your religion though. And here you are
you drunk bastard ... same as ever!

In a fit of anger Rotmesser throws the bottle violently at his
reflection in the water.

His reflection takes form again. Rotmesser turns and looks toward
Bransteen who is still unconscious, then turns back to his reflection.

His reflection looks him in the eye and slowly gives a cynical smile.
Rotmesser jumps back in total horror.

Rotmesser's reflection silently waits. Rotmesser is paralyzed by
indecision and drunkenness.

Rotmesser reaches into his saddle bag and takes a long drink from a
fresh litre of tequila.

Rotmesser walks back to his horse, takes the rope lead into his hand,
and walks the horse and its load across the plaza and on towards his
house.

An underfed Mexican collie sleeps in front of the door when Rotmesser
reaches home. The dog gives him a familiar look of fear. Rotmesser
kneels beside the dog. It tenses as Rotmesser's hand comes closer to its
head. Rotmesser atypically, pets the dog kindly.

He walks to the horse where Bransteen is still tied into the saddle
with a shawl, and unconscious. Rotmesser unties him and carries him into
the house. The stray collie follows them shyly into the house. Rotmesser
flops Bransteen onto the top of Bransteen's bed like a sack of stone
ground tortilla flour. Bransteen remains unconscious.

Rotmesser then proceeds to remove one single milkbone from the box. He
then puts the milkbone onto a very large clean platter on the floor.
The dog looks forlornly at this hollow gesture.

The house is quiet. There is no dog whatsoever sleeping in front of the
house. Hanging from the door nail is the razor sharp machete. The
machete blade is dirtied with blood.

The car is tumbling down a ravine. Bodies are whirling on the inside of
the car. Someone's view from inside the car looks through a windshield
and at the violently spinning landscape outside. A head collides with
the windshield and a web-like design of cracks instantly materializes on
the windshield. The cinema screen becomes a massive opaque mosaic of
glass.

Finally you've arrived. Now we're both in each other's nightmare. How
do you like it here?

Bransteen's FATHER and MOTHER are sitting in the front of the car, his
father driving. Young Bransteen is in the back seat behind his dad.
Believing his child's fantasy world is worth sharing, Bransteen cups his
small hands playfully around his father's eyes as his father is driving.
Now sightless, his father begins to drive dangerously out of control.

Rotmesser puts his hands around the eyes of the President of the United
States. Wall Street brokers are shown selling off entire industries
(several camera shots of deals, and factories with outraged workers being
laid off, shots of auction sales of office equipment, etc.).

Military colonels are then shown supervising shipments of cocaine through
military logistics and transport, with Mossad and American intelligence agents
looking on from a tall building with zoom lenses, supervising some
supplementary MI6 personnel (many shots at different army bases scattered
throughout the United States). Arms dealers in London are shown sealing
business deals at secret locations with men dressed in Hasidic and
Islamic garb (many shots at different locations in London and in Israel).
Many Muslims in Muslim countries are shown oppressed by dictators of
their same race and tribe.

Most of these dictators are prominent in banking empires. Mounds of shell shattered cheap

eyeglasses lay like diamond
deposits next to mountains of dead Arabic boys dressed in oversized
men's army uniforms. Their dictators are shown withdrawing titantic
amounts from Swiss and Canadian and Bermuda banks. Wealthy tourists are shown
sunning at Haifa and on Greek islands, the badly dressed local natives
cleaning their rooms.

Bransteen awakens from his delirium in an extreme state of agitation,
compounded by his colossal hangover.

He then walks in obvious pain and discomfort to the kitchen. He opens
the fridge and takes deep drinks from a cool water jug. He looks to his
left after he has slacked his thirst and then sees the stray collie
lying dead in a pool of blood.

It has a deep machete gash on its neck that came close to being a
complete decapitation.

Bransteen drops the water jug onto the floor and it breaks into
hundreds of pieces of broken glass. He then races for Rotmesser's room.
Rotmesser is not there. Bransteen rushes back to his own room and retrieves
the revolver given to him by Medea.

Bransteen traverses the kitchen again where the dead collie lays and
also the many shards of glass.

You'd better forget all about your gold, Rabbi. I'm gonna rob you of
the most precious thing on earth to you. Not Maria. Not money. Not your obsessions of sweet revenge �.

Bransteen suddenly spots Rotmesser running for his life down the
concrete steps of the front porch of the house.

Rotmesser turns around and prepares to make a lunge at Bransteen with
his machete.

Rotmesser lies dead, legs and arms akimbo. Several powder burns are
evident on his shirt. Blood oozes from a huge hole in his head and from
his chest. Bransteen drops the pistol in utter exhaustion and with a deep
and disturbing relief, like the pronouncement of a negative test at an
AIDS clinic.

I know you thought of killing me often. It's in your blood and you were
trained to operate on that level. Maybe you served

Israel

well. Perhaps
you were always only serving yourself. Who knows? I don't know anything
specific about your good deeds on earth. I only know firsthand a few of
your bad.

In the yard, Bransteen looks appreciably older and more authoritative
in his bearing. He is helping Maria to hang freshly washed laundry on
the line. A YOUNG BOY, a little over four years old, is playing in the
dirt. He has blue eyes and many of Bransteen's features.

Tesoro. Some scavengers they say find bones on top of hill today. I
tell them stay silent and we give them food.

Maria. Don't worry about Rotmesser. I told everybody around here that
he went back to the States for his business. Besides, nobody could ever
find him in New York or anywhere else when he was a 'most wanted man'.

Hundreds of large black turkey buzzards are hulking around some rubbish
and a small pile of bones slightly exposed in some turned soil. There
is a badly decomposed manuscript of a book partially buried with a
barely legible map of the world, exposed, denoting the spread of
Christianity, Islam, Buddhism and Judaism. Rotmesser was never properly buried, it
is easy to see.

Bransteen smiles lovingly at Maria and helps her to grind corn for
fresh tortillas.

It's not that I'm unhappy here. But ... let's take Miguelito to

America

and start something new. He's old enough for something like that now.

Maria looks pensive for a while and then slowly breaks into a look of
expectancy, as if great good fortune is now suddenly on its way.

Yeah. We might find a good public one. If not, we'll send him to that
good Jewish school where Marlon Brando sent his kids ... or some other
private school. We'll have to save plenty of money after lots of hard
work to afford putting him into a private school.

Maybe we will just keep him at home, away from guns and the public
schools, and teach him ourselves, until we have the money for a private
school. Is that okay?

Bransteen gets out of bed. Maria still sleeps. Bransteen walks across
the living room and looks in on his son. Miguelito also sleeps soundly.
Bransteen puts some water on the gas burner for coffee. A knock is
heard at the front door. Bransteen is not expecting any visitors. He shows
a mixture of curiosity and suspicion as he makes his way towards the
latched screen door.

Gabriel and Jenny are standing in the doorway, looking a little
uncomfortable standing on an unfamiliar porch in a strange country. A sleek
black New Yorker Towncar can be seen in the background. Perspiration has
blotched their elegant clothing with swirling ribbons of sweat.

Plea ... pleas ... please don't be alarmed. We're here on a friendly
visit. No one else knows we're here except my father-in-law, a dangerous
enemy of your deceased partner, Rabbi Rotmesser.

You see, we've come to give you the reward money for the successful
eradication of the former most pressing difficulty in my father-in-law's
affairs.

Rotmesser once had him sent him to prison ... and as a result shattered
all concept of loyalty-within-friendship that Jenny's father had ever
understood. His best friend had turned informant, turning it into profit
for himself ... the Rotmesser.

Gabriel and Jenny enter Bransteen's home. Maria is awake now and helps
to seat them comfortably. She gives them a friendly smile, mixed with
curiosity, and a little fear. Maria has never seen a Swedish woman
before.

You know. You don't look much like the photograph we had of you. We
picked it up from your former music agent. It's from way back in your
nightclub career.

Some Hasidic punks beat me badly on the Lower East Side once. You know
... a few bad apples ruin the bushel. I needed a bit of plastic
surgery.

Gabriel honey, why don't you tell them why we came so we can leave them
their privacy.

Don't forget, dearest. We must meet up with the Spielbirds in Tel Aviv
for a conference in just two days, and then on to Mr. Obits' California
mansion for the annual black tie dinner.

We've come here on behalf of my father-in-law. He offered
half-a-million dollars over five years ago to anyone who killed Rotmesser. He was
quite disappointed when two women were found shot and covered with
contusions on a desert highway near the ....

I don't think anyone could ever forget two sisters like the Fatwas if
they had ever met them.

As I was saying, two women, unidentifiable, were found murdered in the
Southwest. They had died in a horrible motorcycle accident. Their faces
and bodies were too badly mutilated for a positive identification.

Jenny looks over toward Gabriel and signals that it's alright to tell
Bransteen the truth.

Wolfsheim has contacts throughout most of the world, even many here in
these mountains. But none close to your village. Rotmesser was clever
in his selection of this little homestead here. It took a few years for
even recycled information to trickle down to us.

Miguelito! Miguelito! We go to New York and you learn many things in
good school.

Did you happen to see Rotmesser at any time working on a diary or his
memoirs or his History of Judaism?

No! If Rotmesser had a flair for writing I never got to see him using
it ... he was too busy drinking tequila and dispatching of hired
killers. I've never seen a manuscript or notebook.

Bransteen, Maria, and Miguelito are driving a Mercedes across the
George Washington Bridge. Bransteen is at the wheel. He and Maria are
childishly excited, even more than Miguelito. The New York skyline looms in
Fritz Lang-fashion before their eyes.

Miguelito lunges forward from the back seat and cups his hands around
Bunny's eyes. The car swerves into the next lane on the bridge.

Bransteen's MOTHER is reading a consumer fashion magazine in the front
seat, completely oblivious to her surroundings. His father is staring
at the road ahead, relaxed and enjoying his mastery of the family car.
Young Bransteen impulsively springs toward his father and
demonstratively hugs his father's face with his arms, folding them around his
father's eyes.

In a hallucinogenic frenzy of images Bransteen's FATHER is seen cursing
and trying to control the car. His Mother is seen in the midst of
turning a page of a magazine, showing no alarm or cognizance of the hopeless
emergency that has so cataclysmically befallen them, her thoughts
folded like new blouses in a tidy box purchased at an expensive department
store.

The forest rushes past the car windows as the car plunges over the
mountainside. The Father is next seen with a crushed skull and broken neck,
slumped over the steering column. His Mother is shown with her waist
caught tightly in the windshield, feet protruding outward, face frozen in
death on the floor of the car, facing eye to eye little Bransteen, who
is still inside.

BLOOD on the windshield looms larger and larger on the screen until the
entire screen is red, the full screen glowing in red intensity until it
materializes into the red tail light of a car in front of their
Mercedes on the George Washington Bridge, bringing Bransteen back to the
present.

Maria grabs the steering wheel and swings the car away from the
menacing tail lights. Bransteen finally grasps the situation and forcefully
stands on the brakes with all his might. The Mercedes screeches to the
far right hand lane, tires smoking, and gently abuts the guard railing,
bumping to a halt.

A small gash on Bransteen's forehead trickles blood. Maria dabs it with
a napkin. When the family collects itself emotionally, silence rules
the scene. Bransteen then looks into the rear-view mirror. He stares at
himself, examining his injury.

Bransteen regains his composure, gives a loving smile to Maria, and
then gets as quickly as he can back into the express lane feeding into
Manhattan.

Thank you Maria. You saved all of our lives. You can't imagine how much
you have proven yourself -- an equal, if not a superior to my own
mother.

Bransteen mixes margaritas behind the bar. The restaurant is nearly
full and the customers are very happy.

Maria is seen entering the restaurant with Miguelito. Maria holds
Miguelito's hand and he clutches in turn a dog leash. At the end of the
leash is a beautiful Great Dane puppy. They all enter the restaurant.

The DINERS chuckle. A table of celebrants drinking several pitchers of
margaritas make a toast.

Much laughter follows. A barely audible TELEVISION is anchored high
upon the wall. The evening newscast plays. The waiter turns up the volume.

Miguelito walks through a private door behind the bar that provides
access to their apartment. Bransteen pets the little Great Dane
affectionately on the head as the two pass. Miguelito opens the door without help
from his parents that leads from behind the bar to their very large
upstairs apartment.

Maria joins Bransteen behind the bar. She assists him in preparing the
next round of pitchers of margaritas for the talkative customers.

Bransteen looks up suddenly towards the restaurant's street entrance.
Schmitty enters and approaches the happily married co-owners.

Three reputed underlings in the day to day trafficking of cocaine were
found washed ashore on the banks of the Arkansas River, near Little
Rock. Much talk about Mena is in the air.

Forty six bullet holes were counted by the coroner in the least ravaged
of the bodies. An obvious retribution killing, says the Chief-of-Police
of Little Rock. Personal identification was left intact on the corpses,
much like a calling card.

The three were known by the street names of Hulk, Needle, and Smack.
Their deaths arouse long lingering suspicions of international
involvement in the supervision and shipping of large cocaine trafficking networks
throughout

U.S.

military bases, on American soil.

Seven heavy-load military vehicles have already been impounded in the escalating scandal.

In Washington, federal agents are reopening the case of the alleged
suicide of Vinnie Voster, who had been investigating these cocaine
channels for many years after responding to his constituents' complaints in
the State of Arkansas. His untimely death terminated the initial
investigations many years ago.

The BODIES of Hulk, Needle and Smack are shown on the banks of the
Arkansas River on the television screen.

I'm thinking about going back into the industry. Like an outlaw in the
old Wild West, ... who can't lay down his guns for too long ... and I
can't lay down my guitar for too much time, either.

I've been practicing every waking hour that I'm not working here in the
restaurant.

I'm ready to make some music, maybe even record an album. Maria loves
the restaurant and I think she can manage it alone most of the time.
She's very competent.

A CHINESE fast food DELIVERY man is shown in the street, pedaling his
bicycle at a brisk pace around the corner of the restaurant, happy in
his new country.

THE END

----

Other fiction by Bryan Adrian:

Assorted fiction long and short

http://boudiccaarran.tripod.com/

Jumping Ship in Batumi

http://carpathian_bronze.tripod.com/Batumi-Boat-Hopping.html
Married to my Spyderco Knife

https://www.angelfire.com/poetry/aisling/Spyderco_Blues.html

�TAKE TWO�, a short story about independent movie making in the East Village of NYC
https://www.angelfire.com/de/Boiishaft/TakeTwo.html
AISLING" QUARTERLY, "New World Order" by Bryan Adrian
http://boudiccaarran.tripod.com/aisling_bryan_adrian.html

Anatomy of a Freebaser

https://www.angelfire.com/poetry/aisling/CRACKHEAD.html
Nature�s Beauty, in City Writers NYC
https://www.angelfire.com/indie/hollywoodtattler/Natures_Beauty.htm
PIG HEADED IN BRASIL, a short story by Bryan Adrian
https://www.angelfire.com/de/Boiishaft/pigheaded_in_brasil.html
TWISTED WHISPERS, a short story about an unusual pharmacist
https://www.angelfire.com/poetry/aisling/TWISTED_WHISPERS.html

Collection of short stories by bryan adrian
https://www.angelfire.com/de/Boiishaft/best_of_bryan_adrian.html

Vampire in my Dreamspace

https://www.angelfire.com/scifi/krakenwarriors/vampires.htm

best paintings of bryan + assorted fiction
http://boudiccaarran.tripod.com/paintings_bryanadrian.html

Old Druid Irish Journal, ARRAN, Bryan Adrian

https://www.angelfire.com/poetry/aisling/bryanadrian.html

If I Had a Pussy [cat], poem by Bryan Adrian
https://www.angelfire.com/poetry/aisling/if-i-had-a-pussy.html

Poetry Readout on Manhattan�s Upper West Side--
https://www.angelfire.com/de/Boiishaft/DORIANS.html

WATERFRONT WEEK, NYC, 2002, Bryan Adrian's TAKE TWO short story
http://web.archive.org/web/20020305061316/http://www.h2oweek.com/10-8/two.html

MINDSTORM interview with rising new starlet in an East European film on remote viewing

http://beaties_of_bulgaria.tripod.com/mindstorm.html

Kubrick�s Eyes Wide Shut

https://www.angelfire.com/indie/hollywoodtattler/KUBRICK-EWS.html

Lay lady lay performed in China

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jn4u5GWUzKo

***

footnote: Obermayer and Obermaier also initiated the Paradise Papers, which were published on November 5, 2017. The trove of 13.5 million records revealed the hidden fortune of Canadian prime minister Justin Trudeau�s chief fundraiser Stephen Bronfman and the offshore dealings of Queen Elizabeth II.

Gentlemen of the Road by Michael Chabon, The Wind of the Khazars 2003, Azerbaijan. In the 10th century, a young Jew named Isaac is sent to Khazaria by the head rabbi of Cordoba; Canadian Eva Bartlett and the press conference arranged by the Syrian mission to the UN; The Rabbi King:David of Khazaria by Monroe S. Kuttner (Xlibris, 2001); THE POWER AND THE GLORY, by Graham Greene; Priest (2006) by Ken Bruen of the Jack Taylor series; The Eagle Catcher by Margaret Coel; The Edge of Sadness