Chapter 15 To read the story from the beginning, click on the cute picture of Iverson to the right of this post. The post won't make much sense if you don't know what came before.
"This is the hero who saved my life," said Trump, throwing his arms around Thomas like a long-lost brother, while Iverson hid from view in Thomas's pocket.
"But the terrorists . . . Where is everyone?" The rest of the National Guardsmen were dumbfounded.
So, like a dummy, Trump had called out the National Guard, the Blue Angels, the NY SWAT team, etc., etc., for no good reason. How embarrassing! "Gone," he said gesturing into the air and shaking his head. "When this brave man broke into the room, they knew they had lost, and they blew themselves up. Their remains lie buried somewhere in all this debris." You have to admit it. The guy can act.
Shortly thereafter, Thomas walked out of the penthouse with Iverson still in his pocket.
"Shall we grab a brewsky or two?" suggested Thomas.
"Certainment," (Certainly) said Iverson.
Several brewskies later, Iverson became quite talkative. "In my family before a boy can truly call himself a man, he must go alone into the woods, there to wait for a vision - a sign that points out his way in the world and the meaning to his existence. But I have failed as a seeker of wisdom. I have seen no vision, and I long in vain for home - for my home - for my Canadian trees. They stand so tall you can climb until your head touches the Heavens. And the Rockies never lose their snowy hats, even on the hottest summer day, and when the sun sets it's as if the sky has exploded with wine and berries. And the birds - the geese and hawks and eagles and songbirds - they're all my friends and I know them and I honk and whistle and chirp to them, and when we ride the breezes together, it's as if the earth is playing catch with us and we are her beanbags.
"And mon pere, et ma mere," (my mother and father) Here Iverson blew his nose loudly on his shirt sleeve. "My family, my home!"
Weeping softly, Iverson broke into song. "Oh, Canada, my home and native land."
Still a work of fiction.
"This is the hero who saved my life," said Trump, throwing his arms around Thomas like a long-lost brother, while Iverson hid from view in Thomas's pocket.
"But the terrorists . . . Where is everyone?" The rest of the National Guardsmen were dumbfounded.
So, like a dummy, Trump had called out the National Guard, the Blue Angels, the NY SWAT team, etc., etc., for no good reason. How embarrassing! "Gone," he said gesturing into the air and shaking his head. "When this brave man broke into the room, they knew they had lost, and they blew themselves up. Their remains lie buried somewhere in all this debris." You have to admit it. The guy can act.
Shortly thereafter, Thomas walked out of the penthouse with Iverson still in his pocket.
"Shall we grab a brewsky or two?" suggested Thomas.
"Certainment," (Certainly) said Iverson.
Several brewskies later, Iverson became quite talkative. "In my family before a boy can truly call himself a man, he must go alone into the woods, there to wait for a vision - a sign that points out his way in the world and the meaning to his existence. But I have failed as a seeker of wisdom. I have seen no vision, and I long in vain for home - for my home - for my Canadian trees. They stand so tall you can climb until your head touches the Heavens. And the Rockies never lose their snowy hats, even on the hottest summer day, and when the sun sets it's as if the sky has exploded with wine and berries. And the birds - the geese and hawks and eagles and songbirds - they're all my friends and I know them and I honk and whistle and chirp to them, and when we ride the breezes together, it's as if the earth is playing catch with us and we are her beanbags.
"And mon pere, et ma mere," (my mother and father) Here Iverson blew his nose loudly on his shirt sleeve. "My family, my home!"
Weeping softly, Iverson broke into song. "Oh, Canada, my home and native land."
Still a work of fiction.
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