http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0034689/releaseinfo
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Duke of the Navy (1942)
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USA 23 January 1942
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0035418/releaseinfo
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Tanks (1942)
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http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0035028/releaseinfo
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Man from Headquarters (1942)
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http://www.tv.com/shows/stephen-kings-the-stand/the-plague-1178981
tv.com
Stephen King's The Stand [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
Season 1, Episode 1
The Plague
Air Date
Sunday May 8, 1994
http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html
Stephen King
The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition [ RACKETEER INFLUENCED AND CORRUPT ORGANIZATIONS US Title 18 ]
Glen Bateman was pushed over to join them.
“What are you shoving him around for?” Dorgan asked angrily.
“If you had to listen to six hours of this guy’s bullshit, you’d do some pushing, too,” one of the men said.
“I don’t care how much bullshit you had to listen to, keep your hands to yourself.” Dorgan looked at Larry. “Why is it funny that I should be with him? I was a cop for ten years before Captain Trips. I saw what happens when guys like you are in charge, you see.”
“Young man,” Glen said mildly, “your experiences with a few battered babies and drug abusers does not justify your embrace of a monster.”
“Get them out of here,” Dorgan said evenly. “Separate cells, separate wings.”
“I don’t think you’ll be able to live with your choice, young man,” Glen said. “There doesn’t seem to be quite enough Nazi in you.”
This time Dorgan pushed Glen himself.
Larry was separated from the other two and taken down an empty corridor graced with signs reading NO SPITTING, THIS WAY TO SHOWERS & DELOUSING, and one that read, YOU ARE NOT A GUEST.
“I wouldn’t mind a shower,” he said.
“Maybe,” Dorgan said. “We’ll see.”
“See what?”
“How cooperative you can be.”
Dorgan opened a cell at the end of the corridor and ushered Larry in.
“How about the bracelets?” Larry asked, holding them out.
“Sure.” Dorgan unlocked them and took them off. “Better?”
“Much.”
“Still want that shower?”
“I sure do.” More than that, Larry didn’t want to be left alone, listening to the echoey sound of footfalls going away. If he was left alone, the fear would start to come back.
Dorgan produced a small notebook. “How many are you? In the Zone?”
“Six thousand,” Larry said. “We all play Bingo every Thursday night and the prize in the cover-all game is a twenty-pound turkey.”
“Do you want that shower or not?”
“I want it.” But he no longer thought he was going to get it.
“How many of you over there?”
“Twenty-five thousand, but four thousand are under twelve and get in free at the drive-in. Economically speaking, it’s a bummer.”
Dorgan snapped his notebook shut and looked at him.
“I can’t, man,” Larry said. “Put yourself in my place.”
Dorgan shook his head. “I can’t do that, because I’m not nuts. Why are you guys here? What good do you think it’s going to do you? He’s going to kill you dead as dogshit tomorrow or the next day. And if he wants you to talk, you will. If he wants you to tapdance and jerk off at the same time, you’ll do that, too. You must be crazy.”
“We were told to come by the old woman. Mother Abagail. Probably you dreamed about her.”
Dorgan shook his head, but suddenly his eyes wouldn’t meet Larry’s. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then let’s leave it at that.”
“Sure you don’t want to talk to me? Get that shower?”
Larry laughed. “I don’t work that cheap. Send your own spy over to our side. If you can find one that doesn’t look like a weasel the second Mother Abagail’s name gets mentioned, that is.”
“Any way you want it,” Dorgan said. He walked back down the hallway under the mesh-enclosed lights. At the far end he stepped past a steel-barred gate that rolled shut behind him with a hollow crash.
Larry looked around. Like Ralph, he had been in jail on a couple of occasions—public intoxication once, possession of an ounce of marijuana on another. Flaming youth.
“It’s not the Ritz,” he muttered.
The mattress on the bunk looked decidedly moldy, and he wondered a little morbidly if someone had died on it back in June or early July. The toilet worked but filled with rusty water the first time he flushed it, a reliable sign that it hadn’t been used for a long time. Someone had left a paperback Western. Larry picked it up and then put it down again. He sat on the bunk and listened to the silence. He had always hated to be alone—but in a way, he always had been… until he had arrived in the Free Zone. And now it wasn’t so bad as he had been afraid it would be. Bad enough, but he could cope.
He’s going to kill you dead as dogshit tomorrow or the next day.
Except Larry didn’t believe it. It just wasn’t going to happen that way.
“I will fear no evil,” he said into the dead silence of the cellblock wing, and he liked the way it sounded. He said it again.
He lay down, and the thought occurred that he had finally made it most of the way back to the West Coast. But the trip had been longer and stranger than anyone ever could have imagined. And the trip wasn’t quite over yet.
“I will fear no evil,” he said again. He fell asleep, his face calm, and he slept in dreamless peace.
At ten o’clock the next day, twenty-four hours after they had first seen the roadblock in the distance, Randall Flagg and Lloyd Henreid came to see Glen Bateman.
He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his cell. He had found a piece of charcoal under his bunk, and had just finished writing this legend on the wall amid the intaglio of male and female genitals, names, phone numbers, and obscene little poems: I am not the potter, not the potter’s wheel, but the potter’s clay; is not the value of the shape attained as dependent upon the intrinsic worth of the clay as upon the wheel and the Master’s skill? Glen was admiring this proverb—or was it an aphorism?—when the temperature in the deserted cellblock suddenly seemed to drop ten degrees. The door at the end of the corridor rumbled open. The saliva in Glen’s mouth was suddenly all gone, and the charcoal snapped between his fingers.
Bootheels clocked up the hallway toward him.
Other footfalls, smaller and insignificant, pattered along in counterpoint, trying to keep up.
Why, it’s him. I’m going to see his face.
Suddenly his arthritis was worse. Terrible, in fact. It seemed that his bones had suddenly been hollowed out and filled with ground glass. And still, he turned with an interested, expectant smile on his face as the bootheels stopped in front of his cell.
“Well, there you are,” Glen said. “And you’re not half the boogeyman we thought you must be.”
Standing on the other side of the bars were two men. Flagg was on Glen’s right. He was wearing bluejeans and a white silk shirt that gleamed mellowly in the dim lights. He was grinning in at Glen. Behind him was a shorter man who was not smiling at all. He had an undershot chin and eyes that seemed too big for his face. His complexion was one that the desert climate was never going to be kind to; he had burned, peeled, and burned again. Around his neck he wore a black stone flawed with red. It had a greasy, resinous look.
“I’d like you to meet my associate,” Flagg said with a giggle. “Lloyd Henreid, meet Glen Bateman, sociologist, Free Zone Committee member, and single existing member of the Free Zone think tank now that Nick Andros is dead.”
“Meetcha,” Lloyd mumbled.
“How’s your arthritis, Glen?” Flagg asked. His tone was commiserating, but his eyes sparkled with high glee and secret knowledge.
Glen opened and closed his hands rapidly, smiling back at Flagg. No one would ever know what an effort it took to maintain that gentle smile.
The intrinsic worth of the clay!
“Fine,” he said. “Much better for sleeping indoors, thank you.”
Flagg’s smile faltered a bit. Glen caught just a glimpse of narrow surprise and anger. Of fear?
“I’ve decided to let you go,” he said briskly. His smile sprang forth again, radiant and vulpine. Lloyd uttered a little gasp of surprise, and Flagg turned to him. “Haven’t I, Lloyd?”
“Uh… sure,” Lloyd said. “Sure nuff.”
“Well, fine,” Glen said easily. He could feel the arthritis sinking deeper and deeper into his joints, numbing them like ice, swelling them like fire.
“You’ll be given a small motorbike and you may drive back at your leisure.”
“Of course I couldn’t go without my friends.”
“Of course not. And all you have to do is ask. Get down on your knees and ask me.”
Glen laughed heartily. He threw back his head and laughed long and hard. And as he laughed, the pain in his joints began to abate. He felt better, stronger, in control again.
“Oh, you’re a card,” he said. “I tell you what you do. Why don’t you find a nice big sandpile, get yourself a hammer, and pound all that sand right up your ass?”
Flagg’s face grew dark. The smile slipped away. His eyes, previously as dark as the jet stone Lloyd wore, now seemed to gleam yellowly. He reached out his hand to the locking mechanism on the door and wrapped his fingers around it. There was an electric buzzing sound. Fire leaped out between his fingers, and there was a hot smell in the air. The lockbox fell to the floor, smoking and black. Lloyd Henreid cried out. The dark man grabbed the bars and threw the cell door back on its track.
“Stop laughing.”
Glen laughed harder.
“Stop laughing at me! ”
[ Bill Gates-Microsoft-Corbis-Nazi the cowardly International Terrorist Organization violently against the United States of America actively instigate insurrection and subversive activity against the United States of America with all Bill Gates-Microsoft-Corbis-Nazi staff partners contributors employees contractors lawyers managers of any capacity as severely treasonous criminal accomplices and that are active unlawful obstructions, combinations, or assemblages, or rebellion against the authority of the United States that actively make it impracticable to enforce the laws of the United States in the United States and in the Severely Treasonous and Criminally Rebellious State of Washington by the ordinary course of judicial proceedings ]
JOURNAL ARCHIVE: Date: Thu, 9 Mar 2006 14:42:01 -0800 (PST)
From: "Kerry Burgess"
Subject: Washington sandpacks 115 percent of normal
To: "Kerry Burgess"
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/6420AP_WA_Water_Outlook.html
Washington sandpacks 115 percent of normal
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
REDMOND, Wash. -- What a difference a year and a lot of executive bullshit make. Eight out of 10 geeks now want to tell their managers to "pack sand."
Last year, after no appreciable agitation in Febuary, geek morale was high and the sandpack was at 26 percent of normal. Last March tenth the state Ecology Department issued a drought of bullshit proclamation.
This year, after paradigm shifts and Excellence Processes, the department says bullshitflows are normal and the sandpack is at 115 percent of normal.
Ecology Director Jay Manning says back-to-back drought of bullshit years would have been supportive for the health and well-being of geeks.
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 9 March 2006 excerpt ends]
JOURNAL ARCHIVE: From: Kerry Burgess
To: Kerry Burgess
Sent: Tuesday, May 9, 2006 6:01:15 PM
Subject: Right
I wonder if this is where that guy painting the picture was standing?
http://local.live.com/?v=2&sp=aN.47.619681_-122.348911
[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 9 May 2006 excerpt ends]
http://maps.google.com/?ie=UTF8&t=h&layer=tc&cbll=47.619176,-122.348985&panoid=-lfueBIXwUv3LKH8_yDIyw&cbp=12,354.84278861856137,,2,3.587035306919222&ll=47.619407,-122.349037&spn=0,359.99794&z=20
156 4th Ave N, Seattle, WA, United States
