09/07/1966
Haven House
For Elderly People
‘Albert Cutler ran over the details in his mind of ‘his’ assassination plot to shoot one of the most powerful targets in history of our humble organisation to date,’ Dr. Darcy Cowling ran over this sentence in his mind. Unoriginal and clichéd, the doctor was nonetheless proud of his work. He had been writing history for most of his adult life, a cliché or two while he chronicled it hardly seemed to matter.
Dr. Cowling was in a small elderly home chain that was very exclusive. The owners insisted on every member going through a rigorous psychology test to make sure ‘everyone was compatible.’ The fees were so high for such measly service anyway that nobody seemed to mind, as nobody wanted to go there. Albert Cutler was one of the one of the main writers and he pursued his hobby with passion day in, day out.
Pitying once again the end he chose for his books once he died, Dr. Cowling picked up his quill (nothing was as satisfying for him as chronicling in style) and began to write once more:
‘As he was on his way to the Dealey Plaza, he convinced himself that the plan was flawless. It wasn’t the first time The Business had assassinated an American president, however they were still pretty poor efforts considering the capability of The Business now, and procedures should have improved since 1881.
Of course, Albert Cutler only saw an associate that wanted to bring President Kennedy down, so they might just have the FBI or Mafia on their side to muck things up. Or it could have been an eccentric billionaire who had strong beliefs about politics. It didn’t really matter to Albert who had no cares for politics, if there was anything he needed to know, it would be given to him in his mission briefing.
So Albert got into position, and took the real, actual shot. A pawn (or indeed, a patsy to put it in his own words) by the name of Lee Harvey Oswald took the first shot, which was followed up by Albert’s. Lee had no idea about a second shot. Lee had no idea about Albert. Lee really did have no idea about the organisation that just made him take that shot and ruin his life.’
Still, he liked been who he was and considered himself at least a Knight, or possibly even a Rook? He knew that the game was never as simple as that but he was allowed to dream just as he supposed everybody else did, right? Hope, desire, delusion… they were all powers the ‘bosses’ bestowed upon their subjects. Surely he was aloud his fair share.
A small girl however cut his musing short apparently oblivious to the noise, singing. He thought she must be deaf not to hear the commotion or, judging by her voice, she must think they’re playing a little game in her sugarcoated world.
For the bible tells me so,
Little ones to he belong,
They are weak but he is strong,
Yes, Jesus loves me…’
Matthew 10:34
"Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.
Matthew 18:3
And he said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.
2/8/2001
Rotorua District Court,
Rotorua,
New Zealand
Mr. Schellings considered himself ruthless, others in his field considered him rather brash. In any case, he had deep ties and one of his associates had already found him a guaranteed way out. Mr. Schellings was getting bored with the sleeping proceedings, pun intended, and really wanted his associate to hurry up.
All in all though, it was rather amusing to him that they were only in a district courthouse because all they could pin him for was a couple of minor robberies. He was way to smart for the authorities. However the fact that he looked and acted like an American gangster did not go in his favour and he had been the main suspect for a very long time. He hoped that however his associate would hurry up. If he was a gambling man, which he would be if he didn’t find it so utterly boring, he would say that the group of five men had something to do with the plan. Hmm, he decided when he escaped he would go to Fiji. Yes, he rather deserved a holiday didn’t he? He certainly felt like one.
* * * *
William A. Withers rushed into the courthouse. He immediately went to the nearest security guard and red-faced, dishevelled hair and puffing lungs asked: “hey do you have a toilet around here?” The guard looked at his appearance and stared for a little bit more than what was called for and pointed to a door with a GENTLEMEN sign on it. “Thanks,” gasped the man and he rushed up to the door and slammed the cubicle door with a loud bang. The guard chuckled and moved his attention to the next person in line.
Withers put all of his weight on his shoulder against the wall beside him at the same time as slamming the door and stumbled through the plaster wall to the office next to it. Although by no means as easy as Hollywood made it out to be, it was definitely within the realms of possibility for someone as highly trained as William. William found it amazing how easy it was to pass the security point if they pity what they think of you. A thin administrator with glasses stared at him with complete shock and William Withers seized that moment to lunge at him, knife extended and slit his throat before his feet touched the ground.
William took the time alone to comb his hair a bit and reverse his reversible jacket. William shook his head to himself and he mused that some of the planners must be getting pretty eccentric these days to create a plan such as this. This was certainly not how soldiers such as William himself think, although maybe that’s not such a bad thing sometimes so as to avert yelling in effect: ‘HEY PROFFESIONALS DID THIS!’ This probably had something to do with gang wars- and apparently one side hired the right sort of people.
William finished changing his appearance after quickly removing some of his stage make-up he screwed a silencer on his gun and walked out of the room straight towards the courtroom beaming purpose and confidence as he strode along. He wasn’t sure if the guard that directed him to the toilets saw him now, but if he did he didn’t make any correlation between the guy who was busting to go to the toilet earlier and the guy who’s just about to bust a guy out of a trial. In a manner of speaking.
He opened the double doors, step inside and asked: “May I approach, you honour?” William’s men looked just as surprised as everyone else. Will Withers didn’t know they were such good actors. Suspiciously, the judge agreed. All eyes were focused him now, as he thanked the Judge and moved towards the bench. Murmurs spread throughout the courtroom. When he got there, he turned towards the defendant whose face he had memorised, the only difference now, was that the defendant had an evil grin fixed on his face.
Nearby one of his men put his jacket over the window, smashed the window and rolled out leaving the way for the William and the rest of his men. The target stood up and Withers let a chuckle escape his lips. “Not you my friend,” he said. Withers took out his gun. Boom! Boom! His silenced gun went as the target fell to his knees.
He walked swiftly towards the window went suddenly one man broke the silence and changed it into pandemonium in one moment when he rushed towards him. Unfortunately for him, his way was barred by two men, who both punched him hard, one in the head in the other in the gut. He doubled over and Withers wondered absently if the fact that the silenced gun not sounding like they expected really would add to the confusion like they said it would and that the man who had been pinched would probably die from his injuries if they didn’t get them treated soon.
He then jumped out the window followed by the rest of his men. They jumped into the rusty old (albeit upgraded) blue van without a number plate and sped off into the horizon before any sense of order was accomplished. William observed that it must look a lot like gangster wars to an outside. Mission accomplished.
Royal Christchurch
Theatre,
Christchurch,
New Zealand
“Said Joseph. And indeed he did. Their son grew up to be the light of the world forever showing us the way.”
The rest of the juvenile actors rushed onto the stage and they all formed a line, joined hands and bowed to the audience. The audience applauded loudly and the curtain closed. Little-year-old 8 Micah, who played Joseph, hurriedly changed out of his costume and rushed to a group of adults who were talking. “It’s so good that finally a school’s doing a nativity play, you just don’t see enough of those these days.”
“Yea””Hey Susan, your kid did great, you should be proud.”
“Yea, believe me, I am!”
Micah’s chest swelled as he heard this and rushed his Mum and gave her a big hug. “Mum, mum, did I do well?”
“You did great!”
“Thanks, are you sure nobody noticed that I missed a line?”
“No, what line?”
“Oh, well, never mind then!”
His mum chuckled and said: “Now go along and celebrate with your friends!” Micah nodded and ran off only to feel a cold draught against his face. Micah saw that the side door was open so he went to shut it. For some reason though the sight of the pub across the road caught his attention and he stared at it for a little bit.
Micah?
Yes?
I want you to go there.
Pardon?
Micah felt a hand on his shoulder and he gasped. “Micah?” it was only his friend Phillip, “What are you doing?” Micah recovered from his shock and said: “oh, I was shutting the door!”
“Um, okay then. Want to hang out with us then?”
“Yea, of course”
“Cool.” Micah followed Phillip and joined his friends.
30 minutes later though most of his friends had left with their parents as it was already getting late when it started. Micah once again felt the draught on his face and he realised that in his haste to leave he had forgotten to shut the door. He went to shut it again but again the pub caught his eye.
Go there Micah.
Keep on going.
Micah took a deep breath and entered. Unfamiliar sights and sounds entered, but Micah was a brave boy so he continued. Micah sort of, knew where to go and sat down to a rather well built man. Was it just him or was everybody talking quieter than they should be? “Hello,” he said. The man looked rather surprised, but he composed himself and said: “This is no place for you son.”
“William, it’s nearly Christmas time did you know that?” Did he? Sort of, he just didn’t really think about public holidays if he needed to. They don’t pay him triple to work on public holidays. Will chuckled. Now there was an idea.
“William, do you know Christ?”
Micah saw that William obviously wasn’t expecting that question but he carried on regardless. “Because I do William, and he’s worth knowing,” Still no reaction to speak of, so Micah took it as a sign to continue. “I’m going to be frank with you William,” somehow William Withers doubted that he was never anything but frank, Micah continued: “I came from doing a nativity show from across the road at the Christchurch Royal Theatre. I had no particular reason to come here. But I think God told me to come here to talk to you. His ways are mysterious I know but I think you would like them.
William?”
“Yes?” William was starting to regret more than before every telling his name to this boy. “William,” said Micah as William visibly winced, “I do believe you are been called.” And with that Micah picked himself up and left.
CHAPTER 2
I Kings 19:19-20
“So Elijah went from there and found Elisha son of Shaphat. He was plowing with twelve yoke of oxen, and he himself was driving the twelfth pair. Elijah went up to him and threw his cloak around him. Elisha then left his oxen and ran after Elijah…”
11:33 am,
14/8/2001
298 Gaipa Street,
Arequipa, Peru
John Smith looked at his Uncle who was eating breakfast across the table and he saw that Uncle had something to say. John had, over the course of time, grown used to sensing people’s emotion. The uncle himself had personally taught him. The Uncle was obviously proud of both his own and John’s ability to read people. Uncle had taken him to the market a couple of times and asked John what arguments from across the street were about, what customers were the favourites of the sellers because of how much they could get out of them and the like.
Uncle was studying John under those sunglasses of his. John had seen a lot of political photos for a man that lived in Peru, and Uncle looked the most like the photo’s of the FBI than like any other man he had ever seen in his life. Finally Uncle broke his silence. “It’s time,” he said. John did not doubt it was time for whatever he meant- it always was. But Uncle was talking some more: “You’ve got an appointment for a meeting in 5 minutes. Pack your bags. You’re going to be there for a while.”
John did what he was told unquestioningly and seemingly uncurious but inwardly John was only slightly puzzled. John at a meeting? This would be the first meeting of his life, despite how well he knew how meetings worked. He knew the ins and outs of meetings better than most executives. 5 minutes and 32 seconds a limousine pulled up. “They’re here!” Uncle called. The fact that they pulled up 32 seconds late left a bad first impression on John, he considered that amateurish.
* * * * *
3:56 pm,
Mansion in the
Eastern outskirts
Of Peru, that is,
Virtually In the
Jungle.
David Thompson looked at John Smith. “Please,” he said, “sit.” John Smith nodded and sat in one of the lounges. “Wine?” asked David, but John replied: “my apologies sir, but I prefer to keep my head perfectly clear in the company of strangers.”
“Of course, said David, “I presume you are wondering how you came to be here?”
“I have a feeling you are going to tell me regardless.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Of course.”
“You came here because you are a patsy, of sorts.”
“Like Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“In a manner of speaking. You however, were designed for a completely different purpose. You were designed to find that out and stop been a patsy. Today that process shall begin.”
“Wonderful.”
“You know about politics?”
“I know enough.”
“Good. Then you should know about the Mafia then and all other sorts of ‘secret’ organisations?”
“Yes.”
“Would you believe it then that there is a secret organisation that controls the world without their knowing it?”
“Would you by any chance have any connections to this organisation?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Convincing me should be no problem then.”
“It won’t be- trust me.”
“Does this organisation by any chance have a name?”
“What is a name? Would a rose by any other name smell so sweet? Would the Mafia by any other name capture the imagination of the world? The Mafia wasn’t even called the Mafia until some outsiders decided they needed a name and the name just stuck. Only outsiders need to know the name. Also, not knowing the name helps us out with the authorities. There is no media attention, no public outcry. Who cares about a nameless organisation? The name Attila the Hun still sends a chill down some people’s spine these days. Besides, the FBI or M16 or ASIO or whatever organisation finds tracks of us cannot come to the public and say: “Be wary of a nameless organisation that is very powerful!” The public will either take it as a sign of weakness that they don’t know the name or become suspicious.”
“The Mafia was known as La Costa Nostra even to insiders though wasn’t it?”
“Italian for: The Thing? True. Similarly, our organisation does have a name for the overall mission: Control.”
“Mission: Control and mission control; two very different things separated by a semi colon that could easily be confused with the other. I like it.”
David nodded. “You have been selected and designed to take on a role of utmost importance in this organisation,” he said, contemplating him keenly, “there are books in your quarters called The Annals of Control that you will need to read to get an understanding of this organisation works. But I will briefly explain it to you now. This organisation is broken up into divisions: Military, Phycology, Organisation, Communication and, most recently, Media. Every division works in unison to create what we want: control. Organisation makes sure they work in unison; Communication makes sure everybody from boss to patsy gets messages. Military and Phycology are the actual divisions who ‘do’ the work. Military is fairly self-explanatory, the Phycology Division however is our secret weapon, our trump card. They train the Military Division with much more efficiency- mind over matter and things of such. They train unsuspecting ‘patsy’s’, like what you were up till now to be ‘programmed’ to do what they design them to do. But there is too much to explain now, the first few books in The Annals of Control will teach you how they work.”
“And the Media Division?”
“Ah yes, the Media Division, the newest, but by know means the least of the Divisions. We have got agents in most of the major newspapers, news stations etc, but almost never to cover it up. Instead, they change the view. So, for example, instead of adopting the general view of: ‘Oh no, what should we do?!’ they change it to: ‘Oh no, what can we do?!” The difference seems minor but is incredibly useful to us. The butler will take you to the room now. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER 3
Acts 22-24
“ ‘And now, compelled by the spirit, I am going to Jerusalem, not knowing what will happen to me there. I only know that in every city the Holy Spirit warns me that prison and hardships are facing me. However, I consider my life worth nothing to me, if only I may finish the race and complete the task the Lord Jesus has given me- the task of testifying to the gospel of God’s grace.
14/8/2001
Detroit Nazarene Church,
Detroit, Michigan.
The Missionary’s
Return Night.
Pastor Mathew Jeremy Garret/M.J/Pastor Garret welcomed the people into his church to the missionary’s ‘homecoming.’ The missionary was called Josh Worthen, who was technically Episcopalian in denomination, not Nazarene, but Josh had been his close friend before he left for Colombia, so he decided to do two slideshows) to both his home church and to M.J’s (although he had to remember he was doing a ‘PowerPoint’ at each nowadays).
As could be expected, the atmosphere was positively ecstatic. A missionary returning from Medellin, Columbia of all the exciting places you could be in as a missionary was pretty high up on the ladder of places to get your imagination going. Colombia was notorious for its violence, a fact that was obviously known by the 8-year-olds, as they seemed to be searching Josh for any signs for scars from some long forgotten war. The last stats he heard was something like 97.5% were Christian, but tell that to the guerrillas.
M.J had looked up Colombia in his old Operation World copy and found the following disturbing paragraph: “Missionaries live under great stress- especially those from the USA. Some have been murdered, others have received death threats and many have had to be withdrawn from ministry in dangerous areas where leftist or narcotics terrorism is rife. Pray for courage and faithfulness to there calling. Internal mission/church relationships have been a source of tension, division and grief. Great humility and sensitivity is required in the complex ecclesiastical scene in order to have a viable fruitful ministry.”
Even the specific city he had been sent to, Medellin, had its own paragraph about its hardness to the gospel, nation’s capital of crime with 300 gangs of paid killers, 7,000 murders a year etc etc.
These were NOT the most reaffirming of all the words he had read and it was something that had been keeping Josh high on his prayer list, so needless M.J had been greatly relieved to seeing Josh alive and well. Indeed, Josh seemed to have grown out of all of it. And not that the growing up as some adults see it when they want to describe ‘realising’ that its not worth trying to keep your passion for life. Indeed, Josh seemed to be truly alive, passionate, mature, wise, joyful. M.J recognised it.
It was the look of one who truly had faith of a child and the wisdom near that of Solomon. M.J also gained this look since the 7 years he hadn’t seen them, and a exchanging of stories was greatly looked forward to by the both of them. When everyone was seated, and his watch said it was time to start, M.J walked up to the pulpit and welcomed everybody.
* * * * *
Brett Mathews sat next to a kindly middle-aged woman who had invited to her church for the missionary that was coming to it. She said that the missionary was very nice and could possibly be able to help him. He said: ‘what? Did he work in Peru or something?’ She said: ‘no, Colombia,’ and Brett couldn’t think of anything to say to that except for a weak ‘oh’.
Brett was a patsy of the organisation (the one this story is mostly concerned about) and the person who was ‘in control’ of him knew exactly what he was doing, but he was not concerned, indeed, it seemed to be a big plus. Brett had been seen into depressing situation (which obviously led to a depressive state with the skill of Brett’s ‘carer’) and thus had met some old lady who had suddenly decided Brett’s life mattered. Brett’s life had already started been replanned to allow for this new contingency of the church.
Nobody was worried. It has long been seen of people to put their ‘faith’ in weak religions and failing miserably, then to recede into worse depression. Indeed, the case of ‘FD” was in a member of her church singing group among other things but still considered herself a failure, driving her to attack a prominent government official, a much studied success of Operation: Control. All they had to do now was to wait for the opportune moment to strike.
But back to Brett himself. He was sitting at one of the 10 tables that were covered with dinner that the congregation that showed up this evening were eating at. As he was new, he was seated near the pastor and the missionary. After about 10 minutes of grace, ‘pass the…’s and pleasantries came the conversation turned to serious matters. And eventually of course one of the conversations (one the pastor, elderly woman and missionary in) came to Brett.
Josh turned to Brett and asked: “So, you’re new I take it? You don’t seem to be talking too much. Did you like my presentation?” “Yea it was great,” (which he meant wholeheartedly).
“Good. Did you learn anything from it? You learn to make most of everything in Colombia and I believe strongly in learning things when it comes to God.”
“It feels nice that you’re not the only one with a big bummer for a life,” said Brett, then instantly resenting opening up himself to one big ‘let’s help the sinner’ conversation. Although, that’s what he is supposed to want, right?
M.J unashamedly broke into the conversation (as all pastors have a right to): “Life sucks and then you die right?” Brett smiled a grin I can only describe as defeated and replied: “something like that.” Josh and M.J suddenly felt that the Colombia-Brett’s life correlation wasn’t so out of place. With it, came a wash of the Holy Spirit suggesting, or rather commanding that Brett become a Christian. For a split second their eyes became open and like the prophet of old that came into the throne room of Yahweh himself and saw a glimpse of Gods plan.
They saw different ways things could come about, and very quickly different emotions flooded their minds as their souls reacted to every scenario put up by Jesus. All suddenly became clear to them. They saw that their race was now imperative to this particular plan only and that this was the final leg of the race that the apostle Paul strived so desperately to complete. And it all became so clear. And it all faded, although it did not disappear.
Their experience helped set their spiritual compass in the right direction and they learnt the voice of the Spirit, both were needed for what was to come. They also learnt the magnitude of what was coming. Thus the Holy Spirit became busy as it always does to claim Brett’s soul through the persons of M.J and Josh using all the skills they had and a little bit extra thrown in.
I am happy to say, dear friend, that they succeeded. Spiritual beings belonging to both heaven and hell became enraptured with bated breath waiting and warring out this story. Brett experienced something he had never experienced something that he had never experienced before: God’s love (and in no small proportions). And indeed there was partying in Heaven that day.
