Mr. Saito sat quietly in his apartment sipping tea, folding pieces of paper into shapes and figures. It was more than a hobby; it was a way of life that had sustained him following the Pacific War, better known as World War II.

A sharp rapping at his door broke the silence. There he found an official-looking man in his 40s, dressed in a two-piece suit, a lined-trench coat and expensive fedora.

“Mr. Saito, I’m Detective Sergeant Takahashi. may I come in and ask you a few questions?”

“Hai,” the old man smiled as he opened the door all the way. “What is this about?”

“I’m investigating the disappearance of Ai Sato and Ikki Suzuki and I’ve been told that you were friend’s with both.”

“Yes. Anything to help. Please sit, have some tea.”

Takahashi slipped off his shoes, laid his coat and hat on the nearby stool before taking a seat at the low table that occupied the center of the room. It gave him time to look around the old man’s place, learning more about him.

He could hear Mr. Saito moving about the kitchen, fetching hot water for the tea, which Takahashi was certain would be served formally. The detective sergeant couldn’t help but notice the intricately folded pieces of paper arranged neatly about the table.

Mr. Saito came in with a small tīpotto and set it over the small tīkyandoru, designed for keeping the water in the teapot warm. Takahashi knew better than to be impatient with the old man as he masterfully brewed the tea, serving it to his guest.

“So, what would you like to know about Ikki and Ai?” Mr. Saito asked after the detective sergeant took his first sip.

Continuing to be formally polite, Takahashi first complimented the tea-server then the tea, before asking, “When was the last time you saw either one of them?”

“I think ten days ago, but I could be wrong. Time runs together for me.”

“So, you fold paper to pass the time?”

“Hai, origami.”

“I think I’ve seen your work in the home of both victims.”

“Yes, you did. Would you like to see how it’s done?”

“Gladly!” Takahashi exclaimed, knowing that the more comfortable Mr. Saito became, the more he might talk and the better the resulting interview would be to his case.

Gently, Mr. Saito withdrew a single sheet of over-sized stiffened rice paper from a lidded-wooden box next to the table and began by following it in half, “The secret is to capture the essence of the person as the folding takes place.”

Before he could respond to the word ‘person,’ Detective Sergeant Takahashi found himself tucked between folds. And when finished, Mr. Saito, a practicing Majo, touched the perfectly plaited figure to the flame of the tīkyandoru and watched as it turned to ash.

Never have I seen so many people fearful to help an animal in distress. Yeah, so the animal is 15-hundred pounds, around 15 hands high and scared shitless, but that doesn’t mean much if you use common sense.

It began with the sound of metal grating on asphalt. Not like a bumper might have dropped off a truck, but something that came and went intermittently.

Stepping out on my front porch, I saw a horse dash by, closely followed by a metal garden chair tangled in its rein. It was obvious that the noise the chair made had the beast spooked and that it had done its best to escape whatever it perceived as stocking it.

Fortunately, I was dress, shoes, pants and shirt, so I trotted after the horse in the hope that it might stop long enough that I could get in front of it. It took me till the end of the block to do so.

Once the horse saw me, she came to a halt and stood there as if deciding what to do. I stayed back, talking and cooing to her to calm her down.

She started to run by me, but I reached out and grabbed the chair, which sent me sprawling on the road. But I hung on and with my 200-pound plus frame, the weight became to intense for the ol’ girl and she came to a stand-still.

From there I was able to gather hold of the reins, cooing and talking my way up to her bridle. Before I knew it, a woman came driving down the road in a truck, towing a horse trailer.

It was easy to tell that the horse knew this woman and was happy to see her as she got out of the truck. I didn’t get her nor the horses name, but I got every name of those people up and down the street that stood there watching and refused to help.

The West isn’t what it once was in rural Nevada. Rant concluded.

When the old guy, dressed in black clothes and hat, carrying a walking-stick, entered the ‘Yacht Lot,’ Silvio ignored him because he could tell the man had no money.

Silvio even tried dodging him when he turned and began walking in the salesman’s direction, but inexplicably he found the old man standing at his side anyway. Taller than Silvio, he gazed over a once broken and severely crooked nose and said, “I need a boat.”

“Anything specific, Mister…?”

“Kharun,” he answered. “Your biggest, one that can carry large numbers of people.”

“A pontoon?”

“More elegant.”

Silvio walked Mr. Kharun over to the largest boat on display. “Like this?”

“Yes. Do you take gold?”

“I guess we take gold.

“Good.”

Mr. Kharun handed Silvio two gold coins, “Those are for you – the rest is on your desk. Until we meet again — and we will.”

Silvio turned to look in that direction, then quickly turned back, but by then Mr. Kharun had disappeared – and so had the multimillion dollar boat. All that remained was a fog-like wisp of smoke and the odor of cedar oil and strong wine.

My Mom and brother visited me last night as I dreamed. And boy, did they ever look swell.

Mom was in her late 20’s or early thirties, legs curled under her as she sat in a favorite chair, reading an ‘Agatha Christie’ novel. She asked me to go to the basement and get us a couple of beers.

“But Mom,” I complained, “you aren’t supposed to drink!”

“I’m cured of that since coming here,” she smiled, knowing she’d had the argument won before I even opened my mouth.

So I headed down stairs. But before I could get to the steps, I had to dodge every dog she’d had as a child, that we had as a child and every dog Adam and I had as an adult. And while it was joy to see them, they were really overjoyed to see me.

Finally, I made it to the basement, where there were lots of knickknacks, banana boxes with papers and photos, and mementos of all sort. But I was on a mission: get the beer Mom sent me down there for.

A 20-something Adam came though the side door, dressed in perfectly pleated khaki pants, a cream-color dress shirt, brown tie, and a royal blue weather-proof jacket. He smiled, “What’cha looking for Tom?”

“Mom sent me down here for beer.”

“Over there in the fridge,” Adam pointed as he sprinted up stairs.

With three bottles of beer in hand I started up after him…but I awoke before reaching the top landing. I was so looking forward to sitting on the floor in front of Mom’s chair like I did as a kid, talking, laughing and possibly crying, too.

Reflecting back on this dream, I must amend my opening statement – it is not they who were the visitors. No, it was I, visiting them.

“Is it money you want?” he pleaded, as I tightened the zip-ties binding his wrists. I shook my head, ‘No.’

She continued struggling against her restraints, “Try all you want, you ain’t getting loose.”

Picking up my bat, I asked, “Who’s first?”

No answer, so turning to the husband, “How ’bout you?”

“No? Her then,” as I brought the bat down on her left arm, leaving her screaming in agony.

“You’re turn,” I said, cracking his head open.

She glared at me, eyes filled with anger, absent any fear or pain that had been there before.  That one died, bravely.

Legalism simply defined is the dependence on law rather than faith.

Once, I got into a heated exchange after claiming the Bible to be the “perfectly inspired word of God.”

“Oh, you’re one of those,” he responded.

“Yes,” I shot back adding, “And remember I have a doctorate in theology, while you sing in the choir,” which he did.

The following night, I found myself saying sorry to him for being so hurtful and thankfully he accepted my apology. Often I’ll use this incident as a reminder to try and watch what I say in the heat of any argument.

She was watching the white rabbit carrying a satchel. Being curious, Alice Liddell followed the hare into the garden.

“Why are you running?” she asked.

“I’m very late. No time to talk.”

“You can speak!”

“No I can’t, I’m late.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Red Queen’s. It’s her birthday. I’m to bring her a gift!”

“I’d love to meet her.”

“Very well!”

The rabbit slipped into a hole, leaving behind his satchel. Alice picked it up and looking inside, found a pair of ruby slippers. “I could wear them till the rabbit returns,” she said, slipping them on and excitedly clicking her heels together.

Suddenly,  Alice slipped into confusion. Once she could think straight, she found herself sitting along a brightly painted cobblestone road, “I don’t think this is Oxford anymore.”

Still slightly stunned, a very small man approached her and she asked, “Who are you?”

“Welcome to Munchkinland. I represent the Lollipop Guild and I see you’ve brought Dorothy’s ruby slippers with you. Miss Gale will be so happy.”

The next time someone tries to shame you by calling you a ‘conspiracy theorist,’ tell them to look up how in 1932 the federal government gave 600 Black men syphilis to study the diseases progression, in 1933 poisoned the alcohol supply to stop moonshiners, killing 10,000 people, or how from 1950 to 1969, they sprayed the bacteria ‘Serratia marcescens’ over the city of San Francisco and in 1966, released ‘Bacillus globigii’ into New York City’s Subway system.

These are historical facts, not conspiracies. Then ask them, ‘Why don’t you know these facts?’ They won’t know the answer, which is: they attended a federally run school.

“Found a badly thrashed Nikon CoolPix L31 camera hanging on a tree branch while driving in the desert south and west of the Hungry Valley Rez. It has a slightly bent and mangled micro SD chip and I’m doing my best to salvage whatever might be on it. Fingers crossed. More to follow…” – from my Facebook timeline.

As I drove over the hill from the house, I turned left onto the muddy road leading into the high desert that skirts the Indian reservation. Having recently snowed, I was having a time trying to climb a steep hillside as my tires refused to gain traction and I kept sliding backwards.

That’s when I saw it – a small silver and black object hanging from a tree branch. It turned out to be a small pocket camera.

“That’s odd,” I thought as I got out of my truck to investigate.

Ever the cautious one, I examined it outwardly for possible booby-traps. Seeing that it wasn’t attached to any trip-wires and that the branch it was hanging on wasn’t set up to deliver a ‘spiked surprise,’ I removed it from the tree.

It became clear that it had been in the desert for sometime (2014, if photo’s recovered are any indication) and that it would take a miracle to get the piece of electronics to work again. That being said, I brought it home and packed it in a plastic container filled with white rice, hoping to dry it out (which, for me, has never worked.)

After 24-hours and a pair of new batteries, the camera did failed to come on, however I found a memory card. Looking the card over, it appeared folded in half at one time and there was a fracture in the back-half of the thing.

With no idea whether it could be salvaged, I tucked it inside the container of rice and let it stay there for about five-hours. I would have given it a full 24-hours to dry out, but curiosity got the best of me and I gave in.

A closer examination of the card showed that the metallic strips on the front end were in good shape and I was reasonably certain I could get it to work once inserted into my computer’s port. Within a minute of inserting it, I found the card (which eventually broke in two) to be filled with photographs and videos, that I’ve transferred to my computer’s memory for the time being.

But now for the twist – while the majority of the pictures recovered are of a baby girl, her older sister, mom, dad, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandma’s and grandpa’s, some of the images are of sites in and around Crescent City, California, 20-miles from where I grew up. Simply put…mind blown.

Time now to find the people in the pictures.

Dugan dipped beneath the yellow police tape and walked through the door, “What do we have?”

“Another one and more of the same,” came the answer.

He walked towards the back of the abandoned house. Streams of bloody cast off covered the room.

Dugan squatted down as he pulled on a rubber glove. He shined a light in the victim’s eye, quickly checked behind her left ear and inspected her large right toe nail.

“Shit!” Dugan exclaimed. “He’s done practicing and has begun escalating.”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant?”

“She’s not a cybernetic, she’s for real,” he answered, “Notify Homicide.”