""Why I have to marry a
Georgian Wife and not my Lady Spyderco Knife""
In memory of Dolores Ann Adrian who died July 21, 2008
This fictionalized short
story below is dedicated to the memory of Dolores Anne Adrian who passed away
July 21, 2008
also.....
FICTION
""Why
I have to marry a Georgian Wife and not my Spyderco
Lady Knife""
By Bryan Adrian (circa
2006/07)
First, let me introduce
myself, I am Mickey Rorgk of Charleston, SC, not the
famous film star famous for cocaine abuse and fighting in the ring. I am an
occasional adviser to community rights neighbourhood
organizations just outside of Tbilisi, Georgia now. The local urban village
residents are extremely worried about the high volume of American Mormon and
Jehovah Witness missionaries here, and do not trust them. But that is another
story, which I will get to in just a short while.
Emphatically, I'd like to thank all of you in the home office for your Spyderco credit-card-encased kommando
knife. It is ideal for concealment within a side pant's
pocket, and it is exactly the size and nearly the thickness of a normal credit
card or ATM card, as you state in your catalogues. The attractive silvery
stainless steel frame is elegant and does not attract attention from security
guards, pedestrians, nor tourists, when by accident one pulls it out of their
pocket, rather than just the usual keys or coins, as intended. Any unexpected
witnesses to what you are holding in your hand think simply that you are merely
the lucky possessor of a thin and becoming high quality credit card case, to
protect your coveted bank cards, and nothing more.
But to the assailant or perpetrator who crosses your path with ill intent, it
is another matter. I had to sleep overnight in parks on a few occasions lately,
traveling on a shoestring budget between Washington DC and Philadelphia,
seeking stringer reporter or even temp editing assignments as an out-of-luck
progressive muckraking writer. Many times a job interview for a fresh-in-town
jobseeker, such as myself, would be post-scheduled for
a piece of work I desired, on the very last day of my paid-in-advance SRO hotel
residence. I often could not afford to pay the hotel rate for this last day of
my stay, which of course would be the day the interview had finally been set up
for me by the customary young and petite and air-headed female human resources
manager, which has become a commonplace affair in our newly globalized
corporate reality. Thus, once again, the parks called out my name as a familiar
friend, including not only the embraces of dewy green grass, but also the kiss
of plenty of dog shit.
As a result, I found myself one sultry, hot, steamy summer night in the crime
ridden Northeast sector of Washington DC, far away from Union Station and near
the notorious Northeast sector outermost homeless shelter dubbed 'Chocolate
City' by some people, and nowhere close to the ritzy Capitol Hill townhouses close
to Congress.
My train did not leave from Union Station till 8am the next morning, so I had
lots of time to kill. I found a place to hide and sleep under a children's
slide of a fairly nice mini-park adjacent to an African-American ghetto. This
would have to be the bedding I had haphazardly selected for myself, the night
before my distant Philadelphia job interview the next day.
The mosquitoes were biting like i had dreamed of prospective employers seeking
me out. These skeeters did not need to see my resume
in order to exploit my assets. They made their quick appointments without
asking me in any formal manner.
Around 3:30 in the morning, three ebony skinned men crawled towards my toddler
playground hiding space to smoke a joint and gossip with each other about women
being bitches and hos, and for some reason they did not see me for quite some
time, lying there on my back as quietly and motionlessly as I could, under the
slide. I had, however, very slowly positioned my right hand to firmly grip
around my Spyderco knife, ready for action.
Otherwise, I was playing possum and assuming a dead man's posture flat on my
back like a fatally stricken soldier after a fierce battle, legs sprawled.
Suddenly, one of the lads shouted out to his mates, "For Christ's sake
man, look at that --- that ---- right over there, a dead white dude, don't you
see him?!"
They all made short snortles and exclamations of
dread at seeing a dead white man in an all black
neighborhood.
Then one of them said, "hey look man, he's barely
breathing, he must be dead drunk!"
I remained motionless and reduced my breathing to a few millilitres
of air per second.
I was overwhelmed with fear, but replayed in my mind all the many hours of
training videos I had studied on the art of using a Spyderco
knife in tight and deadly situations.
My three months of daily training sessions, sparring with a retired government
NSA contractor of the U.S. Federal government, came back to me in a flash, and
I was grateful for my older friend's patience in showing me defensive and
slashing moves over and over and over again. He not only trained me, but he had
given me my first honorary Spyderco knife ever in my
possession, the one under the weight of my hand in my pocket now.
This same knife in my hand had kept burglars and drug addicts away from my
throat in dirtbag hotel rooms in New York City also,
during several other efforts to find work in that big daddy of a town, too.
When a thief enters your hotel room and thinks nobody is at home, and you are
lying in bed naked and hungry but very ready to brandish such a weapon in their
face, or near their crotch, the intruder inevitably makes some lame excuse and
makes a very speedy disappearance.
If only I had such a hand-held effective tool to help my poor mother who lost
her house and garden and all assets recently to a nursing home conglomerate,
working hand in hand with State Elderly Care operators, all of them raking in
billions in tax monies quicker than FEMA in New Orleans, I would be the
happiest man alive! More on that later. In some tight
spots, especially against shifty lawyers and legislators, your splendid Spyderco knives can do no favors, I am sorry to confess.
After hearing jibes against my race for a quarter of an hour from these three
bloods, and their insulting anti-homeless-persons jokes too, they made no
movements closer to me nor any kind of physical threats towards me whatsoever.
The playful young men finally moved on and I took a deep breath afterwards, and
went back to sleep.
About an hour later, for no known reason I have yet entertained to account for
it, my inner and ancient reptilian brain stem became aroused into a state of
red alert! I opened my eyes just in time to see the same two Guyanese illegals
-- who many times before while in DC I had seen stealing people's unattended
bags near Union Station. Now in the pitch black darkness they were like jackals
on the prowl, with the morals of a starving leech.
The first incident with the harmless three black lads who had parked themselves
quite nearby me to smoke a joint earlier and who debated among themselves which
of them had made off with the most sexual conquests during the preceding week,
had left me feeling somewhat defensive, and for that reason I had fallen asleep
with my Spyderco knife, my Lady Knife, loosely held
in my right hand while sleeping flat on my back.
My eyes did not focus on the approaching forms in the darkness nearly as
quickly as my fears demanded, and when my pupils did adjust somewhat, I could
only see vague shapes in the blackness, and to my discomfort, I suddenly saw
the whites of four eyes, and then made out the scruffy mustaches and
rodent-like movements of the two attackers crawling commando style towards me
in the tall grass of the children's park.
The two bodies were only about 12 feet from me and seemed very confident of
their surprise element in their forthcoming assault on me, and they were hungry
indeed for my travel bag, which i was using as an oversized pillow.
I gripped my knife with intent to kill, sprang like an army recruit doing a
military sit-up going fast-forward, and sprang into an upright sitting
position. I opened the knife with a swift and final sidewise slicing motion,
swinging my right arm to lock in place the razor sharp jagged-edged knife blade,
ready for immediate action. I was suddenly aware of any and all deadly blows
that would be necessary to be delivered by me, without hesitation, should the
need arise.
This model of your Spyderco knives collection makes a
lovely loud snapping CLICK noise, when it springs all the way forward into
lock-and-battle mode, especially after having been sidewise whipped properly,
as taught in training.
The snap-and-click 'KLACK' of my Spyderco boomed like
a sonic blast in the quiet of the night, and directly into the ears of my would be killers. When they saw the rage in my face and
the glint of the open blade in the dim moonlight, their eyes bugged out of
their heads like large golf balls. They showed me a kind of epileptic seizure
condition resulting from their momentary shock, and then they fled in haste. My
travel bag was still at my side.
This enabled me to lay down my sleepy bedeviled head back onto my gear and to
catch a little more shut eye before taking the train to Philly in a few hours
to look for a reporter's gig.
But this was not the coup-de-grace of my Spyderco's
very high status as the most practical nemesis of my enemies! About that, I
will try to tell you now.
On November 7th, 2007, I entered the city of Tbilisi, Georgia, about dawn,
after an all night nearly 7 hour drive from the Black Sea town of
Batumi, a former gritty oil export seaport and train station for early Rothschild Dynasty oil holdings in Baku, Azerbaijan, to the east of Georgia on the Caspian Sea . Batumi was less than I had expected. Some
old and new oil storage terminals and a broken sewage system, with new casinos and uninviting 3 star hotels billed as 5-star by the crony capitalism President recently inserted by US State Department embassy officers in Tbilisi. Adjacent to Batumi is the prosaic seaside domestic Georgian family resort of Kobuleti, I am told mostly for old uncles drunkenly leering at their nieces and the types of people that go to Coney Island, USA. Maybe in the late 1800s when Baron Alphonse Rothschild built up the Batumi port and the railroad for his oil flow
from Baku to Batumi, and built a small downtown in old British village architecture on the grid street model, it was a much more fetching place. It did not hold me in late 2006, and
as I said, I headed straight for Tbilisi and what some Georgians were boasting was becoming a Bright Lights Big City.
There were soldiers and undercover federal Georgian enforcers against Abkhazian protestors, many of them just old Abkhazian men, and the many anti-Saakashvili Georgian protestors, in the center of Tbilisi in the early morning sun near the
imposing Parliamentary Building, bunched up in the old Tbilisi downtown streets together like
steaming horse dung heaps. Running at a gallop were Speznas
commandos, wearing Darth Vader looking helmets with plastic face shields and
trendy European gas masks. A woman in her 60s was lying on the pavement with
her teeth bashed out.
She was what the media, after the Presidential military crackdown that ensued, labelled, a violent anti-government agitator. A pool of
blood was circling her kindly but unconscious grey-haired head.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Water canons were
spraying people in near-freezing weather. A female New York Times journalist
was laying on the ground with her knees and elbows bloodied and scraped. It
looked like her camera and eyeglasses had been broken into many pieces.
I had to ask many people in English, Spanish, and in German, what was going on,
but nobody spoke any of these languages with me for quite some time. I was
listening to this new to my younger ears, to an extremely complex ancient
Georgian multiple consonant-challenging language, for
the first time ever. I could only say two or three phrases in Russian, a
language well understood here, so I had to judge events solely with my American
eyes.
A truncheon swung down near my head so I bobbed away from it and grabbed hold
of my Spyderco in my pocket. I did not know if the
man in the black ski mask and black sweater was a cop or a soldier or a secret
commando for the ruling government, perhaps funded by USAID, as was frequently rumoured on the internet.
Suddenly I heard English being spoken! There was a large group of State
Department looking Americans running for the Parliament doors! I overheard two
of them, who were running, from their nametags I could read Ned on the man's
and Fannie Mae on the woman's, discussing a secret upper floor of the
Parliament where they had completely concealed their operations within the
Georgian Parliament, a floor within the heart of the government which was open
only to them and their special guests, with an electronic key security card. I
could not make out the floor number in Parliament they were talking about, for
just then a man hurling a smoking tear gas canister back at the police shouted
out loudly near my head, "Shen, Kleo!".
Some more truncheons batted around my head and body and I ducked and swerved
out of the way, but a down-at-the-heels semi-gray-haired American expat
journalist, of some sort, was grasped from behind and held by many pairs of
hairy arms wrapped around him like chains. They next started to pummel him
mercilessly with their fists. His face was taking it badly, and then they
worked on his skull and abdomen until they were so utterly tired, that they
simply walked away from his almost comatose body and lit up cigarettes, like
after sex.
I met this same guy a few days later, swathed in bandages. He was an
anti-corruption anti-USAID agitator who had published many news features on malfeasance
all over the world, investigations on lost funds and misspent finances within
several USAID satellite projects. He said he was married to an Armenian. I told
him I was married only to my Spyderco knife, and I
highly recommended that he buy one soon, and have a honeymoon with it. From the
look on his face, as bruised as it was and as bumpy were the lumps crowning his
head, I figured he needed some kind of kick-ass hormonal catharsis.
We both looked up at a window high in the Parliament building where the
sunshine was reflecting off of it like a mirror, every so often, in the glass.
An American flag was proudly displayed in this window. An eager young Georgian
reporter from a local Tbilisi economic rights advocacy newspaper was trying to
capture by camera the frenzy of fighting in the streets between hundreds of
thousands of Georgians -- opposing their uncaring government -- and the heavily
armed government security forces. But the poor man could not get his photos
snapped. He was blocked by the statuesque figure of a Georgian woman. She told
me she worked for GEORGIA TODAY when I asked her. She was evidently a Muskie
graduate, guessing by the large IREX badge she had roped around her neck, and
she continued standing there after I moved away, like a compressed giant block
of phosphate fertilizer, saluting the American flag clearly seen in the
Parliamentary window. She was obstructing both the camera angle, and view, of
the local reporter. She seemed in a kind of Rapture, like they speak of in the
Second Coming of the post-Millenialists or among
Mormons.
Georgia Today is a pro-American policy English-language newspaper published in
Tbilisi with a U.S. manager who is a major investment hedge fund player in the old Russian Federation, in addition to being a former gold
mining director in Georgia, along with attractive Cayman Islands interests. The
newspaper prides itself on its unbiased coverage of news events, even though,
many weekly editions contain a full color insert on the glories of the Georgian
military build-up that has been using up tremendous amounts of American monies.
The struggling poor villagers and farmers and pensioners and teachers here get
virtually zip from it. The woman continued to remain standing there and
standing there, saluting the flag, and her unflinching patriotism nearly
brought crocodile tears to the eyes of the thousands of opposition combatants
around her. They were crying out to try to warn her that her skirt had been
ripped off in the chaos of the street activity around Parliament, and she
hadn't a clue that she was standing in her panties only, from her waist down. Poor Georgian 'gogo,' blinded by an
education abroad.
My bandaged new reporter friend quickly accepted my Spyderco.
Unfortunately, he rushed at a policeman just afterwards and swung the knife
down at his gun belt. The gun in its belt and holster dropped to the ground
like shit sodden trousers, down to his riot police boots. Everybody who had
been dancing the Kartuli Tango with the military
crackdown government personnel had a good laugh over this! The riot policeman
who had lost his revolver spluttered out a machine gun like battery of very
dirty and ugly Georgian cuss words. My eardrums nearly burst from the force of
so many ancient Colchi consonants strung together and
spit out by such a powerhouse of a compressor.
Another policeman ran over to my friend, still holding his new Spyderco knife with glee radiating out from his face, and
the riot cop kicked the Spyderco knife out of his
hand. A third riot policeman scooped up the knife from the ground with his
fingers and the three policemen then all climbed up quickly into a water canon
vehicle and drove away with the booty.
Luckily, the greying conspiracy-theory writer had not been arrested,
the soldiers overlooked him in their rush to get into the water canon vehicle.
"Hey Bud, did I tell you yet about the can of worms I opened up in
Pakistan, where the USAID folks got busted in foreign courts and smeared also,
in the world press, for siphoning off the greater share of their own financial
aid, I wrote the feature!" Ho, that was me man!
Sorry pal, no time I answered, I have to telephone my mother, its her birthday!
As I was leaving my full-throttle newly acquired friend, I turned back to wave
goodbye one last time, and just then from a distance I saw a Board member of
the local AmCham spitting in his face. I recognized the face from their monthly
oil pipeline-driven magazine photo opportunity spreads.
I looked for a phone booth but all I could find were vintage 1950s-looking old
Soviet aluminium box phones that would not accept any
coins correctly. So I went into a little post office, one of only three or four
in all of Tbilisi, and placed a call to the States.
My mom's phone had been disconnected. The recording warned me permanently
disconnected. I found that very strange and disturbing. Even though I seldom
visit her I called her frequently, and I would never miss calling her on her
birthday. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
I got lost and was in the hills behind Parliament, in Old Tbilisi. I walked
down a few hills with poor street signage and broken sidewalks, and then saw
the Central Elections Committee (CEC) building. A lot of thugs were standing
around in front of the door, like it was a Racing Bets outlet in New York City.
They looked similar to many of the unemployed men of Tbilisi, although dressed
a bit better and quite a bit smugger in attitude.
A huge dog that was homeless, broke from his pack of 7
or 8 other homeless dogs who had hungrily joined in the opposition, and lunged
at me. Perhaps he could smell Ned and Fannie Mae on me. I reached for my Spyderco, but of no help to me now, it was gone. The three
riot police had confiscated it from my bandaged anti-USAID agency pal,
"JS" everyone called him. I tried to kick the dog in the snout but he
was damned fast and mean, and he tackled me to the ground and chewed into the
back of my knee, into the tender flesh.
A lovely Georgian female doctor who was shouting loudly along with the
opposition forces, for better public health care systems and fundings for village and clinic free medicines here, helped me up. She had some rubbing alcohol in her
purse and pulled it out promptly and nearly completely cleaned my pretty deep
dog bite wound, in a jiffy.
She warned me that I should get anti-rabies injections as soon as possible. She
gave me her mobile phone number in case I needed help later, and I also learned
that she was unmarried, as we were saying goodbye.
As I was trying to find a cab driver who spoke some English, I turned around
and looked inside the window of the CEC elections office, once again.
Inside there was a man who resembled the president and he was shredding many voters names lists with my Spyderco
knife! I cannot be certain it was truly the president of Georgia, for I had
only been in Georgia for a day or two, but the hawkish eyes and the hunger for
military adventures were scrawled identically all over this man's face,
mirroring exactly what I had detected in the face of an unfamiliar president ranting
on television while I was in Batumi, the night before. Maybe all men in the
Georgian Parliament have that same demonic look in their eyes, and the face I
was staring at now from this angle was perhaps only one of the lesser MPs! One
thing is certain, it was not Tootsie, the current de
facto president until the new president shall be elected in transparent
border-to-border nationwide elections!
Whoever this man was, he was most certainly shredding documents that looked
very official. Stacks of them, and all papers crucial to the upcoming election,
on January 5th, when most people are saddled with bad hangovers just after New
Year's celebrations, and, just before the January 7th Orthodox Christmas family
tradition-bound holidays here. This strategic timing puts all voters in between
a rock and a hard place. I crept up as close as I could to the window without
being observed, and on some of the documents being made into early
election-victory confetti, I could make out vaguely the imprimatur of OSCE on the
publishings and correspondences being violated before
my very unbelieving eyes.
I next went to the Infectious Diseases hospital and after a long wait received
my anti-rabies injection, the first of several awaiting me. The wound was not
further cleaned nor dressed at the hospital, that would be my own personal duty
later, I had been told. For a poor country, I was greatly pleased, however.
Why? The French Verorab anti-rabies treatment I had
received was free, so.... something on a governmental level was working quite
well here, after all !
In the next few days military law was imposed, and all the television media
were shut down or raided, except for one pro-government television station that
played hours and hours of speech-making by the president, wearing his expensive
Dutch suits and colorful European ties.
Between the president's hours-long speeches, this station, the only one allowed
to air news during the State of Emergency, also showed long clips of happy
faced Georgian men wearing what looked like snappy American Army uniforms,
changed a wee bit, with sexy Georgian ladies swooning over these well equipped men. For the Glory of the
Country was the subliminal message, buried somewhere in all the glittering
heavy weapons featured in the propaganda pieces. "This is the
only job young men of Georgia, you will ever find (or as poorly paid bank
tellers!)!", was a greater reality that rang
out loudly like the Bells of Big Ben, to anyone not stone deaf.
I could not view even a single minute of cable news from the West during this
State of Emergency. CNN, BBC, and Euronews were flat
out. Gone. Not promising for the metro cable supplier,
Ayeti. Government censorship at its
meanest.
Perhaps you are interested in the pretty Georgian female doctor, and if i found
her again, and ask yourself did any romance spring up from our encounter. Yes,
I did telephone her, and we did meet at the university cafeteria a few times
later, but no, nothing significant further happened, and despite the rumours that many Georgian women are seeking a foreign
husband, I never married her, and she never asked. I, myself however, am indeed
anticipating my next Spyderco knife from your 2008
collection. But even more, meeting the ideal Georgian woman,
if there is one.
So, yes, I will stay here for a time in Tbilisi, where imported goods never
seem to reach anybody without going through an iron fingered "clean"
crime family with a tight grip on the traffic. That includes your Spyderco knives, and also just about everything else here,
including mobile phones, clothes, tools, food stuffs, shoes, furniture,
toiletries, you name it.
Could you please, Spyderco, start as soon as possible with discounted and
online Fedex delivery to Georgia? That would help your wonderful under 3-inch
blade products get across the borders and into the lucrative market of teenage
boys here. These boys and their parents are getting worked up over despotic
national Saakashvili governance and pushy Mormon & Jehovah Witness US
exported missionaries, and I think they would greatly appreciate your Spyderco 2008 collection during their Christmas and New
Year shopping, if for nothing else, just to possess some of your superb
craftsmanship! Thank you Spyderco!
Myself? You ask?
I will continue seeking a Georgian wife who could sincerely love an American
with low cash flow!
Sincerely,
MICKEY RORGK
***************
The ELECTRONIC WHIP, London
Strike Americans, STRIKE!
Strike, part 1, from 2000 EW
https://web.archive.org/web/20000815233252/http://www.pcug.co.uk:80/~whip/usa/strike.htm
Strike, part 2, from 2000 EW
https://web.archive.org/web/20000815233259/http://www.pcug.co.uk:80/~whip/usa/strike1.htm
R.MARUT: Highest Priest
of Global Dark Cultic Magic (in Mexico during young Castro's time plotting
there)?
https://www.angelfire.com/de/Boiishaft/B-Traven-Circle.html
GOD OF
WAR--Who will Put the Stake through this very old
Hebrew ("Habiru") vampire?
https://www.angelfire.com/de/Boiishaft/god-of-war.html
