Beginning of Edge of Darkness; Book One of the Bankster Chronicles . . .

Following is the beginning of Edge of Darkness; Book One of the Bankster Chronicles.

Book One and Two combined represent two years of research and writing, full time. I think it's an important story . . .

I intend to add one more post, continuing the beginning of the story. But please know that I intend not to post beyond that point.

If you want to read the complete novel, it's on Amazon at $13.99 (list) and $3.99 for the Kindle version. I'm also willing to provide signed copies for $12.50 per book, plus shipping - just contact me directly via PM.

EDGE OF DARKNESS
Book One of
The Bankster Chronicles

By Dave Jewett



EDGE OF DARKNESS
Book One of
The Bankster Chronicles
Copyright (c) 2012 by David T. Jewett. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, or except where permitted by law.

Certain public figures – both individuals and corporations – are represented herein. In representing these figures, the Author has, wherever possible, shown these figures according to information recorded in public records. Where the Author depicts private conversations and/or behavior by public figures, the Author hereby states that these depictions are fiction, and are derived solely from the Author’s imagination. Aside from those public figures depicted herein, all other characters and corporations are fiction, and are a figment of the Author’s imagination – and any resemblance to real people or corporations is coincidental.

DISCLAIMER: The Author hereby declares that he is not an investment advisor; and that nothing contained herein should be construed as investment advice. For investment advice, the reader is encouraged to seek a competent investment advisor.

www.banksterchronicles.com

ISBN-13: 978-1479125760
ISBN-10: 1479125768


PREFACE

This first edition was completed in August, 2012. For historical fiction that chronicles contem-porary events, this is important for the reader to know – because it provides a ‘marker’, if you will, in the annals of history.

As of this writing, the bankers are attempting to extract ever larger ‘austerity’ from the European people. This means, simply, that the bankers demand that people work harder for less, so that the bankers may receive their interest on money already borrowed. Of course, the bankers conjured the loan principle from nothing – this stands in stark contrast to the debtors (the people), who must create the interest payments from their own blood, sweat, and tears.

The people of Iceland faced a similar demand for ‘austerity’. But instead of continuing with the bankers’ paper money scheme, the people tossed the bankers out of Iceland. Since that time, Ice-land’s economy has improved dramatically – and shows that the people benefit when the economy is based on a sound currency and the government enforces law against the fraud and theft of the banksters.

As of this writing, the U.S. is still engaged in multi-trillion dollar wars, even while ravaged by inflation, deflation, unemployment, and old peoples’ loss of savings and income. The official U.S. unemployment rate is about 8.5%. But the unofficial rate (calculated using methods previously employed by the U.S. Federal government) is about 23%. The question remains – when will the bankers demand their pound of flesh from the American people?

This is the first of two books that chronicle the events leading up to the Dollar's destruction. In addition to these two novels, I anticipate writing four more novels that will chronicle various periods throughout history – stories about the ruthless bankers and their quest for greater power, and about the people who stood against them. Much of this history has remained obscure for decades, if not centuries.

And so, my intention with these writings is simple: to bring the characters of the period to life, and allow them to tell their story. By doing this, we will see history as it unfolds through the eyes of real people.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that these stories also provide a basic foundation in money, and how it works.

I sincerely hope and wish that you enjoy the story before you.

--- Dave Jewett
 






ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I do not know how anyone trying a first novel can do it without sympathy, help, and faith of friends. No one who has tried has had better friends than I.


INTRODUCTION

The U.S. Dollar is a paper currency. It is conjured from nothing and backed by nothing – and yet it is the reserve currency of the world.

History teaches us that all paper currencies die. And as a paper currency, the Dollar will also die. But what does this mean, for each of us, and for the world? This is the question that has yet to be answered; for not in recorded history has the world ever experienced the death of the world's reserve currency!

This is the story of the Dollar's death. It's about the real world - the real world of banking and how it affects each of us in our daily lives. Unfortunately, the real world does not always lend itself to a simple plotline – and so this story is necessarily complex.

The story remains untold, and for several reasons:

• It pulls disparate subplots and events from a cross section of society, weaving them into a coherent whole. Most people may be aware of specific events from their own knowledge and experience; but may not tie in events from other (unseen) places.

• The story is about money and bankers. It is an arcane subject and considered (wrongly, in my opinion) boring.

• But the biggest reason this has not yet been told is that, with any war, the winners write the history books. And make no mistake. We are in a war – a war that's been fought nonstop for centuries. It is a war not just for power, or control, or territory . . . it is a war for humanity's soul. And so far, the bankers have been the 'winners'.

In the telling of this story, I chose to fairly and honestly represent the events of history based on the preponderance of facts available at this time. For example, circa 1650AD, the King of England really did confiscate personal wealth held by the Mint. Closer to home, JFK did indeed order the U.S. withdrawal from Vietnam; and the U.S. Congress did indeed hold a closed session (circa March, 2008) where they talked about the destruction of the U.S. economy and how they would save themselves and their families. Further, the events surrounding the Liberty Dollar are a matter of recent history, and are shown by the various press releases contained herein.

Most of the characters are fictional, with the exception of the people surrounding the Commodities Futures Trading Commission's attempt at regulating the derivatives markets and the LTCM (Long Term Capital Management) meltdown. Likewise, the investment bank, AB Jorday, is a fictional entity.

Cast of Characters

Episode 1

Henri Aleman - Proprietor of Olde Skippers Pub.
William Martin - Dry goods proprietor.
Colin Martin (child) - Son of William Martin.
Joseph Crispin - Respected land owner.
Ian Williams - Goldsmith.

Episode 2

Aaron Silverstein - Goldsmith.
Jason Silverstein - Aaron's son.
Arthur Griffin - Dry goods proprietor.
Meredith Griffin - Arthur's wife.
Mary Griffin - Arthur's daughter.
Jonathan Merchant - Peasant.
Nathan Goldman - Goldsmith.
Colin Martin (adult) - Bookkeeper and historian.

Episode 3

Lord Basil - Ultra wealthy banker.
Lord George - Basil's father.
Lady Jessica - Basil's mother.
Lady Diana - Basil's cousin.
Swenson - Basil's butler.

Daniel Elsbach - Lord Basil's strategist.
Dwayne Jeffrey - Rare coin and precious metals dealer.
Patricia Jeffrey - Dwayne's wife.
James Jeffrey - Dwayne's son.

Joshua Lindt - Commodities trader for AB Jorday.
Stephanie Walker - Joshua's administrative assistant.
Dave Palmer - Commodities trader.

Kirk Kincaid - Expediter and hatchet man.
Buck Fuller - Kirk's right-hand man.
George Hammond - Owner and operator of Metalworks, Inc.
Brandon Payne - Owner and operator of Rheingold Fabrication.
Bailey Keating - Administrator for Jacob-Mortenson.

Bill Ford - Former engineer and Freedom Dollar Partner.
Brandy West - Former banker and Freedom Dollar Partner.
Murray Hofstadler - Chief Engraver of the Golden Mint.

Alan Greenspan - Chairman of the Federal Reserve (by himself).
Robert Rubin - Secretary of the Treasury (by himself).
Lawrence Summers - Deputy Secretary of the Treasury (by himself).
Arthur Levitt - Chairman of the SEC (by himself).
Brooksley Born - Chairman of the CFTC (by herself).
Jim Martin - Chief Economist at the Federal Reserve.

Joe Miller - Just an average 'Joe'.
Jane Miller - Just an average 'Jane'.

Mark Shannon - Aide to congressman.
Sheryl Barclay - Aide to senator.

Tim - Survivor.
Squirt - Survivor.
Jim - Survivor.

. . . And a cast of thousands . . .



 











For the people of the world. May they throw off the yoke of slavery, and live as free men and women.





EDGE OF DARKNESS – Book 1 of The Bankster Chronicles

Prologue


The full moon cast eerie shadows and a pale light upon the urban landscape. Yet it was in the windy, cold shadows that the shivering, disheveled couple strode quickly along the sidewalk, passing store after store. Their faces nestled down into their warm woolens, they wrapped their arms tightly around their coats, holding them close to their bodies. With teeth chattering, they deftly stepped over and around the trash, the garbage, the carcasses; all strewn along the pavement.

The stores were lined up in a neat row, like cookie-cutter pastries in a bakery. And yet the security bars had been ripped from their mounts and thrown along the street. Stores were vandalized, if not demolished, and shattered display windows left a blanket of broken glass. Open to the elements, the damage from snow, wind, rain all accumulated until the structures around the windows rotted and sagged.

And the carcasses. Mostly people. Dead from starvation or violence or sickness; they littered the sidewalk and the streets. Unhuman mangled forms – with chunks of flesh chewed out. Dogs – packs of dogs. No longer man’s best friend!

And the cars – the dead cars. Sat like hulks in the streets, the windows smashed and the insides gutted. They were left wherever the gasoline ran out – gasoline was now too hard to come by, and too expensive.

The couple made their way along the street . . .

. . . food, he thought. All we need is food!

But they maintained a quick vigilant stride. The man, Tim, found his thoughts flashing back a few months, to a time when pandemonium ruled the streets, when gangs broke into stores and hauled out televisions, electronics – anything they thought of value. The gangs were dehumanized – thoughtless and mindless – like drones around a hive. For if they were more than drones, they'd have taken food and water, not televisions and stereos.

But they were thoughtless. And so, Tim and his partner Squirt seized what the drones had overlooked – food.

The couple continued on their way . . .

Were Tim to have his wits about him, he would have thanked God for the cold weather; for that, at least, kept the rotting carcasses from stinking. But he was not thinking, for he – actually, both of them – were nearly crazed with hunger.

Squirt, the woman, strode slightly behind. Her legs moved quickly to keep up with the long strides of a much taller Tim; while she constantly glanced over her shoulder, too afraid that she would see what she feared. But Tim was alert and focused, always looking forward; seeking the prize of their desire.

“Tim? Do you think we'll find food today?” she asked.

“We've got to! We've got to . . .” he replied. “I don't know that I can go much further without it.” He stopped and looked at the skinny young woman; her red hair not so fiery anymore. But her green eyes still held the fire of a toughness he knew burned deep inside her. “How're you doing, Squirt?”

“I'll make it,” she shivered. “Let's get going – find us some food.”

They crossed a street – the mangled sign read 175th St. They continued on, passing one store front after another, one alley after another.

And then Tim's acute hearing picked up a slight noise; maybe a groan. It was coming out of the darkness.

They froze in their tracks. Both cocked their heads, seeking the direction of the sound. Tim listened; sensing it was coming from the nearby alley. His gaze sliced into the alley; trying to separate the movement of shadows from the shifting darkness.

And then he heard it again. Louder, but still a whisper. Help . . . . .

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “What is it?”

“Down there!” He gestured toward the alley.

“It's a trap. I know it!” She paused. “It's like every other damn alley sound we've passed. Traps! But no food! No help!”

“Still, I think we need to check it out,” he whispered. “Follow me; but back me up!”

“Okay.”

Tim pulled a pistol out of his pocket. He held it down by his side as they edged slowly into the alley. His senses scanning outward, he held his reflexes on a hair trigger – ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Listening, watching, feeling. Squirt followed him down the alley; watching their backs.

Tim could make out a shadowy form stretched out on the ground. They approached, slowly; coming upon an old man. He laid face up on the pavement, still breathing. Tim studied the man, observing his unkempt gray beard and his gray locks, seemingly cut at random. His tattered clothing hung from his form in strips and strings, even on the ground.

Tim pocketed his pistol. He stooped and touched the old man; feeling his chest move, feeling for a pulse. The old man shuddered and then opened his eyes.

“Wha? – What!” The old man blinked. “Who . . . who the hell are ya? Where am I?”
“That's okay, mister,” Tim said in a soothing voice. “We found you lying here. You’re here in an alley.”

“Alley? What alley?” The man lifted his head and looked around. “Get your damn hands off me!”

The old man picked himself off the pavement. Wobbling, he grabbed Tim's shoulder. He coughed. And then he gagged, tightening his mouth shut to hold down his stomach. But to no avail, he stretched his neck forward and heaved onto the pavement. He gasped, twice, and then heaved again.

He wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “Shit!” He spat. “God, I don't feel so good!”

“You just hang on for a bit, old man.”

The old man held onto Tim’s shoulder while his dizziness faded. He let go and attempted to stand unaided, wincing as he put weight on his left foot. “Damn. That hurts,” he spat. “I must’ve sprained my ankle.”

“You okay, sir?” the girl asked.

“What the hell do you want?” The old man spat through his nearly toothless mouth. He straightened up and glared at the couple, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Who the hell are you?”

“No one,” Tim said. “I guess we'll be on our way.”

The couple turned and began to retrace their steps.

“Wait a minute.” The old man’s voice was forceful. “Maybe we can trade!”

Tim and Squirt stopped in their tracks. They turned to look back at the old man.
“Maybe we can trade,” the old man said again, quietly this time.

“Have you got food?” Tim asked.

“That depends,” said the old man. “I'm lookin' for silver – got any?”

“If you've got food, I've got silver,” Tim replied.

“Follow me,” the old man said. He turned and limped further down the alley, further into the shadows. The couple followed, Tim keeping his hand in his pocket, grasping his pistol.

“Damn it hurts,” he growled as he limped up to a metal door. He pulled out a key and inserted it into the padlock. Click! He pulled the door open, turned his head and looked at the couple with a toothless grin. “C'mon,” he cackled. He limped through the door and a light quickly came on from inside.

The couple followed him through the door. Tim's hand was still in his pocket, grasping his pistol.

Tim and Squirt were a bit dazed at finding themselves in a lighted, heated living space. Tim looked around and could see that the light came from a kerosene lantern. He scanned the room, noting a bed and a kerosene space heater – and a kitchen. “You live pretty well!” Tim said. The heat was already beginning to warm them.

The old man limped over to a cupboard, opened a cabinet, and revealed a stack of canned food. He grabbed two cans and held them up next to his nearly toothless grin. “How's chili sound?”

Tim looked at the cans dubiously. “How much?”

The grizzled old man's toothless smile appeared once again. “A dime a piece.”

“A dime a piece!” Squirt exclaimed. “Why, that's highway robbery!”

The old man shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

“We'll take it,” Tim replied. He pulled two silver dimes from his pocket.

The man took the dimes and dropped them into his pocket. “I've got a fire. I can heat it up. Or you can eat it cold,” he offered.

“Cold,” the couple said at once, too hungry to wait.

The old man opened the cans, handing one and a spoon to each of his ‘guests’; and then he took one for himself.

Tim and Squirt wolfed down the food, scraping the inside of the can clean.

“Water?” the old man offered.

The couple nodded, and each took a glass of water. They gulped as though it were air.

“Well,” the old man said, “I’ve got to sit. Let’s get acquainted.”

“More food?” Tim asked.

“Not yet,” the old man snorted. He wiped his nose with his hand. “It's best to let that sit for a while before you eat anymore.” He paused and studied the couple shrewdly. “You two haven't eaten in a while.”

They each found a chair and looked curiously at their host. The young woman opened the conversation. “So, who are you?”

“Me? I'm Jim. Just Jim,” he shrugged. “My friends call me Jim. You can call me Jim.” He paused and took in the couple, his mouth forming the shape of a crooked moon. “And who are you? How long have you been on the streets?”

“I'm Tim, and this here is 'Squirt',” he nodded over to the young woman. “Or at least, that's what everyone calls her.”

“Everyone?” the old man asked. “Who's everyone?”

“Well, just me, I guess now. Everyone else we knew is dead.”

“Yep,” replied the old man as he scratched the stubble on his cheek. “That's truth everywhere now.”

“What do you mean?” Squirt asked.

The old man gestured over to a radio on the far desk. “That’s a ham transceiver rig. With it, I can pick up a lot of traffic from the rest of the country. Even from around the world.” He leaned forward earnestly, “I gotta tell ya . . . the world has really changed! That’s truth.”

“How so?” Squirt asked.

The old man eyed her. “I don’t think you wanna know.”

Squirt hesitated. “Sure, I want to know.”

“No. You don’t.” He looked down a long while. Then his voice took on a grim tone. “The once-great United States of America is dead! It's balkanized; reduced to city states and guarded areas. It split into a bunch of regions. Let’s see.” He began counting on his fingers as he listed the regions. “The New England states, the Atlantic Coast states, the Southern states, the Midwest states, the Central states, the Southwest territories, the North and Northwest territories, and the Far West region. And most of it is in anarchy, from within and without.”

Even though Tim and Squirt were still hungry, they were becoming engrossed in the old man's tale. . . .

“Technology is gone,” he snorted. “Hell! Electrical appliances are just about useless, ‘cause there's no grid anymore – and no way to power them. Unless . . .” he gestured toward a back room, “unless you have batteries like me.”

“And gasoline? Hell, it’s just about dried up. That's why all those cars on the street are just standin' there – there's no damn gas to drive 'em.” Again, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. “The population of North America is down to about 40 million. The world population is way down. No food, sickness and death everywhere, and marauding bands of slime preying on people in the big cities. Hell, just look at what happened to me! Just look at all the dead bodies out there!”

The old man looked down again a while longer, lifted his eyes, and gazed into Tim’s.

“The entire world has changed, guys. Truth! Oh sure . . . if you're lookin' down from space, the geography is the same. But look closer, and you'll see massive chaos and upheaval around the globe. Russia and China have gone back to the 18th century. Most of Europe is in the clutches of rioting mindless Islam. South America – hell, maybe back to the 17th century. And Australia – it's burning up in the sun's rays. Everywhere, people – people like you – prowl the streets scrounging for food and fuel.”

The old man's voice broke with a grim quiet laugh. “Mad Max and the four horsemen have come to pass!”

Tim’s mouth contorted into a gnash. And then he spat. “Why’re you tellin’ us this?”

The old man looked into the young man’s eyes. “Because you asked,” he finally said. “And because I thought I was doing you a favor. Hell, how else are we gonna avoid this in the future if people close their eyes to it?”

The room became silent. And then the old man continued. “Hell. What about your kids? Your grandkids?”

“We don’t have any kids,” Tim replied.

“But you will. At least, if you live through this shit you will.” The old man paused and then spoke with passion. “And I gotta tell ya – this is a tale that needs to be passed down to our children. And our grandchildren. Or else we’re gonna do it all over again!”

The room became silent. Tim and Squirt were on the edge of their seats.

“So,” Tim finally chimed in, “How'd it happen? How'd we get to this place?”

The old man smirked as he looked at the couple.

“It's a long story. You sure you wanna hear it?”

“Yeah. Go on.” Both Tim and Squirt nodded.

“Well, we'd have to go back thousands of years to start at the beginning. But it's just as good if we go back to the seventeenth century. Let's say, about 1650 A.D.” The old man took a deep breath. “It was in that year that . . .”

Episode 1 – The Chespik Incident

.

Chapter 1 – Circa 1650 A.D.

A high cloud cover nonetheless imbued a day of lightness, a day of serenity, on the people of south-east England. For it was not raining, nor was it drizzling, nor was it even damp! And the view from the Chespik village centre was of a dirt road passing through the village, the road lined with merchants' shoppes built of white or stucco covered wood frame and brick; and their thatched roofs almost touching in their orderly formation.

Running north and south, the road had a character all its own – a coarse layer of decomposed granite, combined with finely sifted dirt – and with a soft, almost furry texture that distinguished it from its gravel cousin. Were one to hold the dirt in one's hand, it would disappear in a cloud of dust!

And beyond the village, one could see the rolling green hills of endless countryside, tapering off in the distance, expansive and plush in their form and with a palpably soft texture, they stretched out to some place of origin – somewhere beyond the horizon.

It was late afternoon on a summer day. And breathing all of this in, William Martin strode easily along the road. The lightness, the serenity, held him firmly in its grasp; imbuing his body – his soul – with the pleasure of life. With a bounce in his gait, he soon came upon a popular village location. A sign hung from a protruding overhead member: Olde Skippers Pub.

William stood outside and listened. The raucous sounds of male voices – laughing, shouting, swearing, talking – penetrated the walls, spilling out onto the road. He set himself facing the en-trance as he stole a deliberately large breath into his smallish frame. He pushed open the door, feeling its fluid movement give way under his hand, and affording him an easy entrance. Inside, he was greeted by raucous voices, noise, shouting, and festive chaos – all carrying through the haze of tobacco and the smell of ale and unwashed bodies.

William’s gaze was immediately drawn to the far side of the room. A dart game was going on, and the throng of ale-drinking men were jostling each other for the best view. William heard a cheer go up as the players walked up to the dart board and collected their darts. They be wagering on the game, William thought. And Joseph is playing! I wonder ‘ow he’s doin’? Weaving his way over to the dart game, he stood among the throng and shouted, “Joseph, ‘ey Joseph!”

Joseph was a burly, bearded man, accustomed to consuming large amounts of ale. Without saying a word, he held his glass high in a greeting to William, tipped his glass up, and swallowed another gulp. He turned his focus back to the game.

As William made his way toward the bar, he heard a familiar voice ring out through the din. “Greetings, William!”

William scanned the room, his eyes keying on a lean rawboned man standing behind the bar. “Henri,” he shouted through the noise. He made his way through the throng and reached the bar, smiling. “Henri, it does me good to see you!”

“As do I,” Henri replied as they shook hands. “Get you an ale, I will.” And Henri turned to the tap and drained some brown ale into a pint-size mug. He turned and handed the glass to William. “And there’s plenty more where that came from!”

Another cheer went up from the dart game.

“Your family is well?” William asked.

“Aye, mate,” Henri replied with a smile. “And yours?”

“Aye. Keeps me busy, they do!”

Then Henri’s expression turned serious. “And what are ye ‘earing these days?”

“War,” William replied, a disheartened tone in his voice. “Rumors, mostly. But during my life there’s been much war, there ‘as. And I ‘ave no reason to doubt that more is coming.”

“Well,” Henri interjected, “I ‘eard a rumor, I did.” Henri leaned over the bar, closer to William’s ear. He whispered in earnest. “I ‘eard the King is planning to take all of the merchants’ gold and silver on deposit at the Mint, I did.”

William looked at Henri with a frown. “The King would not do that, would ‘e?”

“Aye,” Henri replied, “the King would do anything to fund his wars, ‘e would!”

William’s shoulders and neck stiffened. “But I ‘ave my gold, my silver at the mint!”

“As do I, my friend!”

“And it’s all I own!”

“Aye. I do also!”

William peered at Henri through tightly-drawn eyes. “How many know of this?”

“Few,” Henri replied. “So far, just a few!”

“Keep it quiet, my friend?”

“Aye. But it won’t stay quiet for long!”

William nodded. “Well, get my gold out of the mint, I will. Before the King can steal it!”

“Aye, my friend. As will I.” Henri frowned. “But where shall you keep it?” Henri asked.

Just then, a cheerful Joseph stepped up to the bar next to William. “Greetings, gentlemen – and I use that language advisedly,” he chortled. “William, it does me good to see you.”

“As do I,” William responded. And then William’s face lit up. “Joseph. If I may be so forward to ask . . . per chance, do you keep your gold at the goldsmith’s depository?”

Joseph began the process of lighting his corncob pipe. He peered at William out of the corner of his eye as he took several drags, and then he answered. “Aye, William. I do indeed keep my wealth there; what little I ‘ave. An honest man, the goldsmith is – I‘ve ‘ad many dealings with ‘im.”

“In fact,” Joseph continued, “I leave my gold and silver on deposit with ‘im, and ‘e gives me re-ceipts. I can use the receipts to claim my gold at any time, or I can use ‘em for trading. It’s much easier than carrying the ‘eavy metal, and the receipts make it easy to split up a piece of gold into smaller portions.”

“Good,” William replied. “I shall leave tomorrow to retrieve my money from the mint.”

“As will I,” Henri chimed in. “In fact, I propose that we travel together. After all; strength in numbers, there is.”

“Aye,” William assented.

Thus, William and Henri departed for London the next morning, returning three days later with their wealth in hand.

* * *

On the morning following their return . . .

Henri was up and out the door early – with barely a kiss even to his wife. I hope Elizabeth forgives me, he thought. He hit a quick stride on his trek to the goldsmith. Walking purposely through the village centre, he nodded cursorily to several of the merchants who were just opening up their stores. He continued on toward the north side of the village. I wonder what time the goldsmith shoppe opens?

He walked past a vendor who had an early customer.

“ . . . I will accept a note for 6 pieces – my final offer, it is!”

“Done,” was the reply. The buyer turned over a piece of paper – a claim on silver held at the local goldsmith – and the vendor gave him his merchandise. People felt like they had extra money to spend, and few noticed that prices seemed to be rising.

Henri continued on his trek. . . .

* * *

Built on a mound overlooking the village, the goldsmith’s office was the largest and most prominent structure in the village. With a sweeping view of the town and the surrounding countryside, it was built from stone and mortar, with granite steps leading up to the entrance. Interestingly, the stone, granite, and setting lent a palatial feeling to the site; as though the King was soon to appear.

Henri reached the goldsmith’s office just as an aide was opening the doors. He waited at the bottom of the stairs; taking in the sight of the building and the guards posted at the entrance. And then he gazed at the sign posted over the main entrance. It read simply, Goldsmith.

When Henri entered the goldsmith’s realm, he was immediately overwhelmed by the wealth on display. For as he gazed around the chamber, he could see several exquisite pieces hanging from the walls, in various stages of creation. Wealth, Henri thought, a long time to acquire, it did! How did ‘e collect all of this! Henri shook his head in wonderment as his eyes shifted from one display to another.

The goldsmith broke Henri’s concentration. “I’m Ian,” the goldsmith said simply, “Ian Williams.”

“Aye, mate,” Henri replied. “And I’m Henri – Henri Aleman.”

“Greetings, Henri. How may I help you? . . .”

* * *

Henri departed the goldsmith’s office, with a smile on his face. He felt around in his pocket, feeling the texture of paper receipts – receipts that represented the gold and silver that Ian now held on deposit. All right! He thought. Much easier to handle, these are, than heavy gold and silver coin!

Henri thought back to his conversation with Ian . . .


Henri bounded down the stairs, paused, and glanced back. My wealth is secure.

* * * * *

Lugging a bucket, Colin Martin struggled with the added weight as he trudged along the road. He stopped and placed it on the ground, allowing his heavy breathing to recede as he scanned the countryside.

From his vantage, he could see only grass extending north and south. But he was traveling west on a well-used dirt road, and he could see his destination in the distance – a small clump of homes. And just beyond the homes he could see a small town dotting the landscape. He didn’t bother to look behind him, for he had already traveled that stretch of road and knew that it led downhill to-ward the sea.

Colin was growing up. Now at the tender age of 12, the blonde-haired blue-eyed boy was old enough to catch fish for his family’s dinner – at least a couple of evenings a week. Colin’s family could enjoy the fish because his route from the grammar school to his home took him near the ocean. And thus he needed only a fishing pole and a small detour to obtain the fish, bringing them to his family – about a mile inland.

He looked down at the bucket – it was wooden, and with a cover across the top to keep the water and fish inside. He hoisted it and resumed his trek home.

* * *

Colin soon approached the house, walking past a chicken shed and garden to his right. It was a small house; built of stone, brick, and mortar, and covered in a thatch roof. The windows were small and sparse, with many panes of thick glass distorting the view into the interior.

He walked up to the door and reached for the handle. And then he heard Claire’s voice from inside the house say, “Mother, when is Colin to arrive? I’m hungry.”

Colin pushed on the door and stepped into the house. He had a sheepish expression as he looked down to the dirt floor. “Late, I am. Sorry.”

William placed his quill on the book in front of him, and then looked at Colin. “What happened?” He asked.

Colin sighed and said, “The fish were not biting at first, father.”

William nodded his disappointment and then asked, “And the catch, my son? How was it?”

“I got flounder – four big ones.”

William smiled and said, “Aye, Master Colin. Wonderful!”

Marion stopped her dinner preparation and made for the bucket. She took the bucket from his hand and said, “Give ‘em to me, dear. I’ll clean and put ‘em on the fire.”

Colin sat down at the table next to William. Feeling the warmth radiate from the hearth, he looked around the room. He didn’t really notice the white stucco walls, adorned as they were with homemade tapestry and hanging curios. Nor did he notice the floor – dirt, with home-weaved rugs covering the traffic areas. But he did notice his older sister Claire, preparing dinner on the countertop – which to this point consisted only of vegetables.

He looked down at the tabletop, made of rough-hewn pine and smoothed by whatever means only his father knew. And then he noted the dishes and dinnerware – and that there were four place settings arranged on the table. We always use pewter for dinner, he thought. Mother says it’s the best we have.
William looked at Colin and said, “And ‘ow was school today?”

“Fine,” Colin replied.

“And what did you learn today?”

“Numbers, father. And bookkeeping.”

“Bookkeeping?”

“Yes, father. So we may keep our money in order.”

“And what else did you learn?”

“Writing, father.”

“Good,” William exclaimed.

William picked up the quill and continued to write in the book.

“What is that, father?”

“Tis my diary, Master Colin.”

“What is a diary, father?”

William leaned back in his chair and stole a deep breath. And then he said, “A diary is a place where we write our thoughts, our experiences, of a very personal nature. It is where we write about ourselves.”

“And what are you writing today, father?”

William gazed at his son and smiled. And then he replied, “Writing about the King and the Goldsmith, I am. As you know, Mr. Aleman and I just returned from London, where we withdrew our wealth from the mint. Well, today I deposited our wealth with the local goldsmith, Ian Williams, for safekeeping.”

“But why did you withdraw our wealth from the mint?”

“Because there’s rumour that the King was to take all the people’s wealth from the mint and use it to finance his war.”

“That sounds bad,” Colin said.

“Indeed, Master Colin, it is bad. Because today, I’ve ‘eard that the King did indeed take the people’s wealth from the mint!”

The door opened and Marion brought flounder into the house. The family said grace, and then they proceeded with their dinner.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Two years later . . .

It was yet another raucous evening at Henri’s pub, and a throng of men were seated, standing, or weaving amongst the crowd – but all were partaking of ale. And with the smell of ale wafting through the tobacco smoke, Henri was busily serving up drink to yet another customer. The customer grinned and raised his newly filled quart mug. “Thanks, Henri – and cheers!”

Henri raised his own mug. “And cheers to you, mate. Bottom’s up!” Henri brought the mug to his lips and took a swallow.

Like so many times that evening, Henri pulled out a cleaning cloth and began wiping down the bar. Just as he was finishing, Joseph Crispin stepped up. “Henri, it does me good to see you,” he said. “Ye doing well, I trust?”

“Aye, Joseph. All is well. And with you?”

Joseph was bubbling over with excitement. “Aye, Henri. I just returned from Essex; and I’ve decided to buy some property there.” Joseph smiled broadly. “I’ll be moving there as soon as the deal is done.”

“Aye. Sounds grand, it does.”

“And grand it is, Henri. Tis good for my children – there’s lots more children for them to play with. And the land,” he paused with a gleam in his eye, “the land ‘as forest. And it ‘as lots of space for cultivation and grazing. And there’s a great water source!”

Henri looked across the bar into Joseph’s eyes. “Ye will be missed, my friend. Ye will be missed!”

* * *

The next morning, Joseph was waiting at the entrance to the goldsmith’s office when it opened. He wasted no time approaching the goldsmith’s desk. “Greetings, Ian,” he said.

Ian looked up from his work, his mouth shifting slightly as he attempted a smile. His square jaw barely moved as he spoke. “And greetings to you, my friend Joseph. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

Joseph placed a stack of receipts on Ian’s desk and smiled. “These are receipts for 54 troy ounces of gold and 76 troy ounces of silver. I’d like to withdraw all of my coin, please.”

Ian looked at the stack of receipts and slowly placed his quill down on the desk. His meager at-tempt at a smile dissolved as his forehead furrowed. He looked up at Joseph. “That’s quite a sum. Are you certain you wish to withdraw all of it?”

“Aye, Ian. Certain, I am.”

“Are you not aware that you can trade with these receipts as though they were coin?”

“Aye. Aware, I am. But I am buying some land over in Essex. And the agreement requires that I pay coin. Also, I wish to take all of my coin and deposit it with an institution closer to Essex.”

Ian grasped the receipts in his hands and examined them one by one. Ian stroked his chin and then looked up at Joseph, a somber expression on his face. “Well, they all appear to be in order.”

Ian stood up from his desk and walked over to the vault. He pulled on the vault door. It creaked as it opened, and then Ian entered.

Standing by the desk, Joseph could hear some rustling inside the vault; but his angle in relation to the vault inhibited his view of the interior. Finally, Ian came out of the vault wearing a frown.

Ian ran his hand through his brown hair. “I’m sorry,” he confessed, not looking at Joseph. “But this is a large quantity of gold and silver. I will need to go to my hidden off-site vault and retrieve the gold that you require.” He took a deep breath and then continued. “If you return tomorrow, I shall give you all of your coin.”

Joseph stood at the desk – his expression was one of confusion. “Wait,” his voice quivered. “You agreed to give me all of my coin on demand. And now – you tell me I must wait!”

“It is only a day,” Ian said as he looked directly at Joseph. “I know our agreement. But I had no idea that anyone would withdraw this quantity all at once and without notice. I do not keep that much wealth here; and it will take me some time to obtain it. I promise I will have it for you tomorrow. In the morning.”
Joseph’s face was now red. “Very well,” he hissed. “I shall return in the morning!”

* * *

Early evening found Joseph at the pub, sitting across the table from William . . .

“Fit to be tied, I am. Fit to be tied!” Joseph blurted out. “Something tells me that damn goldsmith has been playing fast and loose with my money. Ye should have seen the look on his face when I asked for my coin!”

William listened. He looked over at Joseph and then shifted his eyes to his pipe – watching a trail of smoke wafting up from it. Finally, he spoke. “Maybe Ian is being truthful – maybe he really does have most of the coin stored elsewhere. This seems wise and prudent to me.”

Joseph seemed to relax a bit. “What you say is logical.” Joseph’s voice was steady but stern. “But so heavily guarded his office is; why would he store it elsewhere? No sense, this makes to me. And even so, he should stand by his word and pay me at the time of my choosing. After all,” Joseph spat, “that I could have my money immediately, he committed. And now he has reneged!”

Joseph was getting even more worked up as he continued. “The look in his eyes, bastard that he is, . . .” And in his most profane language, Joseph went on to describe his encounter with Ian.

But in the middle of his diatribe, Henri came up to the table. He listened; his face turning red as Joseph continued his rant.

And soon, still more villagers moved close to the table – listening all.

Finally, when Joseph stopped talking, Henri spat, “Crook, he is! I ‘ear ye Joseph – I will be gettin’ my coin back tomorrow with ye!”

“Here, here!” shouted some of the other listeners.

William spoke up quietly. “I too will be there in the morning. Let us all see what happens.”

* * *

The next morning, a throng of seven – William, Henri, Joseph, and four others – stood at the base of the steps of the goldsmith’s office. The guards stood rigid – out in front of the entrance as the crowd gathered.

Ian soon pushed open a door, preparing his office for business. But he did a double-take as he looked down at the crowd. His expression took on a frown, and Henri could’ve sworn his face turned pale. Ian paused, and then he stepped up and announced to the throng, “The goldsmith’s office shall be open in 10 minutes.”

As murmurs and chatter grew louder from the crowd, Ian turned and walked back into his of-fice. The door closed behind him, and the crowd waited . . .

Minutes later, the door opened and Ian reappeared. He stepped out and stood at the top of the steps. The crowd was larger, and they booed as he stood. He raised his hands, gesturing the crowd to lower their voices.

“My fellow villagers,” he began speaking as the shouting diminished, “your money is safe, it is. Secure, it is, . . . in a very secret cache. If you will please come back tomorrow, I shall have it for you.”

Joseph stepped forward. With a shaking voice, he shouted, “where is my coin, Ian? Yesterday, you promised you would deliver my coin. Where, Ian. Where is my coin?”

The crowd seemed to get bigger even as Joseph stood out in front. Joseph shook his fist at Ian.

And then, old James Shipstead stepped forward from the crowd. “Ian,” he shouted, “you shall pay me my money, on demand, for my receipts. Where – is – my – money !”

And then several other people stepped out from the crowd. “Here, here!” They shouted. The din of voices grew still louder.

Ian gulped. And everyone could see his face turn ashen. He yelled a command to the guards and then he closed the door. And for the remainder of the day, the goldsmith’s office remained closed.

* * *

The Olde Skippers Pub was a favorite place for villagers to meet over ale or spirits. It was a fix-ture – having stood its ground near the centre of the village longer than many could remember.

On most any evening, a visitor to the pub would be greeted with a happy, festive atmosphere; and the villagers looked forward to a relaxing good time after a days’ hard work.

This evening was different. Joseph, Henri, and William were assembled around a table near the centre of the room. And many other villagers were also gathered around the table – most of them standing. The murmur of voices from the gathering was like the buzzing of bees around a hive.

“Worked hard, I ‘ave. My whole life I ‘ave saved my coin.” Joseph’s voice was loud and shaking. “Thievery of my coin, I shall not accept!” Joseph was becoming blind with anger as he hunkered over his ale. “I think that bloody bastard Ian has taken my money to enrich his own pockets.” And then he looked around at the other people in the gathering – he said to no one in particular, “does anyone know what ‘e is doing with the money?”

“Buying land, I’ve seen ‘im,” old Shipstead piped up. “I was wondering where ‘e was gettin’ the money.” The murmur from the crowd became louder – and angry voices came to the fore.

A voice rang out from the gathering. “You don’t suppose he’s lost our money. Do ye?”

“What would that mean if ‘e did?” Henri posed.

For just a moment, the room went silent.

“It would mean,” William answered, “that we be poor – the whole village be poor!”

“Right you are,” Joseph chimed in. “For these paper receipts are of no worth. Just paper, they are.”

Henri stepped forward. “I will be at the bastard goldsmith’s tomorrow to demand my coin!” He shouted. “Who will join me?”

Henri’s words were greeted by loud and angry shouting from the gathering.

* * *

The next morning, a large crowd formed at the base of the granite stairs – a raucous, vocal, angry crowd. Again, there was a guard stationed on each side of the entrance. The mob watched as the entrance opened a crack and Ian peered out.

Henri stepped out from the crowd and shouted. “Where’s our money, Ian! Where’s our mon-ey!” It was not a question.

But even as Henri stepped forward, the mob took their cue and stormed the doors, pushing the guards aside. Ian attempted to close the doors, but the guards and the doors were overwhelmed by the speed and intensity of the mob as it swarmed through the entrance and into the building.

“Wait! Wait!” Ian shouted as several of the mob grabbed him – first pushing him to the floor, and then dragging him outside. The crowd was chanting, “We want our money! We want our money!”

Henri stepped forward and gestured the mob to quiet – the shouting subsided. Henri looked sternly at the goldsmith, and said, “Our money, Ian. Where is it?”
“I don’t have it,” Ian squirmed as he whimpered. “I bought land over in another county. They demanded coin. So I spent it. I’ve – I’ve been living off receipts,” he confessed.

The noise, the shouting from the mob increased, louder and louder. Ian’s face turned ashen; his lips, his hands, quivering with fear.

Henri held up his hands, gesturing the mob to quiet. “You ‘ave been living off receipts!” Henri shouted, his voice quivering with anger. “Counterfeiting our money, you ‘ave!”

Hearing this, the shouting from the crowd again rose, louder still. Ian’s fear was palpable, and it seemed to make the crowd even more aggressive.

Henri held up his hands, gesturing the mob to quiet. The shouting from the mob subsided.

“What will we do with him?” Henri shouted.

Someone from the crowd yelled, “hang ‘em.” A crescendo of cheers arose from the mob, and then they began to chant: “hang ‘em, hang ‘em . . .” The chant went on and on as several men dragged Ian to a nearby tree. Someone produced a rope, and it was quickly tied around his neck. Someone else slung the rope over a stout branch.

“Hang ‘em. Hang ‘em . . . ,” the crowd continued their chant as Ian stood with the rope around his neck, his face ashen, shivering in fear, and standing in a puddle of his own urine.

Several members of the mob started to pull, raising Ian’s feet off the ground. The angry voices of the mob became still louder, cheering at the sight of Ian’s kicking, his struggling, his thrashing. Ian’s eyes were bulging as he held his hands between the rope and his neck – trying with all his might to delay his impending death. But soon, his strength gave out and his feeble kicking gave way to a thick fluid dripping from his legs. The angry voices diminished as Ian lost consciousness.
The mob turned away, leaving Ian’s corpse to swing in the breeze.

* * *

Somewhere out of sight, the Sheriff listened. He knew what was going on; and yet he did not intervene. But sometime later, after the crowd had dispersed, he made the trek to the goldsmith’s office. He cut down the corpse and turned the body and effects over to the proper authorities.

* * * * *

That evening . . .

His eyes wide open, Colin again turned over in his bed. Not to be, sleep is, he thought. There’s a light coming from under the door! Colin arose from his bed and walked out into the great room.

He found William at the kitchen table, writing into his diary. “Hello, father,” Colin said.

“Hello, my son,” William replied.

“I can’t sleep,” Colin said simply.

“Nor can I,” William replied. He put his quill down and gave his attention to Colin.

“What are you writing, sir?”

William sighed and then said, “I am merely writing down the day’s events and what they mean for us, and for the townspeople.”

“And what does it mean?”

“The Sheriff informed me that Ian lost the wealth in risky investments. And so, Ian’s passing means that the townspeople are now poor.” William sighed again and continued, “Stole the people’s money, he did. And paid with his life, he did that too.”

“But why are you writing it down?”

William looked into Colin’s eyes and said, “My son. This can happen to anyone. It can happen in any place and at any time. And thus we should record these events, so that we remember, and so that these memories are passed down to our descendents, . . . with hope and prayer that others will not allow goldsmiths this much power.”

“Does that mean you want me to tell the story too?”

“Yes, son. Tell your children and grandchildren, and everyone else you meet throughout your life.” And then their eyes met as William grasped Colin’s shoulders. His voice quivered as he said, “My first born son, you are. As such, I shall someday pass this diary to you. We must always know, Colin. We must always remember.”

* * * * *

“Damn!” Tim interjected. “They sure did him in!”

“But how sad the village lost so much of their wealth,” Squirt chimed in.

“Yep,” the old man snorted, “there was a time when counterfeiters were executed by hanging. Even in the United States. Hell, it was considered a crime against the people; not just against an individual. And that’s truth!”

“So why would people even use a goldsmith or a banker to store their money?”

The grizzled old man frowned. And then he said, “They go into the deal because they're looking for security. In this case, people wanted to keep their valuables safe. But they didn't believe they could do it themselves; and so they got the goldsmiths to keep it safe for ‘em.” The old man's toothless grin spread from ear to ear. “But everyone has to learn – you really can't trust anyone except yourself.”

“So,” Tim interjected, “I’d have thought an episode like this would put a stop to money printing. But that must not be true since we just had a major collapse.”

The grizzled old man nodded. “That's right, sonny. For some of these people, it's not easy to change their stripes. Hell, some are just plain evil through and through.”

“So, what happened next?”

“Next? Well, the bankers had quite a few tricks up their sleeve. And so, just 40 years later, in 1690, they began to use 'em . . .”

This is yet another excerpt from Edge of Darkness . . .

With a raucous crowd behind her, the tall, gangly young woman moved in front of the camera. Raising her microphone to her lips, she shook back her blonde mop of hair and took her cue from the cameraman. “This is Sheryl Barclay reporting from downtown Seattle, where you can see behind me a mob. But not just any mob. This is part of a larger movement seeking social justice.” She paused to look down. Then referring to some notes, she continued speaking. “These demonstrators are protesting the ministerial meetings of nations' representatives from around the world. These meetings are allegedly to resolve issues of the treaties of the World Trade Organization and the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade; treaties that many countries – including the United States government – are signatories.”

At just that moment, a protester stepped back and bumped violently into Sheryl, pushing her out of the camera's view. She quickly regained her composure and turned to the young man who bumped her. The camera followed her as she called to the protester. “Sir. Sir?” She put her hand on the young man's shoulder. The man turned to face Sheryl, his masked face captured on the camera as he turned. Holding her mic up to the young man, she said, “Sir. Sir! Can you answer some questions?”

The young man paused his shouting and began speaking into the mic, his voice muffled by his ski mask. “We’re here today to speak out against what we see as the commodification of all life. Groups like the WTO, governments, corporations, and so on, have basically decided that everything on this planet is here for their use – whether it be animal life, plant life, the soil, and so on, and so on –”

Sheryl interrupted him. “You’re dressed in a ski mask. You’re expecting trouble, aren’t you?”

The man replied, “I’m hoping for trouble.”

“Yeah?” Sheryl prompted him further.

“Quite frankly. I mean, these businesses – they’re not going to bow to people dancing in the streets. They’re not going to bow to people dressed as – you know – giant sea turtles or so on. They care about one thing – they care about capital. And unless we put a dent in their pocket, what good, ah – what good –”

Sheryl interjected. “How’re you – how’re you gonna put a dent in their pocket?”

“Hopefully, by causing property damage,” he responded.

As he was talking, the camera captured some demonstrators behind them, smashing glass store fronts and breaking down doors. Shit, she thought, I hope this interview comes through all the noise and destruction!

The man continued. “By causing economic sabotage. I don’t see property damage as being violent. I don’t see, um – I don’t believe that property and inanimate objects show pain. What I do see, um – the violence I do see is violence happening against the Earth – against the animal nations and the third world. There’s no way that any violence perpetrated by us could ever equate to the amount of damage done by the WTO and the federal governments, and groups like the –”

Suddenly, the man jerked away from the camera and sprinted toward a pack of demonstrators. Her mouth agape, Sheryl watched as the pack moved toward a store front and began throwing rocks at the windows. The camera was already trained on the violence, and so Sheryl jumped between the camera and the mob violence.

Facing the camera, she continued speaking. “As you can see behind me, the demonstrators are becoming increasingly violent and destructive. . . .” She gestured down the street and the camera followed. “ . . . and down the street, we see a line of policemen approaching the protestors. As you can see, the police are ready for battle. I've heard reports that the standard equipment for police in this zone consists of black kevlar helmets with tinted face-shield protection, bullet proof vests, clubs, and M-16 rifles.” Sheryl looked earnestly into the camera as she continued speaking. “The demonstrators will be no match for the oppressive police regime, especially equipped as the police are.”

As Sheryl stepped out of the view of the camera, the camera continued to record the scene. A scene of imminent violence with the police. For the police moved slowly, inexorably, toward the protestors.

Sheryl continued speaking into her mic. “Brace yourself, as the clash is imminent. Now! Now! Here it is!” She was yelling into her mic as the police, their line still intact, used their clubs and their rifles to knock down protestor after protestor. And as protestors were put down, still more police came up behind the front wall of police, cuffed the downed protestors, and hauled them to one of several police trucks where they were unceremoniously dumped.

“As you can see,” Sheryl was yelling into her mic as the camera continued running, “the police are using their violence – their violent tactics on the demonstrators. First silencing, and then capturing them – Wa! Wa! What is this! I think the demonstrators are retreating – yes they are! Yes, the demonstrators are now in full retreat!”

“And as we move further up the street, we can see the demonstrators continue to evacuate the area in the face of mounting police violence. As you can see, the shop windows are broken out and large quantities of merchandise have been stolen – all of this to protest the World Trade Organization treaty and their meeting here today.”

“Wait. Look! Look!” She gestured to the cameraman to train his camera to a storefront up the street. “As we speak, we are watching firsthand three men in ski masks walk out of an electronics store – their arms full of boxes with the latest in electronics equipment.”

Abruptly, the cameraman trained the camera toward explosions coming from down the street. Sheryl again jumped in front of the camera and began speaking. “And in this direction we are hearing explosions. It sounds like gunfire.” Sheryl paused as she spied a man quickly walking away from the noise, his head down. She grabbed the man by the shoulder and began shouting into her mic. “Sir! Sir! Can you tell us what you saw?”

The man looked furtively behind him; and then he spoke into the mic. “I was on the other side of the street, over there, on a sit-down demonstration, and the police just walked up. They didn’t ask us to leave or nothin'. They just walked up and they sprayed me twice with pepper spray and they were shooting tear gas at us.”

“Wow! Can you tell us anything else?”

“Shit. You need to ask them.” The man gestured in another direction, near the curb, and the camera followed his gesture; now training his camera lens on a girl pouring water onto a young man's eyes. Sheryl moved quickly over to the girl and began talking. “Excuse me. Excuse me! Are you treating this man for pepper spray?”

The girl looked up at the camera. “The police. Shit! They did it! The police are assaulting us! The police are on the side of the globalists – they are oppressing against the people. I tell every-one to disobey the police. To kill them if they can!”

Sheryl heard still more explosions up the street. “C'mon,” she said to the cameraman, “let's go report on those explosions.”

And with that, the two of them quickly made their way up the street . . .

* * *

Shortly thereafter . . . With yet another mob behind her, Sheryl stood in front of the camera as she spoke into her mic, “ . . . and in conclusion, this was ultimately a good day for the demonstrators – as only a third of the so-called 'free trade' delegates were able to get through the demonstrators to their meeting. . . . And so, today's meetings were canceled.”

This is Sheryl Barclay, signing off for the University of Washington campus news station.

Excellent story and writing! Thanks for sharing that!

Deena in GA said:

Excellent story and writing! Thanks for sharing that!

Click to expand...

Thanks, Deena.

To everyone who's purchased one or both of these, I thank you very much. I sincerely hope you find enjoyment with them.

And no - I haven't a clue who (if anyone) has made a purchase.

Hacker said:

To everyone who's purchased one or both of these, I thank you very much. I sincerely hope you find enjoyment with them.

And no - I haven't a clue who (if anyone) has made a purchase.

Click to expand...

Just bought both in the kindle edition. Thanks for writing them!

CGTech said:

Just bought both in the kindle edition. Thanks for writing them!

Click to expand...

Thank you. And thanks especially for buying book 2 before you've even read book 1.

Over the few months these have been on the market, I've found that Book 2 sales are just a few units behind Book 1 - in other words, most who read Book 1 also read Book 2.

Again, Thanks!

Hacker,

I read your introduction and went and bought your book. Didn't realize there were two, I'll go back and get the second. Thanks for posting this thread and writting these books.


Cat

Catshooter said:

Hacker,

I read your introduction and went and bought your book. Didn't realize there were two, I'll go back and get the second. Thanks for posting this thread and writting these books.


Cat

Click to expand...

You're welcome. And thank you for your purchase and reading them. I sincerely hope you enjoy them . . .

And if you think they're worthy, I ask that you please let others know about them.

Thanks to everyone who purchased my books.