Science Man Strikes Back

Dear Damon and Readers,

Let me begin by thanking you for your concern; I am exceedingly lucky to have such devoted friends.

Since my last missive, I have exchanged one remote location for another. As the result of my friend George's generosity, I just completed several days of "offshore" recreation. Originally, I was scheduled to stay for a week, but my hosts have asked me to leave. Let me explain:

I came here to attend an elite, all-male equestrian camp. The men who run it insist that its existence, let alone its location, remain a secret.

I should clarify that when I call it elite, I refer only to the quality of instruction; the students are of all skill levels, something pointed out regularly and profanely by our instructors. (They are fond of telling us that we're "trust fund candy asses" and that the camp administrators would accept "any shit-for-brains" who could pay the tuition and keep his mouth shut.) It seems that the majority of the students are exiles or misfits of some type who attend on the dollar of another. Rumor has it that Bobby Fischer "rode" in '94 and insisted on calling his horse Kasparov.

On to my story: It was high noon on the third day at camp, and I, along with my fellow campers, had just settled down to lunch. Despite our soreness, we straddled the tiny wooden stools provided by the camp. (The instructors ate roasted duck and sat in the cushioned booths of the cafeteria, a privilege they told us we had yet to earn). As I bit into my bologna and American cheese sandwich, I caught the unmistakeable whiff of cigarette smoke. I turned to my left and encountered the pinkened, ovoid visage of none other than my fellow student JD, whom you more likely know as Jeff Gannon, the discredited journalist/political hack/male escort.


JD/Jeff Gannon

"I thank you to extinguish your cigarette or move away," I told him. (Had someone else been smoking, I might have moved along myself. But I had had enough of JD.)

He refused, spewing some pablum about individual freedoms.

"Listen, Bulldog," my anger was rising, "My mother acquired lung cancer because of your freedoms. If you don't 'beat it,' I will beat you."

JD responded by blowing smoke in my face.

Every man has his breaking point, and I had reached mine. The days of running and hiding from hired assassins; the knowledge that those hired assassins hid my true adversary, an anonymous coward; the frustration resulting from my inability to confront him; the inconvenience, the isolation, the terror...it all culminated in this moment.

I reached for my riding gloves, which sat in the dirt below me. With cat-like quickness, I whipped them around in a forceful forehand, catching JD across his left cheek, knocking the cigarette from his mouth and his backside from the stool. (I would like to think I knocked the stool from his backside, but I suppose that’s too much to ask of a glove slap, however well executed.)


riding gloves

I was quickly restrained by my fellow students, and by 1:00, the administrators had asked me to leave.

Some may think I was out of line, as had been General Patton before me. But I think JD finally got what he deserved. Let this serve as a warning to the asses who chase me, to the person(s) who hired them, to JD and his reactionary benefactors:


The tables have turned. I'm coming for you.


Science Man