Second That Emotion

Second Thoughts and Last Chances

Latikia

Edited by

The Old Fart

(Author’s NOTE: Alias X has my permission to post this story on other sites.)

Ancient religion glorified only men who were endowed with worldly glory, such as generals of armies and rulers of republics; our religion has glorified humble and contemplative men rather than active ones. Furthermore, it has established as the supreme good humility, abjection, and contempt for human affairs, while ancient religion defined it as grandeur of spirit, strength of body, and all the other things likely to make men most vigorous. If it is true that our religion also requires strength, it is the kind of strength that makes you willing to suffer rather than to undertake bold deeds. So this way of living, then, seems to have rendered the world weak and handed it over as prey to wicked men, who can safely manage it when they see that most men think more of going to Heaven by enduring their injuries than by avenging them.

Nicolo Machiavelli

Discourses, Book II

(Based on an untrue story)

Chapter 1

August ?? 2004

“Tell me a little about yourself, Doctor.”

“Why?” I asked the Voice.

It came, I supposed, from a face…but it was a face I couldn’t see. The bandages wrapped over my eyes and around the crown of my head kept me blind and in the dark. Was it a male or female voice? I couldn’t be sure, but from the speech patterns and word choices I thought it was most likely male. Where the ideas about speech patterns and word choices came from were as much a mystery to me as the identity of the Voice. There was far too much I didn’t know about my current circumstances, but of all the questions I had the one that nagged at me most was the identity of the Voice.

“Think of it, Doctor, as a way to break the ice; a way for us to get to know one another a little better; a way to keep from having large quantities of electricity sent coursing thru the more tender and sensitive parts of your body.”

“Jeezus, you really are a fun date, aren’t you?” I snorted sarcastically. “Just how many times do we have to go thru this amusing little song and dance? I’ve been wheeled in here four times so far and you always start off with the same damn dumb line. So for the fourth time, I’m not talking to someone I can’t see. If you want answers, I suggest that you come out from behind your microphone, remove these damn bandages and look me in the eye. Then we’ll talk.”

“Come now, Doctor…I’m not asking for a blood sample; just a little polite conversation. Where were you born? Are you married? Do you have children? What are their names?”

I felt a sudden aching pain in the chest when he/she/it asked those last three questions.

“What colleges did you attend? What was your major? Who were some of your instructors? What professional organizations do you belong to? Doctor, I’m not asking for classified information, just a little polite chit-chat between old friends.”

“I think I’d remember any old friend of mine who sounded like their vocal chords were being synthesized on the cheap.”

“How very droll. You are a stubborn man, Doctor. I, on the other hand, am an extremely patient individual. Eventually, you will tell me what I want to know.”

How fuckin’ melodramatic could you get? I sighed slightly and tried to get comfortable on the unpadded wooden chair. I took a deep breath and my nose was filled once more with the pungent scent of industrial strength antiseptic. The smell triggered a brief mental image of rows of hospital beds. Curious.

“You might try asking me about what it is you really want to know, rather than boring me to death with idle chit-chat…hoping that I’ll let something slip. But until that glorious day arrives I suggest that you bite me!”

Cold laughter filled my ears. There was nothing human about the Voice. Metallic and clipped, sharp edged, unemotional and absolutely artificial.

“Very well…just this once we’ll skip the chit-chat and get right to the point. Tell me about Lucifer.”

“You’re kidding, right? That’s what you want to know?”

“Yes Doctor, that’s what I want to know. Where is Lucifer?”

“In Hell, I would imagine.”

There was a long, drawn out, very prolonged silence. An angry, sullen, irritated absence of sound.

“That is, of course, completely dependent on the existence of either Hell or a devil…and I suppose God too, since God is supposed to be the one who chucked his ass there in the first place.”

The electronic silence continued for several more seconds.

“Take him back to his room. And Doctor, do NOT, under any circumstances, remove those bandages. We want to give your eyes every chance to heal. We’ll continue this discussion when you’re feeling more cooperative.”

Unseen hands, five pairs I think, hauled me to my feet, lifted me up and placed me on what I supposed was a hospital type gurney. I was strapped down and rolled out of the room. The sound of a heavy metal door banging shut rang loudly in my ears, blending with the dull squeak from one of the gurney’s wheels.

I had no idea where I was or how long I’d been there.

I hadn’t had the bandages off since I’d been where ever it was I was, was handcuffed whenever my keepers planned on moving me from my room to some other location and no one talked to me or replied to my questions…with the exception of the electronically artificial Voice. I was effectively isolated and alone.

My handlers were silent as shadows while the gurney rolled along. I counted silently to myself and tried to tell if we turned or looped, trying to plot out a map of the place in my mind. I had no intention of remaining a prisoner. Although how I was going to effect an escape was anyone’s guess.

I didn’t mind the daily, or at least I assumed they were daily, exchanges with the disembodied Voice. It was one way to keep track of time. As far as the questioning went, he/she/it could ask till hell froze over; I wasn’t going to tell them a fuckin’ thing.

I couldn’t.

The Voice insisted on referring to me as Doctor, so I took it for granted that I was a doctor, but doctor of what I couldn’t even begin to guess. I couldn’t remember much of anything that happened before the visits with the Voice began.

There’d been an accident of some kind…that much I was fairly sure of. It explained the rather large lump on the right side of my head, hidden beneath the long thick mop of hair on my head, the ends of which hung down nearly to my elbows.

I had no idea how old I was or what I looked like, apart from the long hair. I didn’t feel old, but that didn’t really mean much. With the exception of the lump, and a constant blinding pain behind my eyes, I felt pretty good. It took a major exercise of will-power not to be constantly pacing the length of the little room I was kept in. I felt a tremendous need for movement of some kind…any kind. Running, pacing…anything, as long as it was movement; but I limited myself to sitting or lying on the cot.

The Voice asked me questions about myself, my life, my family. Four times we’d gone thru the same routine and every single time I’d responded in pretty much the same way, by refusing. I’d have been delighted to tell the Voice to fuck off---that there was no way I was ever going to answer its questions. If only I had some kind of idea which answers I needed to protect.

I had nothing. Not a hint, not a clue. Apart from being called Doctor and having long hair, I didn’t know a damn thing about myself. Oh, sure…I knew I was a man and I knew I had a baritone voice. But no name, no address, not even a vague memory of what my own face looked like. Absolutely nothing.

But for some perverse reason I was unwilling to admit this to the Voice. Pure gut instinct probably…some innate sense of self-preservation. Obviously it wanted something in particular from me, but if it even suspected that I didn’t have access to that information, there’d be no reason to keep me alive. So, instead, I maintained a façade of stubborn resistance, stalling for all I was worth, in the faint hope that it would let something useful slip out. We were both playing a game of wait and see…but it had the advantage of knowing what it was what it wanted to discover. All I could do was guess. At least that had been the case…until this last visit. Something had finally slipped…Lucifer…but what did it mean? It was most likely some kind of code word or designation for something or someone that was important, but why was it important? And why did the Voice think I knew what it was?

I’d memorized the route from my room/cell to the room where the Voice and I engaged in our daily duel. At least I thought it was daily. Could just as easily have been nightly, or twice daily or who knows how often. There was no reliable way for me to estimate the passage of time, short of counting my own heartbeats. I couldn’t even judge by how often I was fed, because I’d only been fed twice since regaining consciousness and I had an odd feeling that I’d been awake for more than 36 hours, but how much more…?

My transport crew came to a stop and I waited while the door to my room/cell was unlocked, then the gurney was rolled inside, my restraints were released and I was assisted off the rolling table onto my feet. I heard the gurney being rolled out as I was assisted to the narrow cot, where I sat down. My handcuffs were not, for the first time I could recall, removed after I was ensconced within my cell. I heard the sounds of at least four sets of feet scurry out and a heavy door slammed shut with a dull thumping finality.

I wondered briefly about the handcuffs but eventually gave up trying to figure out why this time should be different from the others. I listened intently for several seconds. Nothing. I was alone.

Alone again. Just me and my thoughts…me and my imagination…me and the voices in my head.

At the conclusion of the very first futile interview, after I’d been returned to my little cell and left alone (though I was probably being monitored), I’d stretched out on the cot and tried to sleep. That’s when I first started hearing voices in my head.

They were faint and garbled to begin with. My first thought was that they were somehow related to the skull splittingly painful ache on, and in, the side of my head. But gradually they got louder and clearer, and once I could make out their words it became apparent that they were talking to me. My second thought was that it was all part and parcel of the Voice’s plan to get me to talk.

I scrapped that notion when I realized that these voices didn’t seem to want me to converse with them…they wanted me to listen.

My third thought was that I was either out of my mind or quickly getting there.

After my third visit with the Voice I simply decided to ignore the voices in my head and hope for the best.

I lay down on the cot for the fourth time, got as comfortable as I could, and tried to sleep.

‘Why do you put up with this shit?’ he asked me.

“What? Who’s there? Who are you?”

I couldn’t see anyone. All around me was absolute darkness. I was standing on something (I could feel solidity beneath my feet) but I couldn’t tell what it was or how big. I remained very still and tried not to move my feet too much.

‘Being held captive like an animal in a zoo. There’s no way they can hold us, if we don’t want to be held.’

“What the hell are you talking about? Who’s we and how can we stop them from holding us?”

‘Who’s we? We are we. What’s with you? You act like…’

‘Like he has no idea what you’re talking about? Like he has no idea who he is, or who you are?’ the second voice chimed in, confusing me even more than I already was. The second voice was very much like the first one, but lighter, brighter, less strident and imperious. They both sounded hauntingly familiar.

There was a prolonged pause, which was followed by a crackling, static discharge kind of sound, but louder and much more powerful.

‘We are in deep shit.’ the first voice said.

‘Yeah, about chin high and rising.’ the second replied.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on here?” I asked, a little tersely.

There was a moment of deep, mind numbing silence, broken abruptly by more and louder static discharges that were then followed quickly by brilliant flashes of blue-white lightning bolts that lit up the boundless dark surrounding me. For a brief instant I saw the outline of two shapes.

‘We shouldn’t be separated like this.” the first voice said.

‘No.’ replied the second.

‘So, why are we?’

‘Traumatic Disassociation I would imagine.’

‘Well, that explains everything…clear as mud, thanks very fuckin’ much! Now how ‘bout trying again in English.’

The second voice sighed heavily. ‘It’s not that simple…I wish it were. I think it’s a combination of things. First there’s all the stress and emotional trauma at home. Second would be work related stress and third would be the cracks on the head from the collision. He doesn’t want to remember…not them, not us, not himself.’

‘He’s gonna get us all killed!’

‘You think I don’t know that? You think I’m happy about it?’

There was a second heavy, martyred sigh. ‘So how do we get him to remember? Before we end up pulling a Hoffa?’

‘Show him what he doesn’t want to see.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No, I’m not. We force him to confront what he’s suppressing…which at this point is pretty much his entire life.’

‘If he’s been working overtime to put it out of his mind, he sure as hell ain’t gonna like having us shove it back in.’

‘Probably not…hell, who are we kidding? He’s gonna hate it and be madder ‘n hell once he does remember. But considering our present situation, being that pissed off could actually be a good thing. In any event, I think it’s our only practical option.’

I was getting more and more irritated the longer their conversation went on. Mostly from being ignored, I suppose, but listening to the two of them talking back and forth had started a pool of sour bile forming in the pit of my stomach, and the burning sensation it caused was increasing with every word.

“Who are you people?” I demanded, sounding to my own ears like a petulant child.

There was another prolonged sigh followed by the static sound and flashing branches of electricity.

‘Why can’t he see us? He never had any trouble seeing me before.’

‘He doesn’t want to see us. We’re going to have to do all the work; make him see us as well as everything else.’

‘Terrific…just fuckin’ terrific.’

‘Would it kill you to show just one tiny iota of compassion?’

‘Remember who you’re talking to, Sunshine.’

‘Sorry, I forgot myself for a second. Look, think of it as an act of self preservation. It won’t hurt so much that way.’

‘Wise-ass!’

My headache increased in size and intensity, becoming even more painful.

“Get the fuck out of my HEAD goddamnit!” I bellowed at the top of my lungs.

Silence followed for a count of ten. Then…

…laughter. Low, devoid of all mirth, hollow, coarse and cold…but it sounded human. All too human.

‘That might have worked thirteen years ago, but those days are long gone. You know what, how ‘bout I just take over? I’m pretty damn sure I could do a better job of running things anyway…and I know I can get us out of this mess.’

“Nobody’s taking over anything!” I snarled and lashed out in the direction of the first voice with all the burning pain that was brewing in my belly and my head.

Light flared up all around me, bright, brilliant, blinding greenish light that illuminated, just barely, the figures that stood no more than an arms length in front of me.

‘Can I motivate, or what?’ the first voice said with a chilling chuckle. It came from the mouth of the figure on my left, a tall, blacker-than-black shape with flickering flames for eyes, lips and tongue. He looked me in the eye and grinned.

‘Interesting use of reverse psychology. How did you know it would work?’ the second voice asked. It belonged to a figure that could have been the polar opposite of the first; white and gleaming where the first was dark and murky, except he looked more human, with an expressive face complete with pale gray eyes and long white hair that hung down nearly to his elbows. But for all that he looked more human than the first figure, he wasn’t, not really. His skin was so pale that I could see the pulsing veins that carried blood from his chest to his head throbbing on either side of his thick muscular neck. In fact, he was so pale I thought I could actually see thru him. And for all the softness of his voice and words, there was a cold, harsh and severe cast to his facial features that told me this was not someone I wanted mad at me.

‘Stupid question. I’ve been around a while…I know where the buttons are and how to push ‘em.’

“Who…what are you?” I asked, moving my stare from one to the other and back again.

They looked at one another and shrugged in a manner that I found uncomfortably familiar.

The lighter half of the duo spoke first. ‘The answer to that question is not a simple one, but the simplistic answer is that we are you. Parts of your mind, parts of your body, parts of your skills and abilities…we’re part of what make you…you.’

‘Look at it like this,’ the dark figure said, and jabbed the thumb of his right hand against his chest, ‘I’m all your less socially acceptable personality traits, and he,’ he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bright figure, ‘…he’s the logical third. It’s all very Freudian.’

“It looks more like Boolean logic or oriental philosophy to me.” I said. “One of you is a NOT and the other is a NOR…either that or you’re the two halves of a Yin/Yang symbol.”

The light figure nodded his head at me. ‘Boolean works; Yin/Yang…not so much. After all, there are three of us; and we are you, whatever symbology you prefer to utilize.’

“Fine, whatever…you two are me. Who am I?”

The dark figure grinned and lively tongues of dancing flame flickered around his non-existent lips. ‘I’m so glad you asked. You…and by extension we…are Ike Blacktower.’

I ran the name around in my mind for a few moments and then tried it in my mouth.

“Ike Blacktower…” I let the sounds fall from my lips slowly, tasting their flavor and trying to get a feel for the texture I got from saying the name.

I shrugged. “Sorry, doesn’t ring any bells.”

‘You just recently turned thirty six; you work part time as a psychologist…which is why your interrogator calls you Doctor. You have a PhD and specialize in abnormal psychology. You work at the CIA full time as the Deputy Director of Internal Security.’

“What am I, some kind of over educated government cop?”

‘Hardly. The title is deceptive. What your department actually does is hunt for spies within the CIA. You became head of the Department in 1998 when Dr. Wills, your predecessor and mentor, retired.’

I could barely contain the smirk that was trying desperately to break out across my face.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

‘Does it feel like I’m kidding?’

Huh?

“Does what feel like your kidding?” I asked, confused and wary.

‘Look me in the eye…look hard and tell me if it feels like I’m misleading or lying to you.’

I was suddenly very afraid. Cold shivers ran up and down my spine, sweat broke out across my forehead and under my arms. I had no idea what he was suggesting, but I knew deep down in my bones that I didn’t want any part of it.

“No…that’s okay, I’ll take your word for it.” I stammered.

The dark figure’s head erupted with flames that wreathed it with a dancing copper and crimson corona. ‘Fuckin’ puss.’ he hissed, sounding like steam leaking from a boiling kettle.

‘Go easy…I told you he didn’t want to remember. His subconscious is going to do its best to protect him. We’ll just have to be patient and persistent.’

‘I thought we were his subconscious. Anyway, patience is not one of my strong suits.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know. And we’re part of his subconscious, not all of it. We’re more closely related to the intellect. His instinctive Will is the part that’s working to protect him. What we have to do is trigger his talent. It’s the one thing that can quickly override his subconscious.’ The lighter figure turned from the darker and faced me again. ‘Look, can you accept that your name is Ike Blacktower?’

I nodded my agreement.

‘Okay, good. This next bit is going to be a little harder to swallow, but it’s also true. Physically, you look pretty much the same as I do…without the gleam or glow. What you’re seeing right now is nothing more than a manifestation of your imagination. You are six foot four and weigh two hundred and fifty seven pounds.’

I shrugged. “Okay, so I’m big and have long white hair.”

‘And your skin is almost completely lacking in pigmentation. A chromosome or two to the left and you’d have been an albino.’

I could feel my eyebrows climbing higher up my forehead.

“I’m some kind of freak?”

‘You don’t much like people using that term, even though, on occasion, you think of yourself that way. People who fear you also use the word, when they think you can’t hear them.’

“Why would anyone be afraid of me? Oh, right…I’m big and a spy hunter for the CIA.”

‘Even worse than that, Chuckles.’ the dark figure chuckled. ‘You’ve been taking out high ranking members of the government; bureaucrats and diplomats from our own and other people’s governments. Just imagine how many friends that’s made you over the years.’

“What do you mean, ‘taking out’?” I asked hesitantly.

The dark figure grinned widely, the flames from its mouth flicked about like serpent tongues. ‘You know exactly what I mean. We don’t have a lot of faith in the legal system, so spies and corrupt government officials generally get the same treatment. Most get doubled, if we feel their handlers trust ‘em enough. As for the rest…well, sometimes, when you’re feeling particularly compassionate, they suffer mental breakdowns and have to be committed to a rubber room for their own safety. Usually they just die of what appear to be natural causes.’

I started shaking again, spikes of icy fear stabbed my heart and lanced thru my guts.

“Why would the CIA…no, wait a minute…I seem to remember reading somewhere that the CIA isn’t allowed to operate within US borders. There’s no way they’d allow me to go around killing or imprisoning members of the government…anyone’s government. And as for spies within the CIA…when they catch someone doing that there’s always a big media stink and a huge trial…”

‘Which always ends with the CIA looking stupid and ineffective and eventually they wind up with their budget getting slashed by Congress as a result. And it’s really hard to recruit top talent when you’re a laughingstock.’ the dark figure jumped in and finished my thought. ‘But think…use your head for something other than a place to hang a hat. Wouldn’t it be in their best interest, in the best interest of the government as a whole, if there were never any spies, never any messy trials, and never any butchered budgets? Wouldn’t it be in everyone’s best interest if all government departments could be cleaned of spies with no muss, no fuss and as little publicity as humanly possible?’

“Sure it would…but that’s not possible. Is it? How could anyone be sure they’d caught a spy? How could you ever be absolutely sure you hadn’t made a mistake? No politician in their right mind would ever allow someone else the kind of authority necessary to operate in the way you’re talking about? You’re talking about secret police for god’s sake!”

‘That individual would have to be pretty fuckin’ special, yeah?’ the dark figure asked.

‘Someone with no political ambition, who wasn’t interested in lining their own pockets and didn’t need or want public acknowledgment for the job they did; someone with a strong sense of justice, personal honor and rock solid morals. Someone that couldn’t be bought or corrupted yet could always be trusted to do the right thing; no matter how difficult or unpleasant the right thing might be. Someone who could tell, with absolute certainty, whether or not a person was lying or telling the truth. Someone willing to act on that knowledge and then carry the emotional burden for those actions.’ the light figure recited. His eyes, pale and intense, bored into my own and I felt a flashing sensation and, just for an instant, I thought I could see out thru his eyes, feel his brightly shining body around me and taste his emotions. Thankfully, the moment passed even quicker than it had come.

“You’re not describing a person. You’re talking about a telepathic, empathic, cold hearted, unfeeling, amoral automaton.”

‘Well, that explains some of the disassociation.’ the light figure muttered aside to the darker.

The dark figure turned to the light. ‘Start at the beginning and let’s get a move on. I like him even less like this then I did the way he was back in the 90’s.’

‘The beginning…’ the light figure said, nodding his head. The pair of them moved towards me and stood on either side, shoulder to shoulder with me.

‘Watch…just watch.’ the bright figure said.

Before my eyes the surrounding darkness faded away to reveal, like the beginning of a movie, a wide shot of trees and early morning mist covered fields. Four figures with rifles were standing out away from a large cluster of trees; three dark skinned men and a tall redheaded boy with skin the color of new snow. The boy was taking aim and preparing to fire at something.

I scanned the image quickly and spotted a deer off in the distance. A long way away from the group of hunters.

Something peculiar happened. I felt it. Cold shivers ran up and down my spine and my stomach twisted itself in knots. I grew apprehensive and sweat broke out across my forehead. The muscles in my neck and shoulders stiffened and I hunched slightly, as if anticipating a hit.

I could feel the boy’s eagerness and exhilaration, while at the same time I felt the deer’s wariness and mistrust.

Then the boy’s rifle fired…

The man swept his eyes across the rows of monitors, never resting on one for more than a second or two before moving on to the next. From time to time he would pause and jot down a quick note on the yellow tablet his left forearm rested on, the mechanical pencil darting across the page like a hummingbird in flight, and then his hand would stop moving as his eyes resumed their journey.

The room in which he sat was fairly small and crowded, taken up by the long crescent shaped desk, the rows of monitors and screens, all the wires and cables that extended out behind them and the banks of computers and machines that they fed off. The lighting was dim and the temperature was low, barely more than sixty five degrees.

The door behind him swung open abruptly and a tall, muscular figure stood framed and backlit. The man at the desk didn’t turn around.

“How’s he doing?” the silhouetted figure inquired.

“I’m beginning to think the man’s not all there.” the man at the desk said, never taking his eyes off the monitors.

“What makes you think so?” the figure in the doorway asked.

“Well, about ten minutes ago he started talking to himself.”

“He say anything interesting?”

“He’s mumbling and sub-vocalizing most of the time. The microphones we have in there aren’t sensitive enough to pick out more than a word or two now and again. Funny thing is, it sounds like more than one person doing the talking. Some sort of argument…that much I can tell.”

“His medical file suggests potential mental instability. Possibly post traumatic stress syndrome. He was a soldier in the first Gulf War.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Though from what I’ve observed thus far he doesn’t strike me as the type who stresses easily.”

“You’re quite right, he doesn’t. But push the right buttons, tweak the right strings at just the right time, and anyone can stress out and snap.”

“You haven’t had much luck so far in cracking him.” the man behind the monitors observed.

“No, and I’m not happy about that. So be very careful about tweaking my strings.”

The man at the desk flexed his narrow, but muscular shoulders spastically; the hand holding the pencil then began scribbling again briefly.

“Sorry, wasn’t my intention.”

“The hell it wasn’t. You just continue monitoring his activities and physical condition. I’ll handle the mind games. Don’t forget that our Principals are nowhere near as patient as I am, and far less forgiving. They expect results and they expect them quickly.”

“Sorry. So what’s the next step then? Isolation and sleep deprivation don’t appear to be having much of an effect on this guy. Apart from talking to himself.”

“We’ll give him another couple of hours alone. Then haul him out and we’ll try again. Sleep deprivation and hunger should start to wear on him before long. If not, there are more direct methods…and as a last resort we always have the drugs.”

“What if he can’t remember? He gives every indication of having temporary amnesia. And that skull fracture is certainly real enough.”

“We’ll make him remember.”

“It would help if we had some kind of leverage. Family members, loved ones…something.”

“Don’t try to teach your grandmother to suck eggs.” the silhouetted figure warned. “Over the last five years we’ve tried to access his family on four separate occasions. The first two I sent in were found wandering the streets, completely insane. They had to be institutionalized and still show no signs of recovering. The last two vanished without a trace.”

“I guess we’ll just have to make do then. What happens once you have what you’re after?”

“Then we kill the bastard and plant him so deep even God won’t know where to look.”

“Why bother? He hasn’t seen any of us, has no idea where he is. Why not just let him go? He can’t do us any harm.”

The man in the doorway laughed; a hollow, empty, mirthless sound.

“Don’t kid yourself. He may not look it, but this guy is a stone killer. And even assuming that he has amnesia right now, once he does remember, he’ll put two and two together. He’ll know it’s me.”

“You two know each other?”

“We’ve met. Long time ago.”

“Not drinking buddies, I take it.”

“Hardly. He swore that if he ever saw me again I’d be dead. I believed him then and I believe it now. So the second I can verify the information we get from him, the very second I know it’s true…he dies. Fast. No gloating, no taunting and no soliloquizing. We put a bullet in his head, bag him, plant him deep and that will be last anyone ever hears of Ike Blacktower.”