“Mark of Mr. X”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-17)

It had been a lazy evening in rural Geauga County.

I was watching a marathon broadcast of “Trailer Park Boys” episodes via the XTV channel on my Roku box. But after a few hours spent drinking beer and munching on snacks from our new Thompson ‘Dollar General’ store, I needed a walk. My Black Lab was also restless. So we adjourned to the yard for the beginning of a quick neighborhood tour.

I was still thinking about Julian, Bubbles, Ricky and the perpetually-drunk Jim Lahey from the ‘Sunnyvale’ park, in Nova Scotia. And about the fact that radio personality Ken Carman was also a great fan of the series. With a grin, I recalled that he had actually interviewed actor John Dunsworth on his program. But suddenly, my wandering thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a giant letter in the sky.

A white “X” loomed overhead, formed from airplane contrails, as I stood across the street with my pooch.

An orange cat slipped into view from under a neighbor’s car. My dog tugged at his leash, nearly pulling me off balance. Yet I managed to remain upright. There was a moment of disbelief. Could the massive letter simply be a coincidence? A crossed path with no meaning other than the pilot had corrected their course? I pondered as my Black Lab yelped at the kitty. It seemed oddly still. No birds were chirping out songs of the morning. The sky looked pale.

Then, an odd vehicle clattered into view. It was a stretched Chevrolet Suburban, in matte black. I counted four doors down each side. It kicked up road dust and gravel. Before I could convince my canine friend to abandon the walk, this vehicle blocked our exit. A window rolled down, dramatically. And a familiar, raspy voice projected from the dark cage, within:

“Rodney! So good to see you this morning!”

I shook my head while looking up and down the length of the ebony GM cruiser.

“A stretched Suburban?” I exclaimed. “Come on Mr. X, what made you get a vehicle like that?”

He chortled quietly. “I thought it was more likely to blend in with the other trucks in your rural community. Your neighbors all drive such things. Trucks or SUVs.”

I nodded affirmation. “Plenty of snow out here in the winter. I wouldn’t get anywhere with a Toyota Prius. My F-150 does the job.”

“Bless you,” my visitor cooed. “You are so… Midwestern!”

I was already out of patience. “Okay, X, it was a peaceful morning here. But, no longer. What are you doing out on the road at such an early hour?”

“Rodney, I have come with a warning,” he said ominously. “Or if you prefer, a bit of friendly advice...”

“A warning?” I repeated.

“You are back to your old habits, my friend,” he observed. “Back to writing your silly stream-of-consciousness columns. I thought that lesson had been learned after we had you removed from your newspaper in Chardon!”

“REMOVED?” I growled, quizzically.

He laughed out loud. “Did you think that your ‘retirement’ was an accident?”

“My editor felt the series had run its course,” I explained. “After 16 years, I agreed. Simply a business decision made in the interest of freshening the paper.”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Look Mr. X,” I frowned. “It is too early in the morning for your mind games. Can we finish this conversation? I want to walk my dog.”

“Rodney, the world is a dangerous place,” he continued. “Threats from ISIS, Russia, North Korea… so many foes await our miscalculations. Here at home we have jihadists hiding in the weeds, foreign gangs, nationalist radicals, gun nuts and survivalists… it is like a minefield from coast to coast. But you want to write your little columns!”

I was becoming more irritated. “What do my wordsmithing efforts have to do with all of that?”

“You love to stir the pot,” he hissed. “But you see, stirring is not wise. Especially when we are in such uncertain times. You presume too much. You are reckless and foolish. President Trump is not amused...”

“TRUMP?” I exploded.

Suddenly, Mr. X was more pale than before.

“Trump reads my column?” I asked, emphatically.

“Forgive me,” he begged. “I have said… said too much. A slip of the tongue.”

“Trump got a copy of the ‘Who Is Carrie Hamglaze’ book, last year,” I admitted. “It was sent to his business office at Trump Tower. I never received a response of any kind. I also sent a copy to Mrs. Clinton. Her campaign chairman offered a letter of thanks in response.”

“Rodney, you are nothing more than a small-town scribe,” he said. “Of no importance in the grand scheme of things. But you place yourself in the midst of unseen forces. That is what I have been trying to say. I warn you again. Take heed!”

My face was red. “Look, Mr. X, you are speaking in riddles. Stop it!”

“Not a riddle,” he professed. “My meaning is quite clear. You like to joke about conspiracies and theories of political intrigue.”

“The Carrie Hamglaze book was simply a reflection of the GOP’s inability to find a solid candidate for the national stage,” I explained. “It was a bit of political satire. I could not have imagined that Mr. Trump would win the primary contest. My imagination conjured up the notion of Carrie running for residency in the White House. That actually isn’t much more fantastic than what happened, is it?”

“Not much,” he admitted.

My voice strengthened. “I sent copies of the book out as a publicity stunt. Actually, I did something similar in 2008 and 2012. It was a way to create material for my columns. Nothing more.”

Mr. X cleared his throat. “A publicity stunt! But now… you are right in the middle of a dangerous mashup between populist voters and an inexperienced administration. And rogue forces who want to tear down the United States!”

My Black Lab was straining at his leash.

“Look, Mr. X,” I said. “Enough of this, really. Enough! At best, a few thousand local readers see anything I’ve had published. Mostly retirees who read the paper over coffee at McDonald’s in the morning. Okay? Quit fretting about my oddball sense of humor.”

“You have peered into the future,” he whispered. “Looked where you were not supposed to look. But now, the patience of our masters has worn thin. So I leave you with this admonition. Be silent! Let go of your silly writing habits. No more online newspaper, No more columns. Go back to your grocery store career. Pack bags and get carts.”

A long pause elapsed. “I am unemployed right now, X. The Geauga Independent was simply a project during my early retirement.”

“LISTEN TO ME!” he shouted. “Or… face the consequences.”

Before I could argue, he had re-entered the stretched Chevy Suburban. Its tinted windows revealed little about those inside. The motor chuffed to life and soon, my visitor and his vehicle were gone.

My Black Lab seemed unaffected. He tugged at his leash.

The morning was over. It was time to walk!

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gamil.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent