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The Pillow Master |
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The Novel |
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Time Travel Case in Point
February 12, 2024 Back on Cape Cod, a zealous young police detective
who apparently fancies himself the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes, has decided to reopen, as a “murder” case,
all files on the justified private execution of the infamous Bickford Raitz in 2012. Both of Darlene Fursten’s brothers have been
hunted down and arrested at their homes in Corning, New York. A good friend of Carl Norris has been instructing him in time
travel. He is Garrett Valdison, and now contacts Carl with a test-pilot trial run, if he wants to do it. The assignment is to go back to 1976 and eliminate
Raitz at age three, before he can grow up to murder Darlene, or as many prefer to believe, at least drive her to suicide,
the situation avenged by her brothers in 2012. Garrett wants these guys free of the entire business, and the situation fits
in perfectly with Carl’s goals as a training exercise. February 14, 2024 “I’ll do it” says Carl. Garrett sends him back. Carl’s First Time Run October 5, 1976 The boy has a visible aspect of arrogance and moral
retardation. The soldier is almost spellbound by the oddness of the boy’s appearance. He fees deeply sorry for the parents
knowing the terrible ambivalence, the mixture of contempt and pity, they must feel whenever they look at him. Suddenly, a man about thirty in a black hooded jersey
and pants, comes stealing out of the woods behind the house gripping a large pillow, his arms raised, rushing nimbly towards
the boy as if to smother him. Because of the rose bushes apparently, the man doesn't notice the soldier, who now raises his
hand and waves briskly until the man sees him. Then he points at the man correctively, and the fellow runs back into the woods.
The boy doesn't notice any of this. The soldier takes the boy by the hand and brings him into the house. There is nobody at
home. As the soldier tries to phone the police, the boy is
making menacing faces and violent gestures at a toy clown. He shows caution that the soldier not see him doing this. The police
do not answer. The soldier hangs up the phone and writes on the kitchen notepad, telling the boy's parents about the hooded
man. The soldier looks sadly down at boy, who looks up with
reflexive simian defiance. “Listen, little fellow. You must stay inside,
because it's going to rain. I’m leaving now. Please also lock the door and keep it locked until your parents come home.
It’s for your safety. Do you understand?” The boy nods yes. Outside, the soldier tries door. The boy has locked
it. Through the door window curtain he watches the boy really going to town on the clown, slugging the poor chap in the nuts,
pounding the head with his fists. The soldier looks disgusted and shakes his head. As he walks down the street, the soldier thinks to
himself, “Déjà vu! I don’t know how or why, but I’m absolutely certain this strange scenario with the hooded assassin, has happened before, back in the WWII days.
The Dilemma September 3, 2024 6:12
A.M. Carl and Rachael are in the kitchen savoring a late
breakfast, and have been enjoying life in general without the threat of that damned old axe murderer, Sheiffer Hoskins. One
of the strategies Carl explored relative to that situation, involved time travel, and now further possibilities centered on
that capability, have been weighing heavily on his mind for the past few days, “I’ve been thinking a lot more lately about
how many good people’s lives I could save from constitutional psychopaths if I did a little time travel back to their
baby period and snuffed them out.” Rachael replies, “Have you thought about what it would do to their
parents?” “Yes. Their grief would be minimized if I made
it look like crib death. This would eliminate the sense of futility about trying over that would be present in the case of
what would otherwise seem like arbitrary murder. I even did some research. Worldwide, there are about twenty thousand kids
lost this way every year. This is a lot of babies, but in developed countries, percentagewise it means only about one in nineteen
thousand. Not very likely to occur a second time with the same couple.” Rachael looks thoughtful, “What if the psychopathy was not congenital,
but caused by traumatic head injury as with that fellow in Hitchcock’s Shadow
of a Doubt? “I thought of that myself. My moral obligation
would then be to somehow find out, if over the course of someone’s entire life,
they ever suffered a head injury, and then to prevent it from happening. But how do I know whether the injury actually caused
the psychopathy?” “True” concedes Rachael. Carl continues, “I could stop the injury, then return to the
present to see if it made any difference, then maybe have go back to see if there was another injury, then another… “What I finally came up with was the idea that
this is really an execution before the fact for horrendous things that a person actually did later. Do extenuating facts like
head injuries really matter? I say they don’t. A rattlesnake can’t help what he is, but you don’t allow
him to coexist in the house, or nearby.” “Yes, but there’s still the problem that
changing the past in ways you intend, will inevitably change it in ways you don’t intend. Suppose a complex unpredictable
sequence of events leads to a nuclear holocaust? And, make no mistake, it could! Would justice be served?” Carl has saved his final thought for this moment. He
smiles, “Last night I finally came up with the idea of
thinking, not about correcting events in the past, but preventing them in the future. We and Hilton could
probably figure out a way to diagnose psychopathy in infants, and then a way of preventing them from destructive activity.
This last would be the hardest part. The problem is scientific, facts are facts, but the solution is social, and involves
consensus from others, not so easy.” Rachael replies, “Remember too, that constitutional psychopaths
are one in twenty-five people. Serial killers are one in twenty-eight thousand people. Most moral morons live quiet unimaginative
lives of superficial respectability, and never do much more than slander neighborhood people around town. “Even a physical psychopath with no mental capacity
for empathy, if convinced of the practicality for themselves of adherence to popular
morality, may in the short term, do less damage than an otherwise good person who is immature and temporarily misguided. “My point is, that diagnosing a brain deficit
relative to moral conceptualization is not a glimpse of the future. Anyone who knows what a psychopath is, would never want
to see one born into the world, but even psychopaths are not guilty before the fact.” Carl replies, “If society had stronger, less forgiving, prohibitions
for the things that psychopath’s do, like slandering people around town,
then that business of perceived practicality would more often come into play and prevent worse transgressions later. “I think I should stick with the present and
go after people who have recently made an unforgivable breech with humanity. I mean rapists, child molesters, snuff porn video
makes, kidnappers, human traffickers, and thrill killers. “Probably the thing to do would be to nail the
ones who get off on technicalities like illegally obtained evidence. These are proven irredeemable enemies of humanity. Then
we won’t have to bother Hilton, who probably will not want involvement in the project anyway.” Rachel sighs, “I believe in mental privacy, but as part of
my Witch training I involuntarily do a small amount of mind reading with everyone when I first I meet them, just for my own
personal safety. I must tell you that your friend Hilton is quite a bit more extraordinary than he seems even to you. He is
to Globalists today what the bubonic plague was to Europe.” “No shit? Say more…” “Hilton has systematically eliminated
a gigantically large number of them. The acts of justice you suggest are good ones, but the people he kills would do far more evil in the long term than any small time monsters like
private sector serial killers. “I advise not speaking to Hilton about any of
this. He is a very private man. I suggest you study the possibility of targeting Globalists. The risk imposed by their security
measures is a little greater, but I could help you with that.” Carl grins, “To follow through with the pillow theme, I could augment with chloroform, and do them at night in hotel rooms.” The Convention Most of the top CEOs of the banker subverted media
are having a big pow-wow in New York City to figure out, with subtle round-about discussion, how they can divest themselves
of truth-tellers who are spoiling their plans for world domination through globalization. October 14, 2024 Carl and Rachael check into the nice room at the Pan
Global Suites, that they reserved the minute they found out about the meeting. Most of the media people will also stay here.
They plan to use the in-house convention center for their insidious plotting. Carl has an overnight case with one hundred small inflatable
pillows, covered with plush cloth that will absorb chloroform. He also has a compact CO-2 tank with a special valve that can
automatically fill the bags to just the right firmness to allow the maximum control that would not be present with greater
plumpness. He has the chloroform in a small pump dispenser. Everything that Carl needs, fits into a pocket case
1.5 x 3 x 6 inches and can be brought into play within eight seconds, except the chloroform, which he will not dispense until
he sees the target asleep, after entering each room. If the target is awake and sees him enter, he is equipped with a 7mm
Walther PPK-S with suppressor, and can draw this and shoot accurately within three seconds. Carl also has a device that can read the entry code
for any door lock, and instantly put it on a scan card. Entry will take four seconds. All this will be done between 2:00 and
5:00 in the morning, so the halls should be fairly devoid of people. Rachael, just ahead of Carl on each episode, as a raven,
will disable the security cameras in the elevator and hall. They have a sequenced itinerary for the destruction of eighteen Globalists on six floors. Allowing ten minutes for each, the entire business will take the three hours. They make a point of stopping their fluid intake in the evening just after dinner. This will be a long haul, but the promise of a banquet breakfast inspires their courage. Lord
of Thy Pillow October 15, 2024
2:34 A.M. Rachael gets naked, crosses into the spirit world for
invisibility, then enters one of the Pan Global Suites passenger elevators. It will stop on
the fifteenth floor. She has a small pouch containing eight strange little
clear plastic lenses. These have been programmed not to allow the passage of Carl’s image. The technology for how this
works is beyond the comprehension of anybody not involved in the design and manufacture. All Rachael had to do was take Carl’s
picture, send it to the device, hit one button, and remove the programmed lens. On this first mission there is only one security camera.
Rachael shapeshifts into a raven, flees up, and carefully slides the lens in front of the camera lens. Nobody downstairs in
security notices, because there is nothing to notice. Carl exits his elevator on schedule and confidently
marches down the hall, all the more so because he is using a disguise, just in case. He inflates a pillow, and enters the
room of CEO NY Times, who is sleeping soundly. Carl has never done this before and doesn’t know
what to expect. He walks quickly, but quietly, to the bedside, chloroforms the pillow, and gently presses it to the sleeping
face. The poor fellow coughs himself awake and asks, “Who are you?” as Carl pushes down hard with the pillow. Holding the
man by the throat with his left hand, then with both hands, he answers in a deep gravely demoniacal voice he picked up from
the singers in symphonic metal bands, “Lord of thy pillow!” The man is strong and resists Carl’s grasp with
both hands. Fingernails nails dig into Carl’s wrists. He wants to let go, but knows he can’t. It’s like
arm wrestling, but far more painful. At times Carl feels like he is losing this contest. After what seems like an eternity,
he finally feels the man lose consciousness, but keeps his hold for a slow count of ninety seconds, in case the man is faking.
Then he collapses the man’s trachea with three hard jabs using steel knuckles. How much time has elapsed? Nine minutes. Not bad, but
too scary. To Rachael, “I want the pillow image for this, so the minute
we finish all eighteen, I’ll want you to disguise you voice, call the police, and mention that your comrade, the Pillow
Master, just smothered the Globalist traitor in room 1528. The papers will have it out in the morning edition before anyone
even discovers the other seventeen.” Rachael looks puzzled. Carl continues, “I nearly screwed up on this one. People fight strangulation with great strength. I’m going to shoot the rest of them. We can keep to our schedule, because I have a back-up clip. Enough bullets, just so long as I shoot with my usual legendary accuracy.” Post Time As Carl enters the next room on the list, CEO
NY Post is sitting at the kitchen table, writing a letter. He looks up. Carl says, “Post time, dick-brain!” as the bullet enters the man’s head. A woman in a pale yellow nightie sits up in bed. Carl
crosses to her rapidly. Before she can scream, he grabs her bed pillow, presses it to her face, slowly smothers her, then
breaks her trachea with the steel knuckles. Rachael asks, “What took so long?” “He had company. I did her with a pillow to save the bullet. Wish I had one more clip.” Disinformation Week That’s more like it. As Carl enters the room
of CEO Newsweek, heading an old venue that Americans should be able to trust, the doomed man is asleep. As Carl starts to pull the Walther, he notices a huge
heavy crystal ash tray filled with buts on the coffee table. As he lifts it and dumps the contents on the table, he murmurs
an apology to the hotel maid. Then he walks briskly to the sleeping man, raises the heavy tray high, and bashes the target’s
head in with one blow. Rachael asks, “I heard a delicious crunch. Are you holding
out on me, munching corn chips on the job?” Carl grimaces, “Stop! You’ll make me hungry. I’ll tell you later.” International Broadcast It’ a queer thing for Carl to see, but CEO NBC
is in bed with another man. Both of them are fast asleep. Carl will do this job also with one bullet. He walks very quietly
to be on the lee side of the sleepers relative to the air conditioner. As he lines up the trajectory and puts the pistol next
to closer man’s temple, the poor fellow opens his eyes. Carl pulls the trigger and the man closes them again. “Good night!” murmurs Carl. Tricky Business MSNBC are a tricky bunch. Way back in the 1980’s
there was a truthful TV network called FNN, the Financial News Network. The globalists couldn’t have good Americans
spilling the beans about Globalists and what they are planning, so MSNBC bought the renegade outlet and made it part of their
own subverted network. Payback is tonight. Carl looks down at the CEO traitor, soundly sleeping
belly down, wishing this venue were open woods so he could split this rotten skull with a stick. He looks around. Next to
the sink there is a heavy wooden cutting board that tappers into a handle for serving bread at table. Carl hefts it, walks over, and imitates the action
of a lumber jack with a chop to one side of the neck, then the other. The man never wakes up. Rachael asks, “Saved another bullet. How?” “Used a cutting board like an axe.” “You are very resourceful.” “I know, but thank you for saying so.” Femme Fatale Carl sees her, young and tall, CEO CBS, sleeping, and
thinks, “Finally a woman. Hate to, but…” As he approaches, she is suddenly on her feet, and
sends a high kick to Carl’s face. He moves quickly, but not enough. It clips his left ear. “Ouch!” Like lightning, she kicks again to Carl’s family
jewels. He blocks with arms crossed, grabs her leg and twists hard. She yelps and falls over backwards, clutching her torn
knee. Carl finally gets the Walther in hand and shoots her between the eyes. He is very rattled, “She nearly nailed me.” Abe, see de Goldfish? What’s this now? Three people in one bed. Which
one is CEO ABC? Three bullets for one job? It’s just not fair. Good, a baseball bat near the bed. Is this for protection? You need to be awake to use it. Carl decides to be the pinch hitter. One, two, three, he splits their rotten skulls. Huff and Puff CEO Huffington Post is also a woman. She awakes as
Carl approaches. She stares in shocked silence. Carl says, “I am the Wolf. You are the pig. I’ll huff and I’ll puff. And then you die, dig? He huffs and puffs. She dies. Then he looks down to
Hell as if to address her there, “I apologize for my corniness, Madame.” Allah, Allah, Allah Carl has been looking forward to doing CEO BBC, one of those foul dirty bastards who, on a
daily basis, sell out the UK to the raping hordes of Islam. Carl grabs a heavy chair, and smashes this damned traitor again
and again to a bloody pulp. Very noisy, all those breaking bones. “Hope nobody heard” thinks Carl. He’s wrong. Allah heard.
Fat Chance CEO NY Daily News is obese. When Carl sees him, he
thinks, “I wish I could make this man’s gluttony
a factor in his demise, like a fall from the window. Too much exposure, though, too early.” The sleeping porker begins to stir. Carl shoots him in the back of the head, and leaves quickly.
Lego As Carl approaches CEO LA Times from the side, the
man is awake, and tries to kick Carl by swinging out his leg. Carl grabs it just in time. The fellow yells, “Lego!” Carl does this, steps back out of leg range, pulls
the Walther, and shoots the man in the forehead as he begins to rise. Brains bespatter the sheet and pillow behind. Carl sees
this, and asks. “Look at all that gray matter. How could such a smart fellow choose to be a Globalist?” Acquisition CEO USA Today is sitting at the desk with his laptop.
As Carl enters, he looks up calmly with a quizzical look as one would at an authorized hotel employee entering impromptu. Carl says, “I’m here about your acquisitions program.
Here’s a new one for you,” as he shoots the man between the eyes. The man acquires the lead, still smiling.
Bell Hop As Carl attempts to enter the room of CEO US
News & World Report, there is some kind or inner lock preventing entry. A voice asks, “Who’s there?” “Bell hop. Special late night repast, curtesy
of the management.” “Oh, that’s nice.” The door opens, but the man’s smile fades, “You don’t look like a bell hop.” Carl answers, “Well, I’m hopping mad with you. Let’s see if this expression of my anger
rings true.” The bullet goes through the man’s head and is
somehow deflected down, hitting the desk telephone, which shatters with a ringing sound.” Carl looks astounded, then up, “Odin, are you having a little fun with me?” Kept Media CEO CNN is a rotten Globalist thug. He lies openly,
slandering all who speak for liberty, prosperity, and peace. Boris Pilos recently gave him a Mercedes limousine for his birthday.
The ratings and are so low that this criminal would be riding the city bus if Pilos were not propping them up. Carl enters and is horrified to see this lying monster
at the kitchen counter, tormenting a four-year-old boy with pins. There is a meat cleaver and large garbage bag on the table
for disposing of the body later. Carl just glares at the Globalist, who isn’t about to call out for the management.
Carl will take his time with this one. Very carefully, he puts the cleaver under his belt. Then he takes the little boy by
the hand and says, “You’re safe now. Let me get you away from
this bad fellow.” He lets the boy into the bedroom, and says, “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back” as he shuts the door. Carl grabs the cleaver, walks briskly to the pedophile,
and cuts off his head with one clean stroke. Then he pulls the plastic bag over the head and body so the boy will not be further
traumatized in case he sees it later. Now he returns to the boy. “Here, just lie down and I’ll have a nurse
up to see you very soon. Go ahead and sleep if you want. You’re safe now. That fellow out there won’t be hurting
anybody ever again.” Rachael says, “That was a long visit. Another minute and I
was planning to go in to rescue you. We are now four minutes behind schedule.” “Yes, but we’re almost done, thank goodness.” Carl has Rachel call downstairs for a nurse. Time Running Out As Carl enters the room of CEO Time, he hopes all the
rest will go smoothly, because he is very tired emotionally. It will be good to eat and sleep. The man stirs. Carl shoots him, and leaves,
The Power Elite “C. Wright Mills could certainly write a new
chapter or two on these jackals.” thinks Carl, as he enters the room o CEO Yahoo News. The man is suddenly awake, glaring.
Carl says, “Good evening, Your Highness, I have come to
censor you. Good night! Say hello to
Satan.” The man’s falsely superior expression fades as
the bullet enters his brain. Regret As Carl enters, CEO PBS is in the bathroom. Carl feels a little bad to do this one after all the
fine nature programs and dramas he has watched over the years. As the fellow comes back into the main room, Carl says, “Sorry, but…” as he shoots the poor fellow. Shot
Heard Round the World At last Carl feels relieved to be doing the last Globalist
execution on the list. CEO New Yorker Magazine is a light sleeper. As Carl
enters, the man awakens and grabs his own pistol. Carl is faster, but the man’s weapon discharges with a report louder
than Carl has ever heard. Probably a magnum. The man hadn’t aimed yet, so the bullet goes wild, through the window,
then through the window of a room in the next hotel, and wounds the occupant. Carl sees her fall, clutching her arm. He thinks, “Sorry, dear. Doesn’t look fatal. If it
were and this was the first hit, I would abort the entire mission in a minute, but I’m finished, so it’s really
a moot pont.” Rachael asks, “What happened?” Carl says, “Light sleeper. Glad we’re done. Probably
won’t help, but please make that Pillow Master call right now.” Rachael does, and as strange circumstances will have
it, nobody even hears the stray shot. The woman in the next hotel got only a slight scratch, assumes that her crazy ex-husband
shot her, and doesn’t report it. Instead she heads to a nearby hospital for five stitches, then later, for the sake
of her little boy, arranges an accident for her former husband. The morning newspaper headline reads, “Pillow
Master” Strangles NY Times CEO After the maids have discover the other dead Globalists,
the evening edition reads, “Pillow
Master” turns Pistolero, Kills 17 More Media Chiefs The police concluded that it was necessarily the same
person because of the identical card entry to all eighteen rooms. Reflections Rachel and Carl go back to their room, freshen up,
and head out for the Early Bird Special at an all-night restaurant called Ourobouros, frequented by actors and other night
owls. They eat double portions of everything, and wash it down with delicious hazelnut coffee. They return to the hotel by 6:48 A.M. There are police
in the lobby because of the two Globalist executions that they already know about. They ignore Carl and Rachael as they walk
in. The tired couple retire immediately and sleep till 11:00 A.M. When they go downstairs at Noon, the lobby is abuzz with
police and reporters. “What’s all this about?” Carl asks the clerk at checkout. “People in town for a big international conference,
murdered in their rooms. The maids keep discovering more. Eleven so far.” “Jesus, you guys better beef up security.” “I hear that.” replies the clerk with a pale smile. Rachael grabs a copy of the Pillow Master morning newspaper at a small news stand on the way back to the garage. She reads it to Carl as they’re crossing the
George Washington Bridge. The autumn foliage is beautiful on the way back north to Massachusetts. Carl says, “Read me the news outlet names from the list,
and I’ll tell you what happened with each. If you remember anything, refresh me as you go.” Rachel has it at hand and begins, “NY Times. First and last with a pillow.” “The guy woke up, started struggling, and nearly
beat me. Scared me badly about doing any more with a pillow.” “Newsweek. The crunching sound.” “I brained him with a heavy crystal ash tray.” “NBC” “Two faggots asleep. I lined up the shot, and
got them both in the head with one bullet.” “Cool! MSNBC. Cutting board.” “Ayah” “CBS. You were breathing hard.” “Yes. A woman. She nearly killed me with a kick.
Got me in the ear. Then she tried for my nuts, but I caught her leg in time, and shot her.” Rachael looks sympathetic. “ABC” “Three in one bed. Not sure of gender. One was
a man for sure. There was a baseball bat, so I hit three home runs with their brains, and saved three bullets.” Rachael smiles, “Huffington Post” “She woke up. I was about to blow her house in,
but shot her instead.” “Corny! BBC. Very noisy, no bullet.” “I clobbered him with a heavy wooden chair.” “Eight times. I counted. NY Daily News.” Carl has to think a minute. “Oh yeah! A fatso. I wanted to do something poetic, put just shot him to save time.” “LA Times” “Tried to kick me from the bed. I grabbed his leg just before I shot him and he says. Lego!” “USA Today” “He was awake at the desk and didn’t act
surprised at all, like he thought I was a hotel employee.” “US News and World Report” “Very strange. The bullet dipped, and hit the
phone after it went through his head. Did you make it do that?” “No, that would be beyond my capability.” Carl thinks of Odin again as Rachael says, “CNN. You took much too long. I was worried.” “That was the nurse call I had you make. The
dirty pig was torturing a little boy. I put the kid in the bedroom, killed the pig with the cleaver he was going to use on
the kid, then went back to reassure the kid. I’m glad we were running a little ahead. It took a long time, saving the
kid made up for all the rest. I feel really good that I got there on time.” “Time Magazine.” “Simple shooting” “Yahoo News” “The guy woke up before I shot him. Told him
to say hello to Satan.” “PBS” “Hated to do it, because of all the nature programs.” “Last but not least, New Yorker Magazine. There
was a loud shot. I was afraid for you.” “Yeah, I outdrew him, his bullet went stray,
and hit a woman in the next hotel. I didn’t look like she was badly hurt, though.” “I can see why you were glad to be through. We
would have had to stop if that had happened sooner… You know, we make a very good team, John Steed and Mrs. Peel without
the Lotus. Quite and evening’s work. What we accomplished is better than if you had suffocated a thousand serial killers
in infancy, and no risk of triggering a war.” “I just had a new insight about that. The chain
reaction of events concerning time travel is actually irrelevant, because it applies just as much in the present, as in the
past.” Rachael looks thoughtful, “You’re right. I think it would only seem worse because the bad results would already be at hand the minute you returned from the past. You would know for sure that it was you who caused it. Cause and effect relationships initiated in the present are often lost to history, especially they’re complex, and they usually are, plus doing follow-up when you get rid of a bad guy is a good way to get caught.”
1936 / A-OK October 19. 2024 Albany New York. The writer and the Witch are visiting
Garrett Valdison at the chateaux. “Rachael and I have joined the Nationalist Revolution.
We want to travel back in time to exterminate prominent Globalists before they get started. We decided it would be best to
get them as young as possible, because they would have fewer involvements leading to fewer side effects. We want to start
with 1936, and go to the Olympic Winter Games while we’re there.” Garrett replies, “Good idea. Wish I could go too. Have you thought
of making a list and separating them into age groups, so you can do several hits in tight sequences with fewer trips back?” “We hadn’t gone that far yet in our planning
yet, but that’s a splendid idea. We can do that well because they seem to fall into two age groups. I’d like to
do this first one right away though, because there in nobody else in his group. All the others his age died long ago from
natural causes. Garrett grins, “Pilos, huh?” “Ayuh” beams Carl. Garrett comments, “Good way to start.” Carl, with a proud smirk, “Actually, we’ve done a few already.” Garret gives Carl a sly, quizzical look, “Pan American Suites Massacre?” For normal privacy, Carl demurs, “Please!” “OK, I won’t intrude, but since you are
beginning to change history, like good Libertarians always do, I need to explain
certain special things about procedure… When you return from doing Pilos, I will have no memory of him or even that
he ever lived. Even you will have no memory of him from this time period, only the memory of the particulars of your quest
as contemplated by you during the adventure itself.” Carl looks astounded that he didn’t think of this himself. Garrett continues, “For my own files, and yours, I’ll need
you to write an essay, not before you leave, because it too would cease to exist, but during the trip, about Pilos, what he
has done, the reason for your quest, and a full account of what happens. Any questions which may arise during the quest must
be answered back there in that time. History will not record anything about the family of someone who died in infancy, unless
they prove to be remarkable for some other unrelated reason. “It’s very strange, but even the removal
of Boris Pilos from history as we experience it, will not change the fact of his having existed. It
will, of course, now have to have been on another plane or dimension… “Think of the intellectual irony of the ongoing
scientific debate: The very mechanics of time travel and relativity actually mandate the necessity of parallel universes as
postulated by quantum physics.” Carl looks at Rachael, raises an eyebrow, and takes
a long deep breath, “This is heavy shit. I’ll bring my laptop.” “Yes do, and keep a flash copy in a lead lined
pouch. Also, bring your mini printer to make hard copy, just in case. I can’t see why it wouldn’t, but I won’t
take for granted that cyber memory will necessarily survive time travel if human memory does not.” January 3, 1936 Munich, Germany. Currency
exchange for time travel is no cheap
day at the beach, and involves bringing old US money with numismatic value, back in time. Having taken care of that, however,
it does feel good to be here. The optimism is contagious, but Carl and Rachael get a lot of curious looks from people on the
street until they buy some period clothing. In the afternoon, they catch a train to the outskirts
of the city, and after more than an hour on foot, finally locate the family home of Boris Pilos, who is now only two years
old. They linger over a nice boiled dinner with Black Forest Cake, at a small restaurant while they wait till nightfall. As
they enter the bushes at the rear of the Pilos house, the next-door neighbor’s dog starts barking furiously. They are
very worried, but the neighbor finally calls the dog into the house and the barking stops. Rachael and Carl look carefully into three different
windows before they find the room with the sleeping boy. Carl jimmies the window and climbs up. He brought inflatable pillows,
but not chloroform. They want this to seem like crib death for the sake of the family. He gets over the sill, gains the floor
inside, and walks quickly to the bed. The boy is lying on his side facing away. Carl walks around,
inflates a pillow, and begins to suffocate the boy. Then he hears parental footsteps in the hall outside. Carl freezes, but keeps his hold. The footsteps stop
at the door. Time passes. He feels the boy struggling, then less, then not at all. Suddenly the door starts to open. Carl
is terrified. He pulls the pillow away, and flattens himself against the wall in the shadow of the door. A woman’s voice
asks, “Mordie, are you asleep?” No answer. As the door closes, she says to someone
with her, “Busy day. He’s fast asleep.” Carl checks. There is no pulse. The footsteps resume,
but back down the hall, away from the door. Even after the eighteen in New York, this close call is very scary. Carl’s
heart is racing a mile a minute. Imagine the explanation he would have to give… Rachael asks, “How did it go?” “I’m not sure. Someone popped their head
in and addressed the boy as Mordie. What’s Pilos’ middle name?” “I have no idea, but we better check the account
in tomorrow’s paper.” January 4, 1936 They buy the morning edition. Rachael reads German,
and says, “The paper reports it as a crib death, and says
the boy’s name was Mordechai Kady.” Carl frowns, but lightly, “Well, we missed getting the pig Pilos, but Mordechai
Kady grew up to be one of Pilos’ top minions. I read that he was instrumental in the deaths of some thirty thousand
people from the upheaval caused by of his currency manipulations in Europe… “If Kady hadn’t died in 2002, I would have
added him to the hit list. Despite the error, we accomplished something very good last night. I’d still like to get
Pilos, but two crib deaths in one house would never be believed. We’ll have to get him on another trip, maybe a bicycle
accident when he’s seven.” January 5, 1936 Garmisch-Partenkirchen Bavaria. Olympic Winter Games Carl and Rachael enjoy these legendary games immensely, even though they already know the outcome. Just being here is a thrill. It’s wonderful to actually see Adolf Hitler and Hermann Goering alive and well, and to be part of history with them. Back
Home As Carl and Rachael step out of the module, Garrett
greets them with sarcasm, “Well, Norris, you fucked up again! First Raitz,
now Pilos. I suppose that young soldier was also guarding this little fellow, at age two.” Carl chuckles, “Check the Internet for Mordechai Kady. You will
find nothing. Then read the report I wrote. Not Pilos, but a close second. I’ll get Pilos on a subsequent trip…
Have you ever traveled to the future?” “Hell, no!” Why not? “Afraid of what I’d find, and that even
if not total annihilation, that it would be so discouraging that it might dispirit me to slacken my efforts towards making
a better future.” “That’s a good point. I was playing with
the idea of going up ahead to see who the Globalist shit-heels are in that period, and then exterminating them as kids in
this period. It’s really the same thing as killing present people in the past, but with just a day or two of study up
ahead, then back home with less currency bullshit and risk. What do you think?” Garrett shrugs, “I’ll need to sleep many nights on it.” October 28, 2024 Carl and Rachael are back home at Robinhurst. Carl
is on the phone with Garrett, “After sleeping on it, what did you decide about
travel to the future?” “I won’t do it. Too dangerous. You might
contract a virus up there, bring it back, and decimate the entire planet because there is no immunization yet. Other reasons
too. I think it’s too complicated. We can fight Globalism best if we observe it unfolding the way it will. By exterminating
people in the past you’re just removing key players in something that’s already here.” “Okay, but I had to ask.” “Ayuh” says Garrett. The Lake November 11, 2024 Carl decides to get rid of Vincent Jenton, a top figure
in various Globalist media endeavors since 2018. He is thirty-six years old, and Carl despises him in ways that even he does
not fully understand. One reason is that Jenton looks like a guy that used to rough Carl up on the school playground when
he was six, but Carl hasn’t made this connection yet. The resemblance is irrelevant anyway. Carl will return to 1990,
when Vincent is two years old, an easier study than going to 1936 Germany. Vincent’s family has a nice vacation place on
an island owned by them. For some reason of their own, the family always takes the entire month of November as their long
vacation. The lake is big, and the island is a mile out. Carl packs swimming trunks. Rachael plans to shapeshift. Garrett sends them back to November 14, 1990. Carl
is in the water well before dawn. It’s colder than a teacher’s wit, but at least there are no sharks. He likes
the sidestroke for a long haul like this. He can switch sides occasionally for comfort. One mile is a very long swim, especially
when you haven’t had any breakfast. Just as the morning sky begins to brighten, Carl reaches
the south shore of the island. He wrings the water out the swim trunks. It’s lightly foggy, and he enters a forest of
tall straight trees. Rachael, as a very strong raven, flies above him among the tree tops, having brought a bag with clothes
for Carl. Of course, there’s always a dog. Carl also had
Rachael bring a nice butcher bone for Fido, and it really shuts him up fast. Vincent’s father finds the canine knowing
happily away on his new prize near the front porch, “Where did you get that?” he asks, as Carl enters the boys room through a rear
window. The dog understands the question from tone and context, and tries to answer, but cannot. Carl inflates a pillow. The boy awakens and tries to bite Carl’s hand, as he begins the suffocation. No blood. Carl hopes there will be no forensic study, however. The boy is spirited, and kicks like crazy for what seems like a long time. The risk makes it scary, but Carl really enjoys this part. He won’t be truly happy, however, until breakfast. He dreads the long daylight swim back, with the boy already dead. He has asked that Rachael stay on the island to provide distraction if necessary. She will pick up his clothes at the shoreline. Carl is back in the water. It seems even colder, probably
because the air now is warmer. He goes faster than before, and is just out of the water, when he hears shouting across the
water from the island. He looks up and sees Rachael sitting in a tree over the bag of clothes. “Let’s eat!” he says happily. “Caw!” replies Rachael with a raven’s delight. Winter
Pillow Carl is reading a short biography of Solomon Topinger,
one of the worst IMF money-mad war starters. At least eight hundred thousand people have died just to make him a few billion
dollars richer. If he lived to age 500, he couldn’t spend even half the money he has already. Avarice to this degree
is derangement. The biography happens to mention how there was a snowstorm
that allowed Attitash NH Ski Resort to open for full mountain just before Christmas in 1987, and that Solomon’s parents
took him on the slopes with them at age two. There is even a picture that shows clearly what his parents looked like in those
days. “Perfecto by Levidico!” guffaws Carl, as he calls Garrett. December 24, 1987 Attitash Ski Resort, NH. Carl and Rachael
have a room in the main lodge. They have breakfast early. Rachael is doing this gig as a raven. Carl rents his equipment,
and hits the slopes immediately to keep warm. It’s a bitterly cold day. He should have worn heavier clothing. The strong
morning sun should help a little, however. Carl skis trail after trail, while Rachael does aerial
reconnaissance. Both are beginning to worry that they simply won’t coincide with the Topingers, then suddenly at the
unload for Northwest Passage, there they are. As Carl spots them, he looks up and sees Rachael overhead. This is perfect.
Exactly what they hoped for. Mr. and Mrs. Topinger are only intermediate skiers.
The trail is defiantly expert, but there is new powder, and this leads them into foolish overconfidence. They start down,
then after nine hundred feet, begin to see their error in judgement. They stop and look behind them. Too far to hike back.
They decide to rest, now standing at the edge of an abyss with a long drop of three hundred feet down into the out-of-bounds
avalanche zone. The view is awesome, and distracts them. Rachael is down below pecking furiously at key points of a huge cohesive
snow plate. “Look at that wonderfully industrious bird” says Mrs. Topinger as she holds little Solomon out,
so he can look over the edge. They hope he will recall the experience when they ask him at age three. Wearing a full face mitten, navy-blue with snowflakes,
Carl suddenly comes flying out of nowhere, and accidently runs headlong into Mrs.
Topinger. The little Globalist Hell-Rotter is violently catapulted over the edge into the abyss. As the little boy lands two
hundred feet down-slope from where Rachael is working, the mother screams in primal horror. Carl cries, “Oh my God. What have I done? I’m so sorry.
I caught an edge on the frozen slush back there, and was borne ahead as if on a rail. I couldn’t
stop. If I could save that baby, I would gladly jump down there myself, but it wouldn’t help. I’m sorry folks,
but if I stay around for this, it will completely ruin my young life and career, so I’m afraid enlightened self-interest
must win out as it so often does, and you will simply have to excuse me. Once again. I’m very, very sorry, and I bid
you good day!” Carl snickers uncontrollably as he skates powerfully
away, then shushes fast down to the time return point in their room at the lodge. Rachael’s efforts now pay off at precisely the
right moment. The huge snow plate all at once shatters like a pane of glass. The massive wall of powder built up behind it,
is released and comes roaring down the slope. It buries little Solomon under a twenty-foot thick pillow of white death. It takes six men, four days to find the tiny frozen corpse. The parents have the boy cremated. Back at the lodge, Rachael returns to human form, and
walks up to their room. Carl grins, “Are we, or are we not, cooking with gas?” Rachael smiles coquettishly, “You may be the Pillow Master, but I am the Pillow
Mistress. It will take you many years to out-pillow me after this grand masterpiece of chicanery, Mr. Norris.” “Don’t be so sure” smirks Carl, as he grabs a pillow, and positions it
their favorite way on the bed. They get naked and enjoy a splendid quickie, a speedy bit of the old in-out, in-out, real savage
like. Then they go downstairs for a delicious roast beef
and turkey buffet with hot pecan pie ala mode. All the accident fuss is just starting. Police are everywhere. There are hook
and ladder fire-trucks arriving in droves to make the bankers richer, as they always do today, especially in circumstances
unrelated to fire. After lunch, Carl and Rachael go back upstirs. Carl writes the report for Garrett’s file. At 4:00 P.M., as agreed, Garrett returns them to 2024. Garrett asks, “How did it go?” Carl replies, “Very well, thank ye. A fine outing all the way ‘round. I will say, however, that our skis and bindings are a big improvement over that period, and they were pretty good even then. We intend to sleep like logs tonight.” Origins January 18. 2025 At breakfast from the kitchen window, Carl and Rachael
are watching a family of deer trying to scrounge up some winter food. Says Carl, “I have an idea about how to stop the Globalists
early on.” She lights up, “Yes, go back to the middle of the 1700s and
nail Maher Rathbone. Stop the whole business at the source. Do you think that Globalism would have arisen anyway, simply because
of the potential to bankers?” “Probably would have, but not as soon, and would
be less advanced now, maybe easier to defeat today.” Rachael brightens again, “Also, consider writing a scholarly treatise
in period style, explaining in detail how banker monopoly could develop, go back to 1783 just after the Revolution before
they begin framing the Constitution, and mail copies to everybody: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin,
Samuel Adams, and others. Even though they understood about bankers back then, and tried to warn people, we must have insights
that could fortify their arguments. Its two trips, of course, currency nightmares, but
on the earlier trip we could rob British lobster-backs for money.” Carl never ceases to be amazed by Rachael, “How did you get to be such a genius?” “Vitamins, of course.” Time travel is expensive. Garrett gives them the best
deal possible, because he shares their goals. Carl has given up writing time and income. It will all come out in the wash
later, because he can write books about the entire business as either fiction or non-fiction, depending on the climate in
the aftermath of today’s revolution, but right now Carl and Rachael will economize. They plan to dress in period attire
rented from a costume shop here, forget about currency, pack nutritious lunches, and spend only a few hours before returning. September 14, 1746 9:03 P.M. Holy Roman Empire. Frankfurter Judengasse. Carl and Rachael arrive in a nearby park. The
air smells very strange in this period, a mixture of wood-smoke, roasting food, and
poor waste water disposal. As they leave the park, the candle light windows and street lamps look very cozy, but terribly
dim. Rachael asks directions from an old couple out walking
a shaggy looking Bouvier. They are very pleasant and polite, but seem perplexed by the way Rachael pronounces German. Carl and Rachael go three blocks to the Rathbone house where the eighteen-month old boy, Maher, lives with his family over his father’s trade shop and currency exchange. The house is very narrow, sandwiched between two larger
buildings. The doors and windows are heavy and secure. “We can’t do this. Access is impossible.
Even if we could get inside…” she stops, as an upstairs window opens. A kerchiefed
head with a hook-nosed scowling woman’s face appears and glares angrily down at them. As the window claps shut, she
says, “She what I mean? Forget it! It would be nice
to have dinner nearby before we leave, but …” Carl replies, “Probably just as well that we don’t. We might catch something. Let’s just enjoy the food we brought, and go home. This costume itches.” Philadelphia
1783 March 11, 2025 Outdoors at Robinhurst Manor. “Hey Witch, we gonna see George-a Wash, not to be confused with George-a Buuush!” “You can say that again!” answers Rachael, excited
about the trip. They plan to spend an entire day in Philadelphia, roughly one week after the signing of
the Treaty of Paris, ending the war with Britain. Rachael the Raven, will borrow currency from the government printing office to pay for their library inquiries, mailing costs, and culinary adventures. The new country will get it back trillions of times over. They will check period climate data, and go on a hot sunny day to increase the likelihood of open windows. Two hours later, Carl looks at Rachael, “I’ve completed the essay. I’d like
you to proof it, and offer suggestions. I’ve decided to make modern laser copies in Arial font. The total strangeness
and inexplicability of the printing process will draw all the more attention to the essay itself. Benjamin Franklin and Samuel
Adams, as newspaper men, will be especially fascinated. They might even speculate that, since the printing is impossible with
their technology, that it might be from the future.” Rachael replies, “Very good idea, but I think we should use the
envelopes that they use, and address them by hand in the ink that they use. We don’t want the eccentric modern look
to interfere with, or delay, delivery.” “I agree. Indigo ink with
a goose feather quill will be very messy for us without practice. We better pay a notary or librarian to address the envelopes.
I think we can be candid about the subject matter and goals, in
a simple general way, if anyone asks. They want their new republic to succeed just as much as we do. Also, we should not let
them see the actual printouts for the reason you mentioned.” September 10, 1783 Philadelphia, Untied States of America It is hot
and sunny and the exact date they wanted as they land in a park near Independence Hall. They visit a nearby library and
look at a city map to find out where the currency is printed. When they get there, the windows are open, as they hoped. Rachael finds some bushes, gets naked, and shapeshifts into the raven. Then she flies
up and perches on one window sill after another, until she finds the right one. There are two men inside printing currency
for the new republic. They look flabbergasted as Rachael flies right in and grabs a large stack of bills, newly bundled with hemp, and flies out. The men run to the window to see where this crazy bird will go with the money. She flies up and sits on the roof until they go back in, away from the window. She is aware of when this happens, because she can hear them talking. Now she flies back to the bushes, and, in human form, soon joins Carl down the street. Next they visit a stationary store and buy some envelopes,
then return to the same library, and research the mailing addresses of the original four patriots, and six other, more or
less Libertarian luminaries, of this period, including Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Payne. Carl approaches the librarian, “Hello, Mam. My name is Carl Norris. I have just
researched the mailing addresses of ten individuals connected with our government. I want to send them information about certain
banking issues that will help to preserve liberty and speed prosperity in our new republic. “Neither my wife Rachael nor I have very good
dexterity in addressing envelopes. We want these to look professional and refined. I was hoping I might prevail upon you to
address them for us for the fee of your choosing.” The librarian is impressed by the names on the pencil
printed list. “Do you know men, Mr. Norris?” “No, I have not had the pleasure, but we had
thought of hand delivering the one addressed to Mr. Franklin, since he is nearby, and at this hour he may be at his trade.” “Yes, I will do these immediately. It will take
at least thirty minutes, however. Can you wait?” “I thought we might go to lunch. Is there a good
public eating house nearby?” The librarian points, “Yes, around the corner, about one half block.
The sign will say Independence Victuals.” Carl and Rachael enjoy cold roast mutton and salad
with fresh bread and butter, then return. They pay the librarian, and she directs them to a postal station. Before they leave
the library, they stuff and seal the envelopes. At the postal station the proprietor sees the names, “You must be in the government.” Carl smiles, “No, but I’m sending them detailed information
about banking issues that will greatly faclitate a smooth transition for the republic.” The letters are posted, and the postmaster directs
them to the newspaper print shop of Benjamin Franklin. When they get there, the doors are locked and
the window shades drawn. A portly gentleman passerby offers, “If you are here to see Mr. Benjamin Franklin,
I’m sorry to say he’s away for a few days.” Carl thanks him, and drops the letter through a slot
in the door. Because of the genteel people of Philadelphia, Carl and Rachael have already accomplished their entire mission
and it’s only 1:04 P.M. They decide to stroll around this beautiful city. Carl
buys a cane with a bone bird head at the top. Just below this, there is a tiny peep hole with a lens. When you look in, you
see an image of Independence Hall etched in glass. At 7:00 P.M. Garrett returns them, Carl speaks first, “How are the Globalists doing now?” Garrett looks puzzled, “The who?” Carl brightens, with a look of astonishment. Garrett
decides it would be cruel to carry the jape any further, “Just kidding. Everything’s the same. I
guess the people were too busy with monkey shines to listen to those you may have influenced. I think you should research
about it on the net, however. There might be some mention of your efforts, because the printout technology alone must have
caused a big stir.” Carl and Rachael look disappointed, but not that surprised.
The next day they do research it, and find no reference to the letters, but quite
a few accounts with warnings in public speeches about the pitfalls of private central banking. Maybe their effort did help, and globalization would be even more advanced now than if they hadn’t gone back to 1783. Although
it may be impossible to measure, in the longer term, almost every good thing that people do, helps in some way or another. |
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