Heroes Do Not Come Easy
Or
1 Orientation is Wasted on the Disoriented
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
"Monty this seems strange to me.
The movies had that movie thing,
but nonsense has a welcome ring
and heroes don't come easy."
~R.E.M.
Monty Got a Raw Deal
Some one once told me about a woman that was making out with her boyfriend. A group of six men came, dragged the boyfriend out beat him to a bloody pulp. Then put a paper bag over the girl's head and each of the six men rapped the woman and beat her. By the time it came around to the sixth man the paper bag started to come off. The man looked down and it was his own sister. I'm not sure what the moral of the story was but as I sat there I had to laugh. I'm not real sure why. I guess that it was to me a story that could have happened or not. A story that has as much plausibility as mine, which you can say is either true or not. It's your choice. I'm not going to make it for you.
Why I have told you this. Perhaps it probably due to the fact I wanted to grab your attention. Its one of the common things in public speaking in order to grab your attention so that my point can be made.
I was young and stupid. Ok, I was mostly stupid. It's what leads to my downfall. I was young, impressionable, and most of all stupid. Perhaps it I hadn't been all three the events of my life would not have occurred. Perhaps I could have lived a simple kind of life.
The facts of my life are insignificant.
Very well where do I start?
I guess my story starts before I become apart of it. Yes, I have to go back before I am even a member of my own story. This part of my story is a bit foggy since I do not know all the details of my own story. In fact the majority of it has been pieced together much like a pathetic little jigsaw puzzle. It involves a very attractive young secretary in a Soviet Régime (In fact, I'm told I get my good looks and compassion, if there is any left, from this young secretary.) I don't know much about the man I later came to know as my real father. To my knowledge not many people in my family knew too much about the man that is my biological father. What little I know is based on what I've been told by my father (through his drunken gibberish), what I've gathered on my own observations, and the stories of my family members. From what I gathered it was a brief affair that involved a dark man from the US. I don't know how long or what happened but it was bitter and brief. He was shady "business man" or that's what he told my mother who blew in the smoke haze and then left. All he left her was a half carton Morley's, a tiny scar on her forearm, and, oh yea, me.
My mother, being the intelligent woman that she was, did what any other young, intelligent, beautiful, resourceful woman would do in her situation. She married the first man she could find that was willing to have a pregnant wife and a bastard son. This leads to another player in my young life. He was a Clerk working at the Government in Grozny. It was a small ranking position and often left him feeling a weak and pathetic individual and often tried to inflate his ego with the help of a vodka bottle. Either way, a drunk Russian clerk became my father; he gave me his last name, and in spite of his hatred of me called me his son.
I was born.
This is a crucial part of our story since it where I come in. I was born to my mother and father on this godless night in October. A healthy baby boy that looked a lot likes his mother. Yes, this is act one of our story. I was born in Grozny. I don't really remember the Soviet Union apart from it being very cold. We moved to the United States also a very vague memory of life. The reason even seems to be a vague story depending on whom you would ask. It seems that involves my father's addiction to gambling. The story is that my father lost his wife and child in a game of poker to a KGB agent. I think I prefer the second story about it being about my biological father and my mother's connection. I fell in love with the idea that my leaving had to do with my father being a spy and that I was the product of it. Perhaps, it was a post-Byron romantic touch. Maybe its because I fell in love the spy films of the west.
Little did I know what that impact was going to be on my life later. It's a shame what a young boy finds into with a godless romance. Trying to hope to impress his father.
It's a shame that we live and die by the dreams of our fathers.
We all have a defining moment in our lives. Its what makes it what we are in the adult life. Each of the main states of our lives is marked by some event that defines us as human beings. Here is the first one in a series of crucial stepping spaces that defines me as me.
I don't know how the fight started I just know what it was about. I was a small boy at the time and I remember waking up here my parents arguing, a common childhood memory, about something. They had fought before and often gotten violently loud. This was not exception to the rule. I remember having a dream and then hearing the voices. It was such violent fight. It was at this point I could tell you what they were arguing about. One of the few things I remember vividly what the fight was about. I remember my father saying that no son of his was going to be growing up with a woman alone and my mother saying that he's not your son. There was a moment of silence before he started yelling at her again and it got violent. What truly got me was the violent slam against my door. I didn't move. I didn't even breath out of terror of him barding in and hurting me to. The next thing I remember was he apologizing for what ever he did to her. I sat with my back against the headboard for hours until I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. I did ask my father what happened all he could do is look at me and say: "Shut up boy." To this day, I don't know what happened to my mother.
There really isn't much to say about the next few years of my life leading up to the reticent past that people don't know about. My father didn't abusive until I was old enough to fight back (about 8 or 9) and for a while I did until I realized physically useless and just started talking it. There, however other ways to fight back from your oppressors. I came to that revelation very early in life. I also came to the conclusion that the more after school activities I got involved in the less time I would be spent at home and that was a good thing. So I got involved with everything you name it I probably did it accept the girl scouts, for obvious reasons, and ROTC (I was involved in ROTC but got kicked out for supposed lack or respect to authority and probably my slight accent that I had at the time). This is probably what helped me get out of my father's home, which was only his home when he was sober enough to stumble home. I was smart enough and good enough. I found myself 17 (since my birthday is in October) and a choice of colleges. I chose one in the D.C. area for two reasons. 1) They gave me money 2) it was far away from Branson.
There isn't much to this part of our story at this stage. I attended college, showed to be one of the top students in my class. This led me to a wide range of options. I originally wanted to go into politics. It wasn't until the fall semester of my second year that I found out what I truly wanted to do: The FBI. It was like that there was a divine light from heaven, if I believed in god, shown down. I worked for every waking moment to get into the Academy. However, it wasn't until that Thanksgiving until I made my intentions known to my family. I announced my future plans just after the turkey was carved.
Me: I'm joining the FBI.
Dad: No son of mine is joining the FBI.
Me: Fine then…. I'm not your son.
With that I grabbed my jacket and walked out. I think I drove as far as I could before running out of gas then pushed it to some god-forsaken gas station.
Sadly acts of rebellions pay a price. I have my freedom that I've enjoyed but left me with no funds.
Its what lead me to where I am today. I supported myself through a series of sad little minimum wage jobs. It was one of these poor jobs where I made an impression. I showed promise both at the academy and everywhere else for that matter. It was this that drew the attention to my current employers. I showed enough skill to become on of there agents, which I did. I started basic stuff at first, assassination, double agent work, misinformation, etc. I was good. I was really good. Then I got my first fieldwork.
I didn't mind the tasks given to me in the field towards the FBI. I was doing what I was told to do and I was doing the right thing. And quiet frankly I didn't like Mulder. Not from day one. It wasn't because he was in that damn Speedo, though it didn't help. It was the fact that he had the truth right in front of him right in his grasp and he ignored it. He had a blind eye and yet he was searching for it. It made me angry but on the upside it made my job easier.
It wouldn't be until later that I found out how jealous I was of him and his land of make believe.
After the abduction [Scully's], I disappeared and did some travel for covert activities. Mostly, things I had done before that were low profile. It was also at this point I started making a name for myself in my Homeland. I passed on what I knew and became a small player. I didn't dare use my real name but adopted the Alias of Comrade Artzen to conduct business abroad. I had a great time doing it. I got to be my heroes from the spy movies I had grown up watching.
I was James Fucking Bond.
Oh, what? I didn't explain what they offer me that swayed me. It wasn't the fact that I could be a spy. It was the opportunity for cheap women and easy money. I was poor and lonely.
You know most of what occurred through those days. I don't deny the crimes I committed. When I wasn't in the US doing the bidding of my overlords I was making a name for myself back home. And you know the rest.
This takes us up to the time of my retirement. You'd be amazed how easy it is to fake your death. Especially when everyone looks like everyone else. So I've faked my death. Not like I haven't stopped doing what I do best. I have a fairly large Swiss Bank Account and quiet frankly I am going to pursue my life dream.
All I can conclude with is that these little things can pull you under and don't trust the government.
Or
1 Orientation is Wasted on the Disoriented
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
"Monty this seems strange to me.
The movies had that movie thing,
but nonsense has a welcome ring
and heroes don't come easy."
~R.E.M.
Monty Got a Raw Deal
Some one once told me about a woman that was making out with her boyfriend. A group of six men came, dragged the boyfriend out beat him to a bloody pulp. Then put a paper bag over the girl's head and each of the six men rapped the woman and beat her. By the time it came around to the sixth man the paper bag started to come off. The man looked down and it was his own sister. I'm not sure what the moral of the story was but as I sat there I had to laugh. I'm not real sure why. I guess that it was to me a story that could have happened or not. A story that has as much plausibility as mine, which you can say is either true or not. It's your choice. I'm not going to make it for you.
Why I have told you this. Perhaps it probably due to the fact I wanted to grab your attention. Its one of the common things in public speaking in order to grab your attention so that my point can be made.
I was young and stupid. Ok, I was mostly stupid. It's what leads to my downfall. I was young, impressionable, and most of all stupid. Perhaps it I hadn't been all three the events of my life would not have occurred. Perhaps I could have lived a simple kind of life.
The facts of my life are insignificant.
Very well where do I start?
I guess my story starts before I become apart of it. Yes, I have to go back before I am even a member of my own story. This part of my story is a bit foggy since I do not know all the details of my own story. In fact the majority of it has been pieced together much like a pathetic little jigsaw puzzle. It involves a very attractive young secretary in a Soviet Régime (In fact, I'm told I get my good looks and compassion, if there is any left, from this young secretary.) I don't know much about the man I later came to know as my real father. To my knowledge not many people in my family knew too much about the man that is my biological father. What little I know is based on what I've been told by my father (through his drunken gibberish), what I've gathered on my own observations, and the stories of my family members. From what I gathered it was a brief affair that involved a dark man from the US. I don't know how long or what happened but it was bitter and brief. He was shady "business man" or that's what he told my mother who blew in the smoke haze and then left. All he left her was a half carton Morley's, a tiny scar on her forearm, and, oh yea, me.
My mother, being the intelligent woman that she was, did what any other young, intelligent, beautiful, resourceful woman would do in her situation. She married the first man she could find that was willing to have a pregnant wife and a bastard son. This leads to another player in my young life. He was a Clerk working at the Government in Grozny. It was a small ranking position and often left him feeling a weak and pathetic individual and often tried to inflate his ego with the help of a vodka bottle. Either way, a drunk Russian clerk became my father; he gave me his last name, and in spite of his hatred of me called me his son.
I was born.
This is a crucial part of our story since it where I come in. I was born to my mother and father on this godless night in October. A healthy baby boy that looked a lot likes his mother. Yes, this is act one of our story. I was born in Grozny. I don't really remember the Soviet Union apart from it being very cold. We moved to the United States also a very vague memory of life. The reason even seems to be a vague story depending on whom you would ask. It seems that involves my father's addiction to gambling. The story is that my father lost his wife and child in a game of poker to a KGB agent. I think I prefer the second story about it being about my biological father and my mother's connection. I fell in love with the idea that my leaving had to do with my father being a spy and that I was the product of it. Perhaps, it was a post-Byron romantic touch. Maybe its because I fell in love the spy films of the west.
Little did I know what that impact was going to be on my life later. It's a shame what a young boy finds into with a godless romance. Trying to hope to impress his father.
It's a shame that we live and die by the dreams of our fathers.
We all have a defining moment in our lives. Its what makes it what we are in the adult life. Each of the main states of our lives is marked by some event that defines us as human beings. Here is the first one in a series of crucial stepping spaces that defines me as me.
I don't know how the fight started I just know what it was about. I was a small boy at the time and I remember waking up here my parents arguing, a common childhood memory, about something. They had fought before and often gotten violently loud. This was not exception to the rule. I remember having a dream and then hearing the voices. It was such violent fight. It was at this point I could tell you what they were arguing about. One of the few things I remember vividly what the fight was about. I remember my father saying that no son of his was going to be growing up with a woman alone and my mother saying that he's not your son. There was a moment of silence before he started yelling at her again and it got violent. What truly got me was the violent slam against my door. I didn't move. I didn't even breath out of terror of him barding in and hurting me to. The next thing I remember was he apologizing for what ever he did to her. I sat with my back against the headboard for hours until I fell asleep. When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. I did ask my father what happened all he could do is look at me and say: "Shut up boy." To this day, I don't know what happened to my mother.
There really isn't much to say about the next few years of my life leading up to the reticent past that people don't know about. My father didn't abusive until I was old enough to fight back (about 8 or 9) and for a while I did until I realized physically useless and just started talking it. There, however other ways to fight back from your oppressors. I came to that revelation very early in life. I also came to the conclusion that the more after school activities I got involved in the less time I would be spent at home and that was a good thing. So I got involved with everything you name it I probably did it accept the girl scouts, for obvious reasons, and ROTC (I was involved in ROTC but got kicked out for supposed lack or respect to authority and probably my slight accent that I had at the time). This is probably what helped me get out of my father's home, which was only his home when he was sober enough to stumble home. I was smart enough and good enough. I found myself 17 (since my birthday is in October) and a choice of colleges. I chose one in the D.C. area for two reasons. 1) They gave me money 2) it was far away from Branson.
There isn't much to this part of our story at this stage. I attended college, showed to be one of the top students in my class. This led me to a wide range of options. I originally wanted to go into politics. It wasn't until the fall semester of my second year that I found out what I truly wanted to do: The FBI. It was like that there was a divine light from heaven, if I believed in god, shown down. I worked for every waking moment to get into the Academy. However, it wasn't until that Thanksgiving until I made my intentions known to my family. I announced my future plans just after the turkey was carved.
Me: I'm joining the FBI.
Dad: No son of mine is joining the FBI.
Me: Fine then…. I'm not your son.
With that I grabbed my jacket and walked out. I think I drove as far as I could before running out of gas then pushed it to some god-forsaken gas station.
Sadly acts of rebellions pay a price. I have my freedom that I've enjoyed but left me with no funds.
Its what lead me to where I am today. I supported myself through a series of sad little minimum wage jobs. It was one of these poor jobs where I made an impression. I showed promise both at the academy and everywhere else for that matter. It was this that drew the attention to my current employers. I showed enough skill to become on of there agents, which I did. I started basic stuff at first, assassination, double agent work, misinformation, etc. I was good. I was really good. Then I got my first fieldwork.
I didn't mind the tasks given to me in the field towards the FBI. I was doing what I was told to do and I was doing the right thing. And quiet frankly I didn't like Mulder. Not from day one. It wasn't because he was in that damn Speedo, though it didn't help. It was the fact that he had the truth right in front of him right in his grasp and he ignored it. He had a blind eye and yet he was searching for it. It made me angry but on the upside it made my job easier.
It wouldn't be until later that I found out how jealous I was of him and his land of make believe.
After the abduction [Scully's], I disappeared and did some travel for covert activities. Mostly, things I had done before that were low profile. It was also at this point I started making a name for myself in my Homeland. I passed on what I knew and became a small player. I didn't dare use my real name but adopted the Alias of Comrade Artzen to conduct business abroad. I had a great time doing it. I got to be my heroes from the spy movies I had grown up watching.
I was James Fucking Bond.
Oh, what? I didn't explain what they offer me that swayed me. It wasn't the fact that I could be a spy. It was the opportunity for cheap women and easy money. I was poor and lonely.
You know most of what occurred through those days. I don't deny the crimes I committed. When I wasn't in the US doing the bidding of my overlords I was making a name for myself back home. And you know the rest.
This takes us up to the time of my retirement. You'd be amazed how easy it is to fake your death. Especially when everyone looks like everyone else. So I've faked my death. Not like I haven't stopped doing what I do best. I have a fairly large Swiss Bank Account and quiet frankly I am going to pursue my life dream.
All I can conclude with is that these little things can pull you under and don't trust the government.