To Me, My Superman-Robots

I am Locutus, of The Ultraman-Robots.

The Great, Big, Fat BlueTooth-

Speaker Robot That Couldn’t.

Waco Negotiation Tape 7, Side B - Steve Schneider

First You Try to Bully Me, and 

then You switch on The Charm -- 

Secret-Police routine 7/4

Waco Negotiation Tape 7, Side B - Steve Schneider

"Hey, 

Listen, You've got a guy up in Your

Tower there, with a balaclava on and 

cami-paint -- what's going on out there, 

You think This is A Game?

listen I don't even

know what you're well what's happening

tell me what's happening now I'm telling

you the man in Cami paint and a

balaclava wait what's cat I don't even

know what camouflage paint okay there's

a guy with camouflage paint and he's

wear at in your Tower

well what do you remember left hand

window of your Tower in the center back

side and what is he supposed to be doing

well the question is you think this is a

game

you think this is 

"....what are you talking

about dick? Make yourself plain -- 

'There's a guy in The Tower', 

what does that mean...?!"

"Camouflage-paint, as though 

he's looking The Area over and 

making some sort of a -- A Move 

or something, is that what 

you want to do..?

I don't know, this is the 

first I've even heard of.... 

....I don't even know what 

you're talking about....

"I think you better find

out what we're talking about you're the

person in charge in there you and David

you better take care of these kinds of

things and you better control those

people in there or what you want to take

us do you want to come in and take us

out no that's exactly what we do not

want to do just relax a minute let me

find out what is going on I've heard

anything I don't even know what you're

talking about you find out I'll call you

back her window on the tower you find

out what I'll call you back dick very

well okay bye

hello hello dick yes I went and checked

it out someone was looking out the

window they might they had a camouflage

jacket on is that what you're talking

about in a balaclava and a bottle of

what a balaclava I have what is a

balaclot well you check with your people

and find out what a balaclava is if you

don't know what it is

I have no I heard it's a word it's a

hood that goes over the face

we don't even have such a thing I don't

know where on Earth you have that there

there's a woman up there we got some

jackets long time ago some guy sold us

some things they were cheap like a

dollar so for the clothes so the person

they're 100 cotton there's a woman up

there that had a jacket on that is

looking out the window let me tell you

something Steve I'm sitting here trying

to work with you getting no cooperation

I'm telling you what it is I checked it

out that's exactly what it was well I'm

glad you did but let's caution those

people in there about those kinds of

things we've got people out there that

get concerned when they see that kind of

thing see someone looking out the window

no no no

you're concerned when you're on our damn

property and you have never come around

and found what you would do from the

beginning I am tired of even dealing

with you dick

I really am tired of it day after day

after day going on this merry ground

with you over and over again the same

thing remove your crap off our property

and we might get serious with you like

you originally said

you call me threatening me because we

have a human being in our building

looking out the window with a baller

what is it whatever it is you speak your

stupid crazy language I don't even know

what you're talking about don't accuse

me and threaten me of anything if you

want to take me out and take these

people out do so you don't believe in

God you don't believe in the Bible try

it and find out I'm anxious to see

myself

see if you believe in a God I know I

really know you don't you think you're

the only one that talks to God out there

I have never said that dick but I mean

these the way your manner has been round

and around we've only we've been so

clear about things from the beginning

with you you guys

no no no no you have not complied from

day one with having your vehicles and

our private property which you agreed to

you agree to that dick you and your

people there and still they wander

around and you've got the audacity to

call me up because a human being is

looking out a window when you've got

guys in our automobiles moving our

motorcycles doing things that you never

called me about you know what I want to

say to you and I'm trying to hold back

because I still love you and your soul

and those people down there I do want to

communicate with you we all do but what

is this one-sided business dick let's

start being real serious that's our

point no no it is not your point you

start looking at what and record and

you're recording everything you look to

hear what you're saying it becomes very

redundant when you're repetitively

saying the same thing

you asked me to look at that press

conference I did it made me sick listen

when you fired on federal officers you

lost some of your private property they

fired on human beings that are to be

protected by this very government which

is for the People by the people they

should be stuck in jail right now that

investigation should be just a minute

here's David

lost our right

Sheep and Horses

You would think that such a day would tremble to begin . . . 

Robin :

Atomic Batteries to 

Power; Turbines

to Speed —

It’s THE Goddamn BATMAN! :

Roger — Moving-out…..

CLARICE STARLING’S Mustang boomed up The Entrance-ramp at The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms on Massachusetts Avenue, A Headquarters rented from The Reverend Sun Myung Moon in The Interest of economy. 

The strike force waited in three vehicles, a battered undercover van to lead and two black SWAT vans behind it, manned and idling in the cavernous garage. Starling hoisted the equipment bag out of her car and ran to the lead vehicle, a dirty white panel van with MARCELL’S CRAB HOUSE signs stuck on the sides.

Through the open back doors of the van, four men watched Starling coming. 

She was slender in her fatigues and moving fast 

under the weight of her equipment, her hair shining 

in the ghastly fluorescent lights. 

“Women. Always late,” a D.C. police officer said. 

BATF Special Agent John Brigham was in charge. 

“She’s not late — I didn’t beep her until we got The Squeal,” Brigham said. 

“She must have hauled ass from Quantico — Hey, Starling, Pass me The Bag.” 

She gave him a fast high five. 

Brigham spoke to the scruffy undercover officer at 

The Wheel and The Van was rolling before the back doors closed, 

out into the pleasant fall afternoon. 

Clarice Starling, a veteran of surveillance vans, ducked under the eyepiece of The Periscope and took a seat in the back as close as possible to the hundred-fifty-pound block of dry ice that served as air-conditioning when they had to lurk with the engine turned off. The old van had the monkey-house smell of Fear and Sweat that never scrubs out. It had borne many labels in its time. The dirty and faded signs on the doors were thirty minutes old. The bullet holes plugged with Bond-O were older. The back windows were one-way mirror, appropriately tarnished. Starling could watch the big black SWAT vans following. 

She hoped they wouldn’t spend hours buttoned down in the vans. 

The male officers looked her over whenever Her Face was turned to The Window. 

FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling, thirty-two, always looked Her Age 

and she always made that age look good, even in fatigues. 

Brigham retrieved his clipboard from the front passenger seat. 

“How come You always catch this crap, Starling?” he said, smiling. 

“Because You keep Asking for Me,” she said. “For this I Need You. 

But I see you serving warrants on jump-out squads for Christ’s sake. 

I don’t ask, but somebody at Buzzard’s Point hates you, I think. 

You should come to work with me. These are my guys, 

Agents Marquez Burke and John Hare, and this is 

Officer Bolton from The D.C. Police Department.” 

A composite raid team of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the Drug Enforcement Administration SWAT teams and the FBI was the force-fit product of budget constraints in a time when even the FBI Academy was closed for lack of funding. 

Burke and Hare looked like agents. 

The D.C. policeman, Bolton, looked like a bailiff. 

He was about forty-five, overweight and yeasty. 

The Mayor of Washington, anxious to appear tough on drugs after his own drug conviction, insisted the D.C. police share credit for every major raid in the city of Washington. Hence, Bolton. “The Drumgo posse’s cooking today,” Brigham said. “Evelda Drumgo, I knew it,” Starling said without enthusiasm. Brigham nodded. “She’s opened an ice plant beside the Feliciana Fish Market on the river. Our guy says she’s cooking a batch of crystal today. And she’s got reservations to Grand Cayman tonight. We can’t wait.” Crystal methamphetamine, called “ice” on the street, provides a short powerful high and is murderously addictive. “The dope’s DEA business but we need Evelda on interstate transportation of Class Three weapons. Warrant specifies a couple of Beretta submachine guns and some MAC 10s, and she knows where a bunch more are. I want you to concentrate on Evelda, Starling. You’ve dealt with her before. These guys will back you up.” “We got the easy job,” Officer Bolton said with some satisfaction. “I think you better tell them about Evelda, Starling,” Brigham said. Starling waited while the van rattled over some railroad tracks. “Evelda will fight you,” she said. “She doesn’t look like it—she was a model—but she’ll fight you. She’s Dijon Drumgo’s widow. I arrested her twice on RICO warrants, the first time with Dijon. “This last time she was carrying a nine-millimeter with three magazines and Mace in her purse and she had a balisong knife in her bra. I don’t know what she’s carrying now. “The second arrest, I asked her very politely to give it up and she did. Then in D.C. detention, she killed an inmate named Marsha Valentine with a spoon shank. So you don’t know … her face is hard to read. Grand jury found self-defense. “She beat the first RICO count and pled the other one down. Some weapons charges were dropped because she had infant children and her husband had just been killed in the Pleasant Avenue drive-by, maybe by the Spliffs. “I’ll ask her to give it up. I hope she will—we’ll give her a show. But—listen to me—if we have to subdue Evelda Drumgo, I want some real help. Never mind watching my back, I want some weight on her. Gentlemen, don’t think you’re going to watch me and Evelda mud-wrestling.” There was a time when Starling would have deferred to these men. Now they didn’t like what she was saying, and she had seen too much to care. “Evelda Drumgo is connected through Dijon to the Trey-Eight Crips,” Brigham said. “She’s got Crip security, our guy says, and the Crips are distributing on the coast. It’s security against the Spliffs, mainly. I don’t know what the Crips will do when they see it’s us. They don’t cross the G if they can help it.” “You should know—Evelda’s HIV positive,” Starling said. “Dijon gave it to her off a needle. She found out in detention and flipped out. She killed Marsha Valentine that day and she fought the guards in jail. If she’s not armed and she fights, you can expect to get hit with whatever fluid she has to throw. She’ll spit and bite, she’ll wet and defecate on you if you try to pat her down, so gloves and masks are SOP. If you put her in a patrol car, when you put your hand on her head, watch out for a needle in her hair and secure her feet.” Burke’s and Hare’s faces were growing long. Officer Bolton appeared unhappy. He pointed with his wattled chin at Starling’s main sidearm, a well-worn Colt .45 Government Model with a strip of skateboard tape on the grip, riding in a Yaqui slide behind her right hip. 

“You go around with that thing cocked all the time?” he wanted to know. 

“Cocked and locked, every minute of my day,” Starling said. “Dangerous,” Bolton said. “Come out to the range and I’ll explain it to you, Officer.” Brigham broke it up. “Bolton, I coached Starling when she was interservice combat pistol champion three years straight. Don’t worry about her weapon. Those guys from the Hostage Rescue Team, the Velcro Cowboys, what did they call you after you beat their ass, Starling? Annie Oakley?” “Poison Oakley,” she said, and looked out the window. Starling felt pierced and lonesome in this goatsmelling surveillance van crowded with men. Chaps, Brut, Old Spice, sweat and leather. She felt some fear, and it tasted like a penny under her tongue. A mental image: her father, who smelled of tobacco and strong soap, peeling an orange with his pocketknife, the tip of the blade broken off square, sharing the orange with her in the kitchen. The taillights of her father’s pickup disappearing as he went offon the night-marshal patrol that killed him. His clothes in the closet. His square-dancing shirt. Some nice stuff in her closet now she never got to wear. Sad party clothes on hangers, like toys in the attic. “About another ten minutes,” the driver called back. Brigham looked out the windshield and checked his watch. “Here’s the layout,” he said. He had a crude diagram drawn hastily with a Magic Marker, and a blurry floor plan faxed to him by the Department of Buildings. “The fish market building is in a line of stores and warehouses along the riverbank. Parcell Street dead-ends into Riverside Avenue in this small square in front of the fish market. “See, the building with the fish market backs on the water. They’ve got a dock back there that runs all along the back of the building, right here. Beside the fish market on the ground floor, that’s Evelda’s lab. Entrance here in front, just beside the fish market awning. Evelda will have the watchers out while she’s cooking the dope, at least three blocks around. They’ve tipped her before in time for her to flush her stuff. So—a regular DEA incursion team in the third van is going in from a fishing boat on the dock side at fifteen hundred hours. We can get closer than anybody in this van, right up to the street door a couple of minutes before the raid. If Evelda comes out the front, we get her. If she stays in, we hit this streetside door right after they hit the other side. Second van’s our backup, seven guys, they come in at fifteen hundred unless we call first.” “We’re doing the door how?” Starling said. Burke spoke up. “If it sounds quiet, the ram. If we hear flash-bangs or gunfire, it’s ‘Avon calling.’ ” Burke patted his shotgun. Starling had seen it done before—“Avon calling” is a three-inch magnum shotgun shell loaded with fine powdered lead to blow the lock out without injuring people inside. “Evelda’s kids? Where are they?” Starling said. “Our informant saw her drop them off at day care,” Brigham said. “Our informant’s close to the family situation, like, he’s very close, as close as you can get with safe sex.” Brigham’s radio chirped in his earphone and he searched the part of the sky he could see out the back window. “Maybe he’s just doing traffic,” he said into his throat microphone. He called to the driver, “Strike Two saw a news helicopter a minute ago. You seen anything?” “No.” “He better be doing traffic. Let’s saddle up and button up.” One hundred and fifty pounds of dry ice will not keep five humans cool in the back of a metal van on a warm day, especially when they are putting on body armor. When Bolton raised his arms, he demonstrated that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower. Clarice Starling had sewn shoulder pads inside her fatigue shirt to take the weight of the Kevlar vest, hopefully bulletproof. The vest had the additional weight of a ceramic plate in the back as well as the front. Tragic experience had taught the value of the plate in the back. Conducting a forcible entry raid with a team you do not know, of people with various levels of training, is a dangerous enterprise. Friendly fire can smash your spine as you go in ahead of a green and frightened column. Two miles from the river, the third van dropped off to take the DEA incursion team to a rendezvous with their fishing boat, and the backup van dropped a discreet distance behind the white undercover vehicle. The neighborhood was getting scruffy. A third of the buildings were boarded up, and burned-out cars rested on crates beside the curbs. Young men idled on the corners in front of bars and small markets. Children played around a burning mattress on the sidewalk. If Evelda’s security was out, it was well concealed among the regulars on the sidewalk. Around the liquor stores and in the grocery parking lots, men sat in cars talking. A low-rider Impala convertible with four young African-American men in it pulled into the light traffic and cruised along behind the van. The low-riders hopped the front end off the pavement for the benefit of the girls they passed and the thump of their stereo buzzed the sheet metal in the van. Watching through the one-way glass of the back window, Starling could see the young men in the convertible were not a threat—a Crip gunship is almost always a powerful, full-sized sedan or station wagon, old enough to blend into the neighborhood, and the back windows roll all the way down. It carries a crew of three, sometimes four. A basketball team in a Buick can look sinister if you don’t keep your mind right. While they waited at a traffic light, Brigham pulled the cover off the eyepiece of the periscope and tapped Bolton on the knee. “Look around and see if there are any local celebrities on the sidewalk,” Brigham said. The objective lens of the periscope is concealed in a roof ventilator. It only sees sideways. Bolton made a full rotation and stopped, rubbing his eyes. “Thing shakes too much with the motor running,” he said. Brigham checked by radio with the boat team. “Four hundred meters downstream and closing,” he repeated to his crew in the van. The van caught a red light a block away on Parcell Street and sat facing the market for what seemed a long time. The driver turned as though checking his right mirror and talked out of the corner of his mouth to Brigham. “Looks like not many people buying fish. Here we go.” The light changed and at 2:57 P.M., exactly three minutes before zero hour, the battered undercover van stopped in front of the Feliciana Fish Market, in a good spot by the curb. In the back they heard the ratchet as the driver set the hand brake. Brigham relinquished the periscope to Starling. “Check it out.” Starling swept the periscope across the front of the building. Tables and counters of fish on ice glittered beneath a canvas awning on the pavement. Snappers up from the Carolina banks were arranged artfully in schools on the shaved ice, crabs moved their legs in open crates and lobsters climbed over one another in a tank. The smart fishmonger had moisture pads over the eyes of his bigger fish to keep them bright until the evening wave of cagey Caribbean-born housewives came to sniff and peer. Sunlight made a rainbow in the spray of water from the fish-cleaning table outside, where a Latin-looking man with big forearms cut up a mako shark with graceful strokes of his curved knife and hosed the big fish down with a powerful handheld spray. The bloody water ran down the gutter and Starling could hear it running under the van. Starling watched the driver talk to the fishmonger, ask him a question. The fishmonger looked at his watch, shrugged, pointed out a local lunch place. The driver poked around the market for a minute, lit a cigarette and walked off in the direction of the café. A boom box in the market was playing “La Macarena” loud enough for Starling to hear it clearly in the van; she would never again in her life be able to endure the song. The door that mattered was on the right, a double metal door in a metal casement with a single concrete step. Starling was about to give up the periscope when the door opened. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals came out. He had a satchel across his chest. His other hand was behind the satchel. A wiry black man came out behind him carrying a raincoat. “Heads up,” Starling said. Behind the two men, with her long Nefertiti neck and handsome face visible over their shoulders, came Evelda Drumgo. “Evelda’s coming out behind two guys, looks like they’re both packing,” Starling said. She couldn’t give up the periscope fast enough to keep Brigham from bumping her. Starling pulled on her helmet. Brigham was on the radio. “Strike One to all units. Showdown. Showdown. She’s out this side, we’re moving. “Put ’em on the ground as quietly as we can,” Brigham said. He racked the slide on his riot gun. “Boat’s here in thirty seconds, let’s do it.” Starling first out on the ground, Evelda’s braids flying out as her head spun toward her. Starling conscious of the men beside her, guns out, barking “Down on the ground, down on the ground!” Evelda stepping out from between the two men. Evelda was carrying a baby in a carrier slung around her neck. “Wait, wait, don’t want any trouble,” she said to the men beside her. “Wait, wait.” She strode forward, posture regal, holding the baby high in front of her at the extent of the sling, blanket hanging down. Give her a place to go. Starling holstered her weapon by touch, extended her arms, hands open. “Evelda! Give it up. Come to me.” Behind Starling, the roar of a big V8 and squeal of tires. She couldn’t turn around. Be the backup. Evelda ignoring her, walking toward Brigham, the baby blanket fluttered as the MAC 10 went off behind it and Brigham went down, his face shield full of blood. The heavy white man dropped the satchel. Burke saw his machine pistol and fired a puff of harmless lead dust from the Avon round in his shotgun. He racked the slide, but not in time. The big man fired a burst, cutting Burke across the groin beneath his vest, swinging toward Starling as she came up from the leather and shot him twice in the middle of his hula shirt before he could fire. Gunshots behind Starling. The wiry black man dropped the raincoat off his weapon and ducked back in the building, as a blow like a hard fist in the back drove Starling forward, drove breath out of her. She spun and saw the Crip gunship broadside in the street, a Cadillac sedan, windows open, two shooters sitting Cheyenne-style in the offside windows firing over the top and a third from the backseat. Fire and smoke from three muzzles, bullets slamming the air around her. Starling dived between two parked cars, saw Burke jerking in the road. Brigham lay still, a puddle spreading out of his helmet. Hare and Bolton fired from between cars someplace across the street and over there auto glass powdered and clanged in the road and a tire exploded as automatic fire from the Cadillac pinned them down. Starling, one foot in the running gutter, popped out to look. Two shooters sitting up in the windows firing across the car roof, the driver firing a pistol with his free hand. A fourth man in the backseat had the door open, was pulling Evelda in with the baby. She carried the satchel. They were firing at Bolton and Hare across the street, smoke from the Cadillac’s back tires and the car began to roll. Starling stood up and swung with it and shot the driver in the side of the head. Fired twice at the shooter sitting up in the front window and he went over backward. She dropped the magazine out of the .45 and slammed another one in before the empty hit the ground without taking her eyes off the car. The Cadillac sideswiped a line of cars across the street and came to a grinding stop against them. Starling was walking toward the Cadillac now. A shooter still sat in the back window, his eyes wild and hands pushing against the car roof, his chest compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. His gun slid off the roof. Empty hands appeared out of the near back window. A man in a blue bandana do-rag got out, hands up, and ran. Starling ignored him. Gunfire from her right and the runner pitched forward, sliding on his face, and tried to crawl under a car. Helicopter blades blatting above her. Someone yelling in the fish market, “Stay down. Stay down.” People under the counters and water at the abandoned cleaning table showering into the air. Starling advancing on the Cadillac. Movement in the back of the car. Movement in the Cadillac. The car rocking. The baby screaming in there. Gunfire and the back window shattered and fell in. Starling held up her arm and yelled without turning around. ‘HOLD IT. Hold your fire. Watch the door. Behind me. Watch the fish house door.” “Evelda.” Movement in the back of the car. The baby screaming in there. “Evelda, put your hands out the window.” Evelda Drumgo was coming out now. The baby was screaming. “La Macarena” pounding on the speakers in the fish market. Evelda was out and walking toward Starling, her fine head down, her arms wrapped around the baby. Burke twitched on the ground between them. Smaller twitches now that he had about bled out. “La Macarena” jerked along with Burke. Someone, moving low, scuttled to him and, lying beside him, got pressure on the wound. Starling had her weapon pointed at the ground in front of Evelda. “Evelda, show me your hands, come on, please, show me your hands.” A lump in the blanket. Evelda, with her braids and dark Egyptian eyes, raised her head and looked at Starling. “Well, it’s you, Starling,” she said. “Evelda, don’t do this. Think about the baby.” “Let’s swap body fluids, bitch.” The blanket fluttered, air slammed. Starling shot Evelda Drumgo through the upper lip and the back of her head blew out. Starling was somehow sitting down with a terrible stinging in the side of her head and the breath driven out of her. Evelda sat in the road too, collapsed forward over her legs, blood gouting out of her mouth and over the baby, its cries muffled by her body. Starling crawled over to her and plucked at the slick buckles of the baby harness. She pulled the balisong out of Evelda’s bra, flicked it open without looking at it and cut the harness off the baby. The baby was slick and red, hard for Starling to hold. Starling, holding it, raised her eyes in anguish. She could see the water spraying in the air from the fish market and she ran over there carrying the bloody child. She swept away the knives and fish guts and put the child on the cutting board and turned the strong hand-spray on him, this dark child lying on a white cutting board amid the knives and fish guts and the shark’s head beside him, being washed of HIV positive blood, Starling’s own blood falling on him, washing away with Evelda’s blood in a common stream exactly salty as the sea. Water flying, a mocking rainbow of God’s Promise in the spray, sparkling banner over the work of His blind hammer. No holes in this man-child that Starling could see. On the speakers “La Macarena” pounding, a strobe light going off and off and off until Hare dragged the photographer away.

Give Me The Missile Key

Give Me The Missile Key 

Crimson Tide

[Following the rebel Russian submarine's attack, which damaged the Alabama's communications equipment]

Hunter: Captain? Got the EAM.

[Ramsey sees the EAM message which is shown incomplete]

Hunter: What do you think?

Ramsey: I think there's nothing on this.

Hunter: Yes, sir. It, uh, got cut off during the attack.

Ramsey: Then it's meaningless.

Hunter: Sir, this is an EAM pertaining to nuclear missiles.

Ramsey: No, Mr. Hunter, that's a message fragment.

Hunter: Because it got cut off during the attack, sir. The message could mean anything. It could be a message to abort. It could be a message--

Ramsey: Could be a fake Russian transmission.

Hunter: Which is exactly why we need to confirm it, sir. All I'm asking for is the time we need to get back on line.

Ramsey: Calm down, Mr. Hunter.

Hunter: I am calm.

Ramsey: You don't appear to be calm.

Weapons: Conn/Weapons: Missile systems ready to launch in four minutes.

Ramsey: Step aside, seaman.

Seaman: Yes, sir.

[Faint Radio Transmission]

Ramsey: We have orders in hand, and those orders are to make a preemptive launch. Every second that we lose increases the chances, that by the time our missiles arrive, their silos could be empty, 'cause they've flown their birds and struck us first.

Hunter: Yes, sir.

Ramsey: You know as well as I do that any launch order received without authentication is no order at all.

Hunter: Captain... National Mili…

Ramsey: [continues to talk over Hunter] That's our #1 rule. That rule is the basis for the scenario we've trained on time and time again.

Hunter: Yes, sir.

Ramsey: It's a rule we follow without exception.

Hunter: Captain, National Military Command Center knows what sector we're in. They have satellites looking down on us to see if our birds are aloft. And if they're not, then they give our orders to somebody else. That's why we maintain more than one sub. It's what they call "redundancy."

Ramsey: I know about redundancy, Mr. Hunter. [walks off]

Hunter: All I'm saying...

[Crew stares at Hunter before he meets with Ramsey again, speaking discreetly]

Hunter: All I'm saying, Captain, is that we have backup. Now, it's our duty not to launch until we can confirm.

Ramsey: You're presuming that we have other submarines out there ready to launch. But as captain, I must assume that our submarines could have been taken out by other Akulas. We can play these games all night, Mr. Hunter, but I don't have the luxury of your presumptions.

Hunter: Sir...

Ramsey: Mr. Hunter, we have rules that are not open to interpretation, personal intuition, gut feelings, hairs on the back of your neck, little devils or angels sitting on your shoulders.

Hunter: Captain...

Ramsey: We're all very well aware of what our orders are and what those orders mean. They come down from our Commander-in-Chief. They contain no ambiguity.

Hunter: Captain, sir...

Ramsey: Mr. Hunter, I've made the decision. I'm captain of this boat. Now shut the fuck up! Damn. [over the intercom] Weapons/Conn: Shift targeting to target package SLBM 64741/2. This is the Captain.

[Ramsey gives the intercom to Hunter]

Hunter: ...Captain, I cannot concur.

Ramsey: Repeat my command.

Hunter: Sir, we don't know what this means. Our target package could have changed.

Ramsey: You repeat this order or I'll find somebody who will!

Hunter: [stares at Ramsey] Hell no, you won't, sir.

Ramsey: You're relieved of your position. COB, remove Mr. Hunter from the control room. Get Lieutenant Zimmer in here now!

Hunter: No, sir, I do not concur and I do not recognize your authority to relieve me on the command under Navy regulations.

Ramsey: COB, arrest this man and get him out!

Hunter: Captain Ramsey, under operating procedures governing the release of nuclear weapons we cannot launch our missiles unless both you, and I agree.

Ramsey: [shouting over Hunter] COB, what're you waiting for?!

Hunter: Now this is not a formality, sir! This is expressly why your command must be repeated! It requires my assent, I do not give it! And furthermore, if you continue upon this course, and insist upon this launch without confirming this message first...

Ramsey: [shouting over Hunter] Son of a bitch... As commanding officer of the USS Alabama I order you to place the XO under arrest under charges of mutiny!

Hunter: I will be forced, backed by the rules of precedents...

Ramsey: [shouting at the Chief of the Boat, over Hunter] I say again, as commanding officer of the USS Alabama, I order you...

Hunter: -authority and command, regulation 08150H6 of the Navy regulations, to relieve you of command, Captain!

Ramsey: -to place the XO under arrest, under charges of mutiny! [Silence all round]COB!

Chief of the Boat: Captain, please, the XO is right. We can't launch unless he concurs.

Ramsey: [reading EAM] "To the USS Alabama: Rebel-controlled missiles being fuelled. Launch codes compromised, dissidents threaten to launch at continental United States, set DEFCON 2. Immediately launch ten Trident missile sorties." They're FUELING THEIR MISSILES! We don't have time to fuck around!

Hunter: Sir, I think you need time to think this over.

Ramsey: I DON'T HAVE TO THINK THIS OVER!

Hunter: Captain, I relieve you of your command of this ship. COB, escort the Captain off the bridge, I'm assuming command.

Ramsey: You're not assuming anything!

Hunter: CHIEF OF THE BOAT, Captain Ramsey is under arrest — lock him in his stateroom!

Chief of the Boat: Captain, please...

Hunter: NOW, COB!

Chief of the Boat: Aye, sir. Mitchell, Walker, take the Captain below.

[Ramsey goes to leave, then turns and throws his missile key to Hunter]

Ramsey: You're out of your league, Hunter. You're not ready to make difficult decisions yet.

Is There a Gepetto in The House?

Fun Buffyverse Moments - "Is There a Gepetto in The House?"

Just a bit Farther Out West

They may push it back, even then. 
It may become a Generational affair;
Questions passed from Parent to Child;
But someday, somewhere, 

someone may find out the damn Truth. 

We better. 
Or we might

just as well
build ourselves 

another Government --

Like The Declaration of Independence
says to, 'when the old one ain't workin',
push out just a bit farther out West. 

An American naturalist wrote: 
"A Patriot must always be ready to 
defend His Country against its Government." 

I'd hate to be in your shoes today. 

You have a lot to think about. 
You've seen evidence 

The Public hasn't seen. 

Going back to when We were children 
I Think most of us in this courtroom 
thought Justice came automatically. 

That Virtue was its own reward. 
That Good triumphs over Evil. 

But as We get older, 

We know This isn't True. 

Individual Human Beings 

have to CREATE Justice, and 
This is not easy because The Truth 
often poses A Threat to Power and
one often has to fight Power
at great risk to themselves. 

People like 
S.M. Holland,
Lee Bowers,
Jean Hill, 
Willie O'Keefe;
have all taken that risk 
and they've all come forward --

I have here some
$8,000 in these 
letters sent from
all over The Country. 
Quarters, dimes,
dollars from Housewives, 
Plumbers, Car-salesmen,
Teachers, Invalids...

....these are people who cannot 
afford to SEND Money but DO. 

People who Drive cabs, 
who Nurse in Hospitals, who 
see Their Kids go to Vietnam. 

Why? 
Because They CARE. 

Because They want to know The Truth. 
Because They want Their Country back. 
Because it still Belongs to Us 
as long as The People have The Guts 
to Fight for What They Believe in. 

The Truth is The Most
important Value We have
because if it doesn't endure,
if The Government murders Truth, 
if We cannot RESPECT these people, then 
This is NOT The Country I was born in, 
and it is certainly not The Country
I want to Die in --

Tennyson wrote: 
"Authority forgets a Dying King." 
This was never more True than
for John F. Kennedy, whose Murder
was probably one of the
most TERRIBLE moments

in The HISTORY of Our Country. 

We, The People,
The Jury-System 

sitting in Judgment
on Clay Shaw, represent
The Hope of Humanity 

against Government Power. 

In discharging Your Duty 

to bring a first Conviction 

in this House of Cards 

against Clay Shaw "Ask not
what Your Country can 
Do for You, but what You
can Do for Your Country." 

Do not FORGET 

Your Dying King. 

Show This World. this
is still A Government 
OF The People,
FOR The People
and BY The People." 

Nothing as long as You Live 
Will EVER be more Important --

....it's Up to You. 

 

But I Met The Doctor Once

Ian Marter

The fourth Doctor talks about the friend who played companion Harry Sullivan at the Time Quest convention, Barking Abbey School, London, 2009

"...oh yeah, yeah --

Well, he really was an absolute Darling --

and, uh, he shouldn't have died, but he did; 

I do remember you know that sometimes at

rehearsal he had a 10 kind of oh virent

diabetes that suddenly if he didn't eat

things or whatever it was he'd suddenly

get terribly irrational and um and then

someone give him a biscuit or a bite of

a marsbar and suddenly he seemed better

uh and then I think he was living alone

at the time and I always thought that

you know to go home with that kind of

illness feeling a bit down or whatever

it was was a terrible terrible waste

because he was a kind man you know Not

only was he gifted but he was kind and

that's a that's a wonderful combination

to be gifted and kind and um and he

adored his children and his wife M and

but they weren't together at that time

and and he came home one night know

maybe had a couple of Dr Bass and the

next thing is he he was in a coma and of

course a terrible he wasn't discovered

at time but I only have War memories of

him and presumably all a peaceful way to

die one Longs for a peaceful death you

know uh when I was a boy in early in the

last Millennium I us we used to say this

prayer you know for for a peaceful de

little children yeah little children

were praying for a peaceful day it's

incredible --

isn't it absolutely

incredible because you know I going as

an actor some noce already I was I was

What's called the

Thor I think it's called something else

chur but it's a a little machine that

burns

incets big piece of charcoal like that

and high quality insect smoke everywhere

and of course I didn't realize I was

snipping it like a lunatic I mean I was

abely sorting this bloody incense I was

hallucinating early on you know we used

to used to carry on like that the whole

time uh with this this idea of choking

incense and smell of uh of very very

rich cand it was absolutely marvelous

absolutely marvelous and that got me

into my love of funerals because I'm

talking about the days you know before

penilla but people used to die real

quick you know you have a nail in your

shoe on a Friday go to a dance on a

Saturday to see on a

Sunday me young conerts by Monday you

die on a Tuesday and you are buried

following

Thursday amazing Charlie was here

dancing with me doing that and he de so

I us funeral because you know flu and uh

scarlet fever and measles and things

like that I used to go sometimes three

or four a

day I mean one dose of FL would knock

out all the other wom in the

street and there was I swinging like

that

is bomed out of my

brains and then an amazing thing

happened I quick you got

lives he said uh one day I it was so

cold and it was about my fourth funeral

with no food you know because they also

the Catholic church was very interested

in children

starving so everyone else could have a

meal but not the children you swinging

because they were feeding on Bloody

incense anyway it was so cold I remember

shivering unly and all covering snot and

tears with the pain and when it was

ended you used to sometimes get a thy

bit you don't know what it was a small

coin uh but this day because of my S I

guess a fellow touched my hand very

unusual and slipped a half crown

was called half a dollar I couldn't

believe it you know I never actually

held a half dollar I've discovered it

afterwards and then I realized he

thought he was giving me a half dollar

because he thought I was weeping in

sympathy for his old mother who just

died flu at the age of

111 and I was corrupted TR so fra I was

corrupted instantly and after that the

next funeral day after day after day

there I was you know sobbing like a

professional while while the other

little boys were getting big I was

getting two Shilling pieces Inc that's

where I learned to

so and got going maybe that was the

beginning of my life on actor really and

was fing an emotional yes I can't that

question