Chapter Three
 Fifteen hundred years ago the human race wasn't very numerous. If one stood on a 
high peak, one could gaze out upon a great forest, broken occasionally here and 
there by campfire smoke.  In the North, the cold and the migration of game kept people 
migrating. No-one could settle down and do anything for posterity. Survival was 
just too hard: It was a 24/7 job. And people were hairy and unwashed. They 
smelled like gazelles. Eric the Red sailed around and raped and pillaged and 
ravaged and raped. But in the warm, balmy Mediterranean, life was easy. People 
found the time to lay around, stare at the stars and think great thoughts. 
Pythagorean theorems and poetry. And goof off and run around in the buff. And 
create mischief for their neighbors. The Senators gave great speeches and 
plotted against each other. Then with Constantine the Great, the Catholic Church 
took over. Then civilization sort of blinked out. The great roman roads and 
structures got covered over with weeds. Then the North started to wake up. They 
started to build cities and big cathedrals and castles. People started to adopt 
identities. Identites like: I'm German and I don't want to be controlled by the 
Pope in Italy. This was the early Medieval era and people had fun. Then the 
Black Plague struck in the Late Medieval era and people got crazy. They thought 
it was the end of the world but it wasn't. But the Plague did kill about 60% of 
the people on the planet. The Spanish Inquisition and other progroms killed millions,
 looking for witches and heretics.  Then came the Renaissance. 
The time of Queen Elizabeth I and Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. 
People had a good time. Then the Puritans came and made life miserable 
for everyone. When their leader Cromwell died, the King of England was invited
 back to the throne and then came the Restoration. Everyone had a good time.
 Then came the Victorian era and life got miserable again.Then came 
the Roaring Twenties and people had a good time again. 
Then came the Depression and people were miserable again. Then came Roosevelt's 
New Deal and people were happy again. Then came WWII and people were unhappy 
again. Then came the Sixties with the mod look and hippies and people were happy 
again. We put men on the moon and rovers on Mars. Then came the Republicans and 
everyone was miserable again. When 2000 came, many people thought it was the end 
of the world, but it wasn't.

Francoise was born 1500 years ago in Burgundy. His family had been tribal 
leaders for centuries already, and he, as first born, assumed this role. When he 
was 20 years old, men came from the south who knew how to build high towers from 
stone. So he paid these men to build a castle for him. At first it was small and 
he soon outgrew it. Then he had men build a bigger castle for him around the 
first one. He selected certain tribal leaders to be his barons and dukes and 
knights in his fiefdom and he invited them to stay in his castle. Then he took a 
wife from among one of the families. She became pregnant but died giving birth. 
The baby boy lived only three days and then he died also. This event seemed to 
unhinge him. He consulted witches and conjurors so that they might restore to 
him his wife and son. Of course, they were all charlatans.
 One conjuror suggested that he take a long journey to the 
east to the waste areas of the world to seek out a certain plant that had 
resurrection properties. This he did, by himself, on horseback and it was on 
this journey near the Pripet marshes that he was attacked by a verdilak, a 
creature that normally only feasts on rodents. His blood loss was great but he 
was able to make it back to his castle. If he had cauterized the infected bite 
with fire, then all would have been well. But the infection spread throughout 
his body and he became a vampire. Angry and fearful at the change, he attacked 
his nobles with uncontrollable blood lust. Some survived and escaped, the others 
died. The bodies of the slain he tossed into an oubliette. This is a well that 
was built inside castles for tossing those you didn't like into to starve to death.
Recent excavations of these in castles in England have found so many bones 
inside that it required multiple trucks to carry the bones out.
 After the decimation of Francoise's royal court and the only sound
 to be heard was the dripping on the flagstones, and the 
flutter of banners, and the squeak of the mice in the walls, he calmed down. But 
still he felt the need to feed on human blood. He remembered that when an animal 
is wounded, it licks the wound and soon the wound heals. 
So whenever he bit someone..he licked the wound so that the wound healed almost 
instantly and in the morning there was no mark left and the victim only felt a 
little weak. So he did not leave a trail of corpses behind him, but a bunch 
of women wondering why they were feeling so weak and so anemic.
Over the years the population of villagers grew around him and he invited some 
of them to court to parties, sometimes feeding on some. When questioned about 
the rumors of a great slaughter, he only said it was only a drunken brawl that 
had resulted in several fatalies and that the miscreants had been brought to 
justice. As the years wore on and he did not age, rumors began that he must have 
made a pact with the dark forces to stay so young. He decided to leave the 
castle to his now-grown grand nephews and head for Paris. Francoise would live in Paris for 
several centuries, and then move to England around 1250. Then he moved to 
America in 1720. He attended law school in Williamsburg and became a lawyer. 
Then he became a judge, and then a prosecutor. It was in this last occupation 
that he met Tom Bartek and found the son that he had lost.
	The public library was one place where the homeless could stay warm during the 
winter months. You could see them in the magazine section, an open magazine or newspaper
 in their laps, their eyes shut, their head bent forward in a light snooze. 
Tom was asleep in the law section. Normally, he'd be sleeping in his old truck except that
 it was on top of a lift in the Toytoa dealership awaiting a part that could take as long as
 three days to come in. Well, when your truck begins to head up to 500,000 miles on the odometer,
some parts become scarce. Why was he sleeping in his truck? Try living in a $600 a month 
apartment on minimum wage. $600 for 30 days is twenty dollars a day. At six bucks an hour as
 a lube technician times eight hours, it comes to forty eight dollars. Figure after taxes,
 forty. So paying twenty bucks a day for an apartment  would have left him with twenty left over.
  Since he had to fill up his tank every other day to get to work, and that came to fifteen 
dollars a day, that left him with five dollars a day for food, and clothes and car repairs.
  That is why he lived out of his truck. At nine o'clock the librarians threw everyone 
out, and the other homeless went to find some warm grate to sleep on. but it wasn't always
 the best choice: one especially cold winter in the Nation's capital, a couple of homeless
 had frozen to death while sleeping on grates. Tom found a corner out of the wind of a nearby church
and hunkered down there until the warm morning sun would arrive. It wasn't comfortable leaning
 against the brick wall of the church and Tom kept waking up throughout the night.  He 
opened his eyes in the dark for the tenth time it seemed but now there was a shadowy 
figure standing in front of him. Oh Christ, he thought. Another security guard about to run
 me off. But the "guard" did not shine a flashlight on Tom as they always did. And the odd 
thing, was that Tom could see the guard's eyes. They were bright, even glowing red.  Then it
 seemed that Tom fell asleep again, because his world got fuzzy, then dark.  Then he felt from
 far away a pain on his neck. Now he felt himself being hurled backwards onto the ground.  
The shadowy figure cursed. Tom opened his eyes and once again saw the shadowy figure, now
 standing directly over him. 
"What is that chemical that is all over you!" The shadow exclaimed.  
Tom smelled his sleeve. 
"Oh, that is 10-40 motor oil. Good clean dirt. I work as a lube tech down at the dealership."
 "Whatever it is, my hands now reek of it!" The shadow exclaimed.  
"Am I tresspassing?" asked Tom. The figure said nothing. "I didn't mean to trespass,
 but my truck is in the shop and I have no other place to stay.  The figure still said
 nothing. See- I stay in my truck. I mean, I live out of it. It's not as if my wife threw 
me out of the house. No lady in her right mind would marry me in my present economic 
condition, for sure." "The figure seemed to smile. Then figure disappeared. " Tom passed
 out, strangely exhausted, and awoke cold and achy and his clothes wet from the dew on 
the grass.  Soon afterwards, Tom got his truck back and he had taken a shower at a nearby
 truck stop, where the drivers of the eighteen-wheelers rest and clean up. (Tom had
 once gone to truck driving school but he soon discovered that it is easier for a sinner
 to become pope than to get a CDL class A license in Virgina...
   For lunch on this particular day, Tom went to his favorite deli down the road from the
 dealership to get a chopped chicken liver sandwich. (Hey, if you've never tried it, don't knock it.)
 The deli was always popular with the office workers in the surrounding buildings:  secretaries,
 lawyers, bankers, mortgage officers...and Tom got the last available table.  Tom had already 
begun eating when a tall lean figure came in and placed an order at the counter. He then looked
 about where to sit down and saw Tom's table by the door with the three empty seats. He had not
 been stalking Tom, this was just a chance occurrence. To others, a lucky break. The table tended 
to be the last taken, as it was drafty by the door. The tall figure came over. 
"May I join you?"
It was then that he recognized Tom but Tom had no memory of the incident, save for a buise on his neck.
"Not at all, " replied Tom. "I'm almost finished." 
The two began a light conversation and it turned out that Tom's guest was the DA who was visiting
 a nearby office where a lawyer-turned-politician had located himself. The DA position- called in
 Virginia the Commonwealth's Attorney- was also an elected position and the two lawyers were working
 on some campaign strategy. To Tom, the DA seemed to know him. 
"I normally don't eat here," said the DA "I actually prefer the Magnolia Manse. More secluded.
 And it reminds me of New Orleans. So- I see by your garb that you must be a mechanic." 
"Yeah," Tom replied, looking down at the motor oil on his black steel-toed shoes. He saw that the
DA was wearing Italian wing tips, also known as oxfords. The kind of shoe James Bond wears. 
"My shoes are a little grimy," Tom said. The DA looked down. 
"That's just honest dirt," he replied, echoing Tom's words of three nights before. 
Tom smiled, liking the remark.  
"But you seem too erudite to be just an auto mechanic."
 "Well, acutally, I 'm a lube tech, and I have a degree in Electrical Engineering."
 "Having difficulties in obtaining employment commesurate with your education, are we? "
 Tom laughed. " I can't decide whether it is poor employment skills, a bad economy, just 
bad luck, or the feds have it in for me. So, tell me about what you do," said Tom. 
The DA began: " My job is to protect the public from the criminal offender. And I am very 
good at what I do. I have an almost preternatural knack of being able to see inside the
 soul of the criminal and know what he's done. Just one long parade of filth. But I would
guess that you would be the sort of person who would want to see all criminals released."
 Tom shrugged. "I think a lot of people in jail are just those who have had bad luck like myself."
 "How generous of you," the DA smiled.  "I tell you what. There is a new job opening up that 
I believe you would be well suited for- it is as a Probation Officer." 
"What's that?" 
"You see, sometimes when a criminal offender is arrested and appears before the judge,
 the judge instead of sentencing the offender to jail gives him community service to perform,
 instead. You, as a probation officer, would supervise these offenders, and when they had
 finished their probation, you would write a letter to the judge indicating such, and then 
they would be free to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting public once again." The DA laughed. 
"They range in such inoccuousness as jaywalking to such comedy as a woman stopping at the
 Kmart at 3 am to help herself to the plants left out on the sidewalk to such disgusting 
items as a woman shutting her children in the trunk of her car and driving down the road 
to punish them.  I do not make the laws, I merely prosecute. Of course, I may use discretion,
 when I see fit. In time, Tom would learn that it was also illegal to use the bus station 
bathroom if you did not have a ticket, and if you did, you were arrested and sent to jail.
 Virginia jails are full of homeless that tried to use the bus station bathroom, because 
they were too delicate to take a leak in public. And there is no parole in Virginia. 
No time off for good behavior.  The prison system is the second biggest industry in Virginia.
 The DA took down Tom's phone number at the dealership and sure enough, the very next day, 
the service writer for the Blue team informed Tom that he had a phone call. It was a Ms. Black,
 who was the Director of the probation office, and she wanted to interview Tom.
 No resume was needed here, either. In the blue collar job of auto mechanic, it is
 what you know that gets you the job. In the white collar jobs, it is who you know.
 Ms. Black's interview didn't last very long, and she seemed to merely nod her head alot.
 Tom had the impression that things had been pretty well decided without her. Then she 
sent him over to Human Resources in the City Hall, to fill out paperwork, like tax forms
 and to get finger-printed. About a week later, the DA happened to meet Ms. Black in court. 
"So, how is the new recruit that I sent to you?"
"Very good worker," she replied. "He comes early and stays late. Works through lunch. 
Doesn't take smoke breaks because he doesn't smoke. When he comes in, he goes right to work.
 Doesn't socialize. When he has free time, he offers to help other people. He also fixed the 
plumbing problem we had. The only peculiarity, if it is one, is when the girls get to talking
 about religion. The other director came in for a surprise visit,and she caught all the girls
 in one cubicle discussing the end of the world with the waiting room packed with people." 
"Ah, yes. But what is this peculiarity with Tom?"
"He can't seem to stand the topic." 
"Really." Indeed, the other girls had noticed this also, so that when Ms. Black emailed
 them and told them that she didn't want to come into the office and catch them discussing
 religion or politics, the girls thought that Tom had complained about their behavior. 
They ganged up on Tom and accused him. He just rolled his eyes and ignored them.
 Ms. Black happened by and she saw the crowd around his cubicle. She said: 
"What's all this?" 
Tom replied loudly, "My fellow coworkers think that I complained about them, that I am the 
one responsible for the email."
 "Not at all," responded Ms. Black, also loudly, so that everyone could hear. 
"The other director came in when you guys were talking and we decided that
 you shouldn't be talking about either religion or politics or anything personal
 when the clients are in the room." 








The probation officers were, from time to time, required to take Continuing Education classes. 
Tom reluctantly signed up for the bare minimum required, whereas the other officers saw this 
as a chance to get out of work  at taxpayer's expense and signed up for every one available.
 But sometimes they were not given a choice, such asin classes that discussed sexual harassment
 in the workplace, or in the present class: Suicide Prevention training.
Of course, most of the officers would have liked nothing better than most of their clients 
committing suicide- it wouldlighten their case load and besides, they felt that society 
would be better off for it. And here they were presumably being trained in how to prevent it.
 Tom could imagine how hard the officers would try to put the class instruction
into practice. It was a two day marathon, and most of the time was spent in giggling, with 
Tom rolling his eyes. Near the end of the second day, the instructor had the class pair off
 and Tom got a jovial, giggly, rotund black lady who was a nurse, which one could tell by 
her colorful scrubs and her clean white clogs.  One of the pair was to pretend
to be suicidal, and the other member was supposed to talk them out of it until more help 
could arrive. The nurse wanted Tom to be the suicidal one-she felt her acting skills were
 not that good- and Tom came up with an idea and expressed it to her and she seemed to think
 it was okay. He would be a paranoid schizophrenic who thought that
he was a spy. So when their turn came, they walked to the front of the classroom and Tom began: 
"We are in Starbucks cafe and I am having a cafe latte. It is really crowded, and my table has the only
available chairs, and my partner here has just asked if she can sit down at my table so that she 
can drink her coffee, too." 
Tom sat down first in front of the classroom.  
"May I sit here?" The nurse asked. 
Tom nodded. 
She sat down in the other chair to act out the scenario. 
Tom leaned on his arm, shielding his face from the class because he 
knew spies don't like to be ID'ed. "You look sort of sad," the nurse said.
 Tom said nothing, because he knew spies prefer not to make friends outside 
of the Agency, for security reasons. Every four years they are vetted, and the
less people that are dragged in for questioning, the better. Finally, he spoke. 
"Yes, I am feeling down." 
"Why are you feeling down?" she echoed, in the format of Rogerian, client-directed Therapy.
 "Because I've been ID'ed. Terrorists from the Middle East have followed me here and they're
 waiting outside. If they capture me, they'll drug me, take me back to the Middle East where 
I'll be tortured and killed. They've already killed two of my buddies." 
The jovial nurse couldn't help herself: 
"Sounds like the only people coming for you are wearing white jackets." 
The class laughed. 
"Actually, the agents are wearing beige trenchcoats," said Tom, smiling to himself.
 "So, what are you planning to do about it?" She asked, getting back on track and 
assessing whether he was at a high risk of suicide. 
"Going into the bathroom after having my cafe latte and ending it all with my Walther PPK."
 "So- you have a gun on you now?" She asked. 
He nodded. 
"Is there no one you could call to help you? Your relatives, perhaps?" 
"I wouldn't want to drag them into this," He replied, "for their own safety." 
"What about your boss?" "M5 has disavowed me," Tom replied, smiling. "All my outs are gone.
 Including my contact from California. That's what I get for applying for a job on Eldridge
 Landing Road."
 "How did they follow you here?" asked the nurse. 
" Satellites up overhead can locate the position of every car in America at any second."
 "What!" declared the nurse.
 But the instructor supervising the skit between Tom and the nurse nodded to herself:
 paranoid delusions and thoughts of reference, typical of a schizophrenic.  
(Many schizophrenics think that they are receiving transmissions from satellites and aliens.)
 "Even the guys at Bertha's won't have anything to do with me," Tom said.  
"Listen, you have too much to live for. The world is too beautiful
a place for you to end it all." 
"That's true-  the Buddha at Kamakura, Japan is particularly restful. 
 The white birches in Norway are particularly beautiful." He nodded. 
The skit ended with the nurse making the  "spy" promise  that he would not
 to do anything to harm himself until the police arrived. The audience clapped. 
 "So," the instructor asked them, starting with the nurse, how did you feel about the skit?"
 "It was sort of hard- he didn't want to open up to me at first. And when he admitted that 
he had a gun, I knew that I had to call the police at that point." 
The instructor turned to Tom. "And how did you feel?" 
Tom replied: "It brought back old memories." He smiled. 
"Of what?" "Of- uh- dealing with schizophrenics," he replied.