Biography of Mr. Lies:Lawrence Montle

The Truth.

In his spare time Mr. Lies reads depressing pulp novels which are disjointed. He seeks out characters in situations which are less linear than his. He looks for endless confusion and difficulty in novels to contrast with his manic lifestyle. He does a lot of reading.

He began his education as a member of a military family, constantly traveling. He vowed to himself that as soon as he was of legal age he would simply stop moving with his family. His big dream was the opposite of running away, he longed to stay in one place for the rest of his life. He had this idea in mind when he graduated high school. He chose economics in college to provide a stable, sedentary career path. In the first semester of his senior year he had several lucrative job offers lined up, and saw a family with 2.5 children and a dog named Spot in his future. One day he went to his academic advisor, and his advisor recommended that Mr. Lies change his major to creative writing. Mr. Lies flatly refused. The advisor then produced photographic evidence of Mr. Lies selling Diet Water to underclassmen out of his dorm room. The sale or solicitation of any materials by students was strictly forbidden( and all required textbooks were written by professors). The penalty for defrauding fellow students, coupled with the penalty for selling anything on campus was immediate expulsion from school. With this in mind, Mr. Lies became a creative writer.

Mr. Lies somehow got an agent . He wrote a few screenplays that were rejected by all major networks, cable channels and even public access cable. Mr. Lies' agent skipped town, and stole Mr. Lies laptop computer. Mr. Lies found out about the rejection letter from the superintendent of his apartment building. When Mr. Lies came home from an all nighter at the library the Super met him with a handful of letters. There were 18 rejection letters, and an eviction notice.

Mr. Lies took his worldly possession (which were in his left pants pocket), and got a room at the YMCA. There were constantly fights among the other residents over bathroom privileges, and use of the one cracked mirror. Eventually Mr. Lies discovered that he was a good mediator. He reconciled arguments every evening, and the fighting for privileges tapered off considerably.

Mr. Lies took correspondence courses with the meager salary he earned as a busboy at McDonalds. Eventually there was a chance for a promotion. The Au Bon Pain in the World Trade Center had a opening for a sandwich chef. He applied and got the job. On day as he was about to lock up the kiosk for the night a man asked him for a ham and Swiss on rye with Dijon mustard in a cup. The man said his name was Daniel, and he was a venture capitalist, and private banker. Daniel paid the for the $6 sandwich wit a hundred dollar bill and didn't wait for his change. Every Wednesday Daniel came by, and he always asked Mr. Lies to give him a little more fromage on his jambon than the standard portion. Mr. Lies risked getting fired to comply.

One day Daniel came 10 minutes earlier and asked Mr. Lies to talk. Mr. Lies put down the carving knife that he was slicing tomatoes with and listened. Daniel told Mr. Lies that he could be doing much better than he was doing in the sandwich shop. Daniel had a friend in a Travel salesman's guild, and he would seek what he could do. Suspiciously, Mr. Lies asked what his end of the deal would be. The plan was explained. Mr. Lies would be bankrolled by Daniel, and completely set up in business. Daniel would charge 15% interest on the total balance compounded monthly. If Mr. Lies made over 100K per year, the interest rate would drop to 12% compounded bi-monthly. At 200k, the interest rate would be 10% compounded annually.

Daniel held out his hand to shake after Mr. Lies signed the 15-page loan binder agreement. There was a speck of relish on page 5, but food didn't invalidate the contract. Nothing but the death of Mr. Lies and Daniel (simultaneously) would release Mr. Lies from his contractual obligation.

Mr. Lies was a star performer in travel agent circles. He was the international top seller as a rookie, and runner up for the worlds top salesperson each year thereafter. He developed a talent for seeming to appear out of nowhere, and sensing when people e needed to get away. His biggest coup was the acquisition of an unpublished Bill Grey manuscript(worth 18.4 Million). Mr. Lies. Uses creative financing, and has only had to repossess one home in his 35 year career (a husband and wife started an around the world all expenses paid trip and ended up divorced in Bali) .

Mr. Lies no longer accepts reverse mortgages as payment. He prefers honest greenbacks.



Can a painting, or a well-written novel lie ?

Perfection is unattainable, but the beauty of an artwork is thought of by some as a "truth."

Anchee Min's Red Azalea is art. As story would its purpose best be served if every sentence were triple checked for accuracy? Of course not. There are some passages which wouldn't sing with her delightful descriptions if hard-line realities were imposed upon them. She stated she was an adult since 5. She doesn't seem to have ever fully grown up. Nearly every person in Ms. Min's tale is part human, and part animal. The fascinating part is that while the people stayed the same, the animal components changed. In different passages the author described people as pigs, crickets, dogs, elephants, and she herself was at one point a turtle.

Ms. Min's story is about a young girl following her idols. Mao, Yan, and then the Supervisor. When her idols were accessible she had relationships with them. She began following Mao ( and publicly denounced her favorite teacher in grammar school. It could have actually happened, or perhaps she was figuratively striking out against the intellectual class. That was ironic since her father, and mother were both members of the persecuted intellectual class.

As a travel salesperson I can appreciate this story all the more. Partly for the interesting locales, but more for the judicious reworking of the truth. The story began to take on substance when the author took a trip away from the confinement of family living. Instead of taking care of her younger brother Space Conqueror, and her sisters (because "She was an adult since 5"), she had the opportunity to be worry about only herself for a few hundred pages.

The journey which allowed the author to step away from her family (as many children dream of doing) was the work camp. After she got to the camp, there she wrote about the misery she had volunteered for. The idea that the "farm" was a life sentence with hard labor was not totally accurate. But then, neither was her explanation of the several other things such as the mosquitoes, or the cold weather. Anchee Min only mentioned the cold of the winter when it conveniently fit her story. The cold was a reason to put two people in the same bed. In this story the cold which was a contrivance necessary for her sexual theme. If it were cold there should have been fewer mosquitoes. The ubiquitous mosquito nets were an integral part of her story though, so the mosquitoes stayed (like the reeds). It was cold enough to justify two women sleeping together, but the hardy mosquitoes persevered.

A large section of the book is about her experiences at a work camp. Red Fire Farm. She described her time as an unending cycle of drudgery. Mr. Lightman would have approved of the cyclic time reference. Speaking of Red Fire Farm, the portrait the author painted of endless drudgery was overstated. The collective farms were designed as complete communities, not boot camps. All of the services present in the cities were incorporated into the collectives. The fanciful single sex work camp simply didn't exist. Households went to the farms. The destruction of families was disliked, and discontinued. leap

In her endless time at the Red Fire Farm the author described pervasive reeds. These reeds were impervious to everything and were regenerated nightly. It could be that these reeds were her thwarted longings. Maybe the reeds represented her childhood drives, fighting against the repression of communism (or maybe not) . No plants in external reality grow that fast. In her story reality however, the reeds were quite realistic. She went to great lengths to describe how girls' nails were stained with reed fungicide.

In another passage the author mentioned visiting a Buddhist shrine. Devout followers of Mao (which was most of China), or people who feared his followers (this was the rest of China) simply did not do that. The Red Guards destroyed many temples, and revered Mao as their only leader. Ms. Min was a Little Red Guard herself, which was part of the reason she volunteered for the Red Fire Farm.

Anchee Min also didn't mention the Korean War. It is possible, but improbable that a member of the Red Guards would not have been informed. Again, a fact which didn't interlock with her storyline was left on the cutting room floor.

It was a good story, but the factual aspects were not paramount to the author. It was a book of self-discovery, not a chronicle of the Chinese revolution. As a salesperson, she sold the book as her autobiography, it was a reader's fault if they tried to use the book as a flawless historical account.



Travel with Mr. Lies

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As we sat here and talked his reality became as uncomfortable as sand in my shoe. Any moment the sand would turn to glass, and I had to get out. Escape before I couldn't.

I tried to sell the all-inclusive Tahiti tour to him, but he was more interested in obscure quotations on the Internet. Note to self; never introduce a quasi-hermit to the Internet. Especially on my laptop.


"No, I didn't know Beethoven said that." My feigned interest was gossamer thin, but that was my punishment. He made me continue to pretend.

Mr. Lies

"Well Bill it's getting late" "Wouldn't want to stay too long."

Wearily I looked around and thought that I heard the Eagles filtering through the stacks of paperwork. "Relax" said the night man "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."

" You've got children Bill, when's the last time you spent some time with them?"

I know all about Karen and Scott, but what about your daughter. You remember, the one who lives on campus with her ...ah... friend"

For a while we sat and stared. At the walls, his typewriter, the mounds of paper, and finally at each other.


"How'd you find me?"

Mr. Lies

"The same way I find everyone."


"But I'm different."

Mr. Lies

"Special, is how you're normally referred to at the IOTA meetings Bill."



Mr. Lies

"You're quite a talker Bill, but that's not the point at hand. I'm here to whisk you away on an exotic vacation. Some people want to go to Korea to see the Master. Others go to interesting places like Lebanon, or Beirut."

Bill interrupts


Mr. Lies

"I know Bill, you just came back. The dying on a boat scene been done before, but most people bought it."


"How'd you know."

Mr. Lies

"Listen Bill, let's not make this anymore difficult than it has to be. Every time I tell you something you say How'd you know and I say-"


"Alright I get the idea." Bill said, " I'll stop asking where you get your information "

Mr. Lies

"Thank you, now about Tahiti. "

The ancient office chair groaned as Bill turned toward me. He looked at me out of the edge of his eye.

Mr. Lies

"Yes you can take Brita with you, and no I can't read your mind. I know that's what you were thinking."

"Scott how are you? Karen, Kim says Hi."

Scott stammered

"Who, I mean how."

Mr. Lies

"Remember the van Karen? That's what I do. Sell. I don't trade clothes with everyone else, but other than a few technicalities we are basically the same."


"Did Master Moon send you?"

Mr. Lies

"No, Daniel sent me."


"Who's Daniel?"

Mr. Lies

"My banker. If I don't get out there and sell some trips they're going to start-"

Scott and Karen in unison


Mr. Lies

"It's not important. But what we do need to find out, is what day you'll be returning from your trip. Will you all take window seats, or would you prefer to be seated together? Karen, would you rather sit with the gentlemen, or alone?"

Karen looked at Bill plaintively.


"I want to sit next to Scott"

Mr. Lies

"By the way Bill, the Swiss poet was released unharmed."

Bill spoke to Karen

"I know."

Scott studied the floor, pretending to be invisible.


"Anywhere without people"

Mr. Lies

"That will no longer be necessary Mr. Scansey-"


]"How'd you-"

Mr. Lies interrupts

"Please Bill. The reason you can travel freely is because people think you're dead. Most of the readers of Mao II, probably think you're dead. Remember, the boat trick."


"I thought it would come in handy,"

Mr. Lies

"I think I can convince Daniel to accept your payment if I can figure out a way to prove that it wasn't stolen from a dead man's house. On second thought, he is a banker. He'll just charge me a larger processing fee if legality is a Grey area. "


"What about the house?"

Mr. Lies

"Turn out all fires, and lock the door" was the mechanical reply. The phrase had been repeated so many times that it sounded like one awkward word.


"Can we all go to Brita's apartment? "

Scott tried hard to become invisible again.

Mr. Lies

"I suppose, but Tahiti's much nicer this time of year. What do you think Scott? " I said.


"I don't like Manhattan"


"Scott, where did you stay when you went to the New York? "

Scott reappeared, and his lips were in a tight line.

Mr. Lies

"Oh, yes Bill." "Before I forget, you must go to a real doctor prior to your trip. Not veterinarians like before. A lacerated liver will make that boat scene a reality one day."

Scott was relieved that he didn't have to explain his New York trip.


"I'll make sure he goes"

Mr. Lies

"I though you'd say that Scott."


"Where's Brita?"

Scott rediscovered the floor, as Karen looked at Mr. Lies.

Mr. Lies

"25 West 4th street, second floor"

Karen tried to ask, but Bill cut her off.

"How'd you-"


"You know the rules Karen"


"How much is this going to set us back? "

Mr. Lies

"About a thousand pages."

Bill tried his hand at being invisible, with a faint smile on his face.



P.O.I.-Point of(Interface/Impact)



Einstein, analytical, calculating genius. He displays an ability to do stunning calculations and have normal people understand them. Highly socialized rendition of the famous mathematical genius. He views actions and unconsciously figures out the equation which explains the actions.

News Crier, caller of the headlines. News distributor.

Marajua Pachon, strong successful journalist, she comes from a powerful family. She is iron willed. Nothing scratches her diamond hard exterior persona. Nothing except being forced to act against her will. When she was small, her parents punished her not by beating but by sending her to stay with the babysitter. Nothing affects her more than separation from her loving family.

Bill Grey, Jaded novelist who has a man and woman living with him for the various convenience they can provide. Karen takes care of more primal needs. He is often mistaken for an absent minded philosophy professor.

Tagore, Eastern religious focal point. Physical reality is less real than Aura, and spirituality to him.

The God of the Internet, a being that knows what will happen, but reveals only selected information to mere mortals. He is overcome with boredom since he has seen human errors repeated countless times over the millennia.

Virginia Wolf, eloquent, brilliant literary critic. She usually sits in the front row of plays to catch every nuance of the performance.

The Detached Red Azalea, prosperous, and recently deceased refugee from a Maoist work camp. She is usually melancholy, but attempts to have a sunny outer countenance. She usually wears exercise clothes to remind herself of the endless drudgery she was forced into at an early age. The vision of doomed rice shoots wilting seconds after she planted them is a memory which she works to suppress.

Pablo Escobar, fabulously wealthy drug kingpin without a safe haven. He doesn't like to hurt women, but he feels that his only chance for survival is to kidnap a popular woman. He is a former billionaire but his money is worthless. He is a paranoid man.

Ikemefuna, a youth from an African Ibo tribe. He was payment for a murder committed by someone in his tribe against a neighboring tribe. He works to be a good son for his adopted father.

Pedestrians, provide the background noises.

Escort 1

Escort 2

Escort 3

Escort 4

The four escorts for Ikemefuna, do not speak to him on their somber walk. They shake their heads slowly to everything Ikemefuna says.




Scene I

It is late October in New York. The leaves indicate fall, and the expressions on the faces show summer is dead.

A corner faces a crowded intersection. Near the intersection there is a long block deeply shadowed by the towering buildings on either side. The setting sun glints brightly off a few top floor windows, but night has crept in early to the street. Pedestrian traffic is not as smothering on this cracked concrete sidewalk, and all of the walkers are briskly moving along.

There is only one car on this road, it is half a block down from the intersection. The car has a white top and four silver wheels. The car is coasting, almost as if it is waiting. The car has two passengers. Tagore, and the God of the Internet God. They are not in a hurry.

The News Crier is on the other side of the street, away from the pedestrians.

Two of Ikemefuna's escorts are in front and two are behind him.

(Virginia Wolf sits in a chair behind the pedestrians.)

(Pablo Escobar walks parallel to the car, watching it suspiciously. He walks like "They" have come for him. Quickening his pace to escape he lightly bumps into Einstein).

Einstein: Excuse me sir, this happens all the time. 180 pounds at 2 feet per second plus 150 pounds at 1.5 feet per second equals 330 pounds at 3.5 feet per second... Ah, pardon me sir.

Pablo: Yes. (He says over his shoulder while slowing slightly.)

Einstein: How much do you weigh, I estimate 150, but if I'm wrong my calculators will be off by...

(Einstein digs in a pocket for a pencil stub, oblivious to the fact that Pablo was quickened his pace almost to a run.)

(Pablo slows down and speaks to himself.)

Pablo: I wonder if he recognized me? Why would he want to know how much I weigh.

(The pedestrians make a low noise like a car idling in the background.)

(Pablo continues looking at the white car.)

Ikemefuna: I wonder where we are going tonight.

(Ikemefuna's escorts slowly shake their heads.)

(Tagore stares straight ahead.)

Tagore: Do not be afraid. You will be taken care of. I know that you will be happy.

(The God of the Internet covers a yawn with his hand.)

The God of the Internet: I suppose taken care of is one way to put it. Actually what is going to happen to him is that- Oh why spoil it.

(The Detached Red Azalea Red Azalea is walking down the sidewalk. Pedestrians ignore her, except for Marajua who is slowly trudging along with her head hanging. Marajua picks up her head half way so that she can see the woman clad in exercise garb.

The Detached Red Azalea: The God of the Internet, you know how this is going to end why don't you do something. I know you were amused when I fell to my death from that welcome home float. This is different though. I chose that farm, and Bill. Well Bill chose his circumstances also, but please... the boy.

(Tagore stares straight ahead while speaking because he is used to spirits talking. He doesn't expect to see the spirits.)

Tagore: Do not fear. The boy will soon be happy.

The God of the Internet: I'm not making any promises, but let's see what happens with Pablo.

Pablo: I heard my name! I know I heard someone say Pablo. Marajua is a dead woman if they have found me here.

(Marajua is out of sight of Pablo. The Detached Red Azalea is in the middle of the block, facing the car in the street. Marajua is facing The Detached Red Azalea and Pablo is at the end of the block, but slowly approaching Marajua. He has a gun in his hand now, and none of the pedestrians notice him or his gun.)

The Detached Red Azalea: Now look what you have done.

(The Detached Red Azalea points at Pablo.)

The Detached Red Azalea: He is looking for someone to silence.

(Marajua picks her head up to see where The Detached Red Azalea is pointing, but The Detached Red Azalea disappears before Marajua can be sure.)

Marajua: I must be dead. I know there are no such things as ghost stories. Back when I could call anyone in the world, when I could go for moonlight walks with my husband.

(Marajua stops walking and covers her face with her hands.)

Marajua: (In a low voice) When I was free

Scene II

Dusk overtakes the brooding red brick buildings. All of the first floor windows on the street are covered with soap, or ancient newspaper. Hand drawn hearts are hand drawn on some of the soap-smeared windows. There is one initial in each of the four sections of the heart.

The sidewalk swirls with papers, dead leaves, and multicolored candy wrappers. Bits of blue, yellow, and pink bob within the brown and gray sea.

The air is cool and the mood is colder. The people rushing around would be sweating if the shadows didn't steal their heat. The smell of fear mixes with the autumn leaves. The aroma affects the pedestrians,forcing them fight the instinctive urge to escape.

(Crier cups his hands in front of his mouth, but speaks in a normal tone.)

Crier: Extra, Extra. Drug-lord Pablo Escobar escapes from prison by bribing a guard with dinner.

Marajua held prisoner for 83 days, and counting.

Bill Grey seen in the subway.

Ikemefuna leaves the village.

Virginia Wolf reviews play.

(Bill Grey walks down the sidewalk and looks over at the news Crier.)

Bill Grey: A newspaper, that's what I need. More horrible news that stains my hands and my life.

(Pablo catches sight of Marajua, and quickens his steps. He is pointing his gun at her.)

Pablo(In a sinister voice): You're responsible woman. If it wasn't for you I'd be home in Columbia. You'll be free soon, like the General I blew out at the sky. Like the 8 presidential candidates that opposed me. I'm dong you a favor. I can't rest, but you'll be free.

(The noise of a car became much louder. Bill Grey steps off the curb without noticing the car inches from his left elbow. Bill's eyes are fixed on the Crier.)

Bill Grey: How Much-

(The car makes screeching sounds before hitting Bill and knocking him into the air, he falls on his side.)

Einstein: 3438 pounds per second of impact.

Ikemefuna: 250 cowrie shells to pay for my fatherís release from the new prison.

The Detached Red Azalea: 5 years. 5 long painful years in the mud, and mosquitoes.

Pablo: One million dollars. That's how much the reward is in my country for my head. My body is also worth a million dollars. But money won't mean much to you.

(Pablo has Marajua in his sights and smiles as he pulls the trigger. The Detached Red Azalea reappears by Pablo's right side. Pablo is startled.)

Pablo: Who are you?

(The gun fires.)

(The Detached Red Azalea disappears.)

(Ikemefuna falls dead, hit by the bullet. One escort looks at the other three.)

Escort 1: It was the way for him to die, I am glad I did not have to slaughter a child like a feast goat.

(The other 3 escorts slowly shake their heads looking at dead Ikemefuna. Pablo searches the street for the woman who called his name. The forgotten gun falls from Pablo's hand. The escorts walk over, and surround Pablo. Ikemefuna is now one of the escorts.)

Pablo: Are you here for me? Where are you taking me? Will I be safe?

(All 4 escorts nod slowly. After a few steps the escort behind Pablo's left ear raises his machete and chops Pablo in the neck. Pablo falls.

The lights go out. Everyone stands still. It is dark on the street.)

Virginia Wolf: That was a mysterious little play. I am not wholeheartedly enthralled with the depth of characterizations. Portions of the by-play-

(The God of the Internet interrupts her.)

The God of the Internet: It's not over.

(Marajua picks her head up and looks around confused. She waves her arm trying to flag a taxi.)

Marajua: Taxi, Taxi. I'm Marajua Arojua, I want to go home. I'm free, finally I'm free.

(Bill's eyes are unfocused and glassy. He holds his liver as he rapidly bleeds to death on the ground.)

(Einstein watches Bill die.)

Bill: Karen, my book is just about finished. I don't think I'll be rewriting it again. Send it to...

Einstein: The body has 5 quarts of blood, if it flows at a gallon per minute-

(Einstein falls silent when he notices Marajua waving her arm. He looks at her in puzzlement.)

Einstein: Wait a moment Miss, aren't you Marajua Arajua? The Crier mentioned that you were kidnapped. 83 days, 2 hours and 46 minutes by my calculations.

(The white car slides in next to the curb and the rear passenger door opens.)

(Marajua faces Einstein.)

Marajua: I'm sorry but I must go. You do understand. I'm free.

(She climbs into the car and shuts the door. The car slowly pulls off. Marajua leans forward.)

Marajua: How long will it take me to get to the airport.

(Tagore stares straight ahead.)

Tagore: Don't worry Marajua, you will be safe.







The room is isolated from all outside noises, and there are no windows. It is in a basement.

It is a square room about 20 feet wide. The floor is white, and fluorescent lights cast a bright glow over the room. At the front of the room is a chalkboard, and a rectangular table is 6 feet from the chalkboard. The table is parallel to the chalkboard. There is one chair on each side of the table.

The Mayor is seated with his back to the door. The Savage sits to his right, Pablo Escobar sits to the left of the Mayor, and Virginia sits facing the Mayor.



Einstein, analytical, calculating genius. He displays an ability to do stunning calculations and have normal people understand them. Highly socialized rendition of the famous mathematical genius. He views actions and unconsciously figures out the equation which explains the actions.


The God of the Internet, a being that knows what will happen, but reveals only selected information to mere mortals. He is overcome with boredom since he has seen human errors repeated countless times over the millennia.

Virginia Wolf, eloquent, brilliant literary critic. She usually sits in the front row of plays to catch every nuance of the performance. She killed herself due to extreme depression.

Pablo Escobar, fabulously wealthy drug kingpin without a safe haven. He doesn't like to hurt women, but he felt that his only chance for survival was to kidnap a popular woman. He is a former billionaire. He is egomaniacal, paranoid man.

The Savage, young man who learned to read through Shakespeare. He grew up on a reservation. . He was tortured because he was mentally different from his peers, and physically the same.

When he was exposed to a society with radically different values he fell in love with a girl, and destroyed himself to stifle his need for her

The Mayor- A cruel, and manipulative man. He is intelligent and jaded. He prefers young girls who are untouched. He is the absolute authority in a small Egyptian village. Everyone fears him.

Jean-Paul Sartre ,Distinguished intellectual. Man of letters who is a follower of the existentialist movement. He feels that what he has to say is important, no matter what the conversation. He is an accomplished literary critic.


Act I

Virginia Wolf faces the Mayor

You think the world revolves around you.




I'm not certain, but it is a distinct possibility.

What else should the world revolve around?

God of the Internet

Your world revolved around a hoe, and a split second.


A mere oversight. Savage, do the people you were describing have a the technology to take care of my little...problem.


Who ? I live or I mean ceased to live in a abandoned lighthouse. We are but players destined to live-


Enough ! Can't you simply answer the question without quoting someone.

Virginia Wolf

It is completely reasonable for a displaced quasi-orphan to cling to the remnants of childhood happiness through literature.

The Mayor

I'm certain you know all about happiness.

Virginia Wolf

Is it more rational to be a hated despot, callously imposing your will upon the social fabric of a Kafir-el Teen.

The Mayor

And also the fabric of a few galebeyas.

Pablo Escobar

Mr. Savage, do you have the technology to help me regain my empire?

Einstein, why isn't this translator working.


There are far too many free electrons currently present in your immediate vicinity. If a cloud of negative ions-

Pablo Escobar

Forget it ! Sometimes I need a translator to speak to you.

Virginia Wolf to the Mayor

If you had any shame or humility I would call you a human chauvinist. Not a male chauvinist because you seem to run roughshod over both genders unilaterally.

The Mayor

How cruel. Your biting comments sear my soul.



Ah, the outrageous slings and arrows of-

The Mayor interrupts

Who turned your water wheel.

Pablo Escobar

Mr. Savage. How will you help me regain my power? I can make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams.

The Mayor

Ah, Pablo.

Pablo Escobar

What is it, I'm busy.

The Mayor

I don't want to be rude-

Virginia Wolf looks at the Mayor

Feel free, it becomes you.

The Mayor

Pablo, we're dead. What good is money ?

Pablo Escobar

Einstein, can we be resurrected? Wait ! Answer in a simple sentence.



Virginia Wolf - to Pablo Escobar

Speaking of despots. How many poor unfortunates have been crushed beneath the wheels of your narcotics juggernaut ?

God of the Internet

Ah, for once. The humans are almost amusing.

Pablo Escobar

Show yourself. Who's speaking ?



God of the Internet

That is a silly question, but perhaps it isn't completely inane. You have no concept of LANs/WANS, TCP/IP, or URLs.

Pablo Escobar

Why must everyone speak in foreign languages. First Einstein, and now you. And why isn't my translator working. In the time before...I would have had you killed for causing me the slightest displeasure. That is after the torture of course.



Pablo you're my kind of man. All heart. You truly understand the role of other people, to serve you.

Virginia Wolf

Marvelous. We should initiate some sort of award ceremony for the despotically gifted. Degenerate, delusional misanthropes who are exceptionally talented tyrants.


If certain elements were used...Cesium, Lawrencium, Sodium, Plutonium, Iridium...The transplanted cells from your bodies would need to be kept at a constant temperature of 42 degrees Celsius. That is -

Einstein walks to the board and does the calculation to convert from Celsius.


The Mayor

It sounded do promising. Too bad it can't work.

Virginia Wolf

Would you care to expand upon your statement ? Einstein is undoubtedly capable of such a task, and -

Savage interrupts Virginia Wolf

It will never work.

The Mayor

A statement without any snippets of Shakespeare. How original John, Or excuse me. Mr. Savage.

The truth of the matter is that absence of the required instrumentation, and a laboratory to work in will prove to be a large-scale difficulty.

Pablo Escobar

That's what they're talking about Virginia. We do not have the equipment. If I was home in Medellin, we could build the greatest lab that modern science has known. With my money.

Virginia Wolf

I will admit that you do have some experience with chemicals. Unfortunately they are usually exported to be sold on seedy street corners, or the dingy back rooms of pubs in working class neighborhoods.


Pablo Escobar

I made twice as much money from your Houses of Parliament that the rest of London. The so-called upper crust have a hunger, I simply feed it.

Virginia Wolf

Fed it. You're history. There must be some sort of mistake about our Royal House of Lords ? Drugs, I mean it simply can't be.

Pablo Escobar

White powdered wigs.

Pablo Escobar laughs

Jean-Paul Sartre

Stimulation of the mind through external means can be quite ah ...liberating.


What dosage would you recommend. Expansion of my mental abilities would be quite fascinating.

Pablo Escobar

If you stand in front of a window fan and throw a Dixie cup full of (in Spanish)Cocaine into the blades.

Virginia Wolf

You are an unreal individual. How low can you sink into the pit of moral negligence? How could you conceive of destroying such a brilliant mind.

Jean-Paul Sartre

Unreality is the answer. We are not real, therefore anything which we utilize or manipulate will be also. If we think that we have the apparatus Einstein speaks of it will exist. The laboratory equipment is as unreal, as thought or as real as we are

Pablo Escobar

Letís see if you are right.

Pablo Escobar pulls out a virtual 9mm and looks at it. Nonchalantly he shoots Jean-Paul Sartre in the right hand.

Jean-Paul Sartre screams and holds the virtually injured hand.

Einstein to Jean-Paul Sartre

If you envision your hand healed then it will be reconstructed. Actually it was never truly damaged. A possible solution is to indicate that Pablo missed you.

The Mayor, Pablo Escobar, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Virginia Wolf stand up.

The Mayor

Let's get to work. How do we regain our physical forms.

Einstein stands near the table looking on.


The Lawrencium has been mixed with the plutonium. Mayor. Gently, very gently pour the blue flask into the red beaker. Careful, if the mixture which has been created it will cause an explosion 8340 times greater than a high-yield hydrogen fission bomb. It might be powerful enough to rip the fabric of space and time. I do not know what the aftermath would be.



The Mayor picks up a virtual test tube.

The Mayor

You mean this.

Einstein hurriedly backs away from the table until he is at the far end of the room.

Everyone at the table freezes absolutely still.


The Mayor put the test tube back in its holder, slowly.

The Mayor slowly, carefully places the test tube back in its holder.

Einstein walks up to the table, and then wipes imagined sweat from his forehead.

Savage, Virginia Wolf, and Pablo Escobar look at The Mayor.

The Mayor looks down, put his hands in his pockets and walks to the corner of the room.

As The Mayor walks he mutters.

That's what my mother used to do to me. My brother was always her special darling.


Humanity is more than just colored liquids, and fancy powders. Humans have a soul. I know the reason we're here.

Virginia Wolf

Do go on.

The Mayor walks back over to the table.


We were miserable in our existences. I hung myself in a lonely lighthouse

Savage looks at each person while speaking about them.

Virginia Wolf did away with herself. Mayor, you hated yourself more than your brother until Zakeya put you out of your misery. Pablo, it is no surprise that your anger and violence consumed you.

The Mayor speaks to Savage

What about bright boy over there.



Jean-Paul Sartre speaks until The Mayor interrupts him

It was an exercise in existentialist thought that-

The Mayor

I meant Einstein.


The experiment intrigued me.

Savage looks somewhat annoyed at being interrupted.


A vital part of the mixture has been left out.

The same way in which trees, weeds, and flowers yearn for the sun,

Humans can exist, but they can not truly live without fun.

The solution, the final ingredient necessary for our reconstitution into humans is fun.

Einstein walks to the right o the Savage


I know the answer.

Everyone looks at Einstein.


Everybody Conga ! Dun-da dun-da dun da!

The audience joins Einstein singing the conga music.

Dun-da dun-da dun da! Dun-da dun-da dun da! Dun-da dun-da dun da! Dun-da dun-da dun da!

Pablo Escobar

All of you get up. If this will help me regain my empire then it's conga time.

The people at the table get up and form a conga line. Einstein steps in and the conga line begins to move forward. The conga line goes around the room picking up the audience members that want to join in.

God of the Internet stands by the light switch, aloof.

The conga line circles around the room and stops in front of the door.

Einstein opens the door without a rearward glance. The conga line is intact.

Einstein (in a passable imitation of Jackie Geason)

"And away we go!"



There are no absolute references to time.

Flowers are seeds, adult plants and then they are seeds again. Like flowers, humans are in one state of being and go through a change to another state, and then go to another state. This "final" state is in some cases thought to be different from the initial state, but in reincarnation theories it is a cycle. The three states which were mentioned are commonly known as the time before life, life, and death (or the afterlife).

There is no validation that reverse time lapse time photography is incorrect. Most people have seen time lapse photography with flowers that begin brown, wilted, and transform into fresh vibrant flowers on their way back into the ground as seeds.

Why is that implausible? The reason is that time is subjective, and mentally most people have been conditioned to interpret events in a framework of time. People are born with an internal clock. Babies do not genetically adhere to a 9-5 schedule. Over time however, the parent(s) force the child to adhere to commonly acceptable time periods. The most widely used method is deprivation of food, the child then learns to adjust itself to socially acceptable time periods. The training continues through school until students are fully indoctrinated in societies acceptable time frames. Dreams, either nightly or drug induced(sometimes that is one and the same) are not subject to limitations. The references present in the conscious world are absent. It could be that DT (dreamtime) is an accurate timeline. It is not influenced by any external stimuli, and it is present in everyone who dreams. In ST (socialtime) dreams last an hour or less, in DT they can encompass a lifetime.

When asking another person with a watch for a temporal reference, the question is often phrased "What time does your watch have?" The correction of your time with the "right time" is an important idea. What is commonly accepted is the law. Other thoughts are punished. If an individual persists in following an alternate time stream, first the people that come in contact with the individual will find the behavior irritating, or possibly the individual will no longer be gainfully employed. If this behavior continues there will be more severe consequences such as removal from the general population. This expulsion can take place with a label, such as "crazy" or the recalcitrant individual can be physically removed from society (institutionalized). The correct sequence of things is important to society. It is an insult to refer to someone as "backward."

Subjectivity is also highly evident in group activities. Looking at one microcosm, the Army, most missions begin by the participants synchronizing their watches.

All these forces strongly constrain individuals to view time in accepted ways. Any people who look at time in any other sequence are discounted, their clocks are unsynchronized. If these individuals then they are removed from society. There is no external validation of time, but society continuously reinforces this.

In several cases these have been people who saw things differently though general populace and they were usually scoffed at. Astronomers and other scientists are usually mocked until their discoveries are proven. In the case of time however there is no proof, the people applying the criteria are subject to time. The experiment can not be conducted accurately because there is no control group (segment of the experiment outside of time).

If time were moving in a sequence other than what society is used to it would be explained away. There is also benchmark because most individuals are trained in the same time sequence.

What is the most common retirement gift?

Is that meant to symbolize "times up?"



Travel with Mr. Lies



Mr. Lies travel itinerary. Input a number and press start to see his weekly route.

Real Video of Egypt from the Egyptian State Information Site

Karen's journey.

Simulation which illustrates the homelessness cycle


Brave New World



Sound files of a few basic Chinese phrases.



Slide show of Columbia




Another type of time doesn't exist. It is forgiving time.

In a small German hamlet all of the people are expressionless. They have a wonderful control over time; it is also a curse. As they go about their day the villagers listen intently for the village clock's bells. If they hear the bell then they know that time will rewind back to 5 minutes before the chime. In order to stop endless loops, no one could turn time back again in the same "day".

Everyone in the village has access to the gilt-edged mahogany door. Carved in flowing script at eye level is one word "WishTime ." The door leads up to the clock controls. The village's time is set with well-worn brass controls.

The clock tower door is protected by a screen of hopelessly intertwined juniper bushes. . No one can see the person arriving intent upon turning back time. Long ago, or perhaps it was yesterday, the village elders decided that it would be safer for the clock door to be concealed. The villagers were grumbling in little groups about having their lives reset. They spoke in low, angry tones. Telling each other what they would do if they caught the person who rewound their lives back before they had their first son. The villagers threatened horrible things. They spoke of the time that Gretchen (their last daughter) was married, and then, just like that the bell rang. The next time Hans (her suitor) decided not to marry.

"Was it the grooms cold feet that turned back the villages time ?" Villagers wondered out loud.

Hans denied walking up the clock steps. Yet for Helmut (Gretchen's father) the memory of Gretchen's radiant joy, his youngest daughter's blinding smile torment tormented him.

Time rewound but peoples memories did not.

Helmut could not complain though. It was Hans' right to hide behind the juniper shield to jilt Gretchen. What gnawed at Helmut was that Poor Gretchen could not endure being left at the altar. She wrote a long note to Hans and hung herself from the Juniper tree behind Hans' house.

Of course Helmut petitioned the Town council to turn the clock back before Gretchen's death, but they turned down his request. Helga, the village midwife had delivered twins the same evening and Heidi, their mother had almost died. If Heidi had to go through 10 hours of labor again, either the mother or the twins might die.

Is one life worth three the elders asked Helmut? What if Gretchen is miserable with Hans and takes her own life later ?

Helmut had no answer.

The twins grew intermittently, like everything else in the town. Sometimes they grew forward, and other times they grew backward.

One day at the mill Helmut was thinking of Gretchen and he became careless. His sleeve was caught in the grinding wheel, and he was pulled into the maw of the machine. It crushed his arm and chest as easily as Helmut used to crack eggshells for his breakfast. The town was motionless, in shock. All except for two people.

Moments later the town heard the clock chime. Helmut came to his senses before the machine grabbed him, and he decided it was time for his break. He worked at the mill unscathed until he retired. Helmut didn't question the village elders ever again.

For a while the villagers wondered who gave Helmut his life back, then it was harvest time, and the hard work wiped Helmut everyone's mind. Later, thinking back, everyone assumed it was Hans who saved Helmut.

Everyone, except for the twins.


Lost Day

Mr. Lies has a crystal clear skylight in his loft, and the skylight faces East. There are no clocks in the loft. The multitude of time zones would hopelessly confuse Mr. Liesí biological clock, so he avoids mechanical timepieces.

Every morning the rising sun burns all traces of sleep from his eyes. Mr. Lies opens his eyes wide for a tiny flicker of time; he fights his natural impulse to squint. He sniffs the air for perfume, her special fragrance, and smells Tide.

This is the time of morning when Mr. Lies considers giving up his jet setting (or transient) lifestyle. He thinks of settling down with a well-manicured wife, and a good-tempered poodle; or is it a good-tempered wife, and a well-manicured poodle.

Mr. Lies bounces out of bed, and unconsciously buttons the top button of his pajamas as he walks to the television. No one else is in the loft to tell him about his habits.

Although Mr. Lies is right handed he reaches for the television with his left hand; he is unsuccessfully working to become ambidextrous. CNN blares from the television, and Mr. Lies lets it boom through his loft. The black cinderblock walls reflect the sounds until they become a distorted jumble. The noise represents his life.

Mr. Lies stands barefooted in front of his television (not his TV,) and surveys his apartment. It is T-shirt warm in the loft, and it smells faintly like an airport. Not OíHare, but perhaps like MacArthur airport on Long Island. Mr. Lies looks for anything in his apartment that is misplaced, or "wrong." The apartment passes his inspection. All is right within the apartment.

Silently, Mr. Lies pads toward the bathroom in his bare feet. The commercial grade carpet bristles beneath his feet, it is only slightly softer than Astroturf.

When he reaches the bathroom he pulls down the red towel which is perfectly folded on the rolling shelf outside of his bathroom door. There are blue, brown, white and green towels also, but Mr. Lies always uses a red towel. He pauses in the doorway of the bathroom when the fragrance of the laundry detergent reaches his nose, Tide-Ultra. He always buys Tide-Ultra, and every wash he puts in too much.

The white faux marble floor gleams until he puts his bare foot on it. Then the intensity of the cold seems to burn his feet. He closes the bathroom window without moving his feet, twisting at the waist and sliding the window down. Mr. Lies shuts out the world that could be looking through his window.

Mr. Lies walks to the sink thinking that peasants in the end is endure much more than a few steps of chilly tile.

He slowly opens the mirror-less medicine cabinet; he doesnít want his tonics and elixirs to fall into the sink. The solutions are all in plastic bottles, just in case, but bottles in the sink would be disorder.

Mr. Lies selects an unopened mini-tube of toothpaste and discards the tube opened yesterday. You can never be too careful. Anyone could have tampered with his toothpaste, while he wasnít home.

He unwraps a new toothbrush and puts toothpaste on it. Mr. Lies brushes his teeth with a figure eight motion, complete strokes per tooth. The number 8 and ten please him with their order and "completeness".

He opens a new mini-bottle of Listerine ñ original formula and gargles with it. Just in case. Then he gargles with Scope, mint-cinnamon. Mr. Lies takes off his silk robe, and pajamas and folds them neatly before placing them in the laundry basket. He knows that washing pajamas daily is a big waste, but he simply must have clean clothes.

The cold air in his bathroom raises goose bumps on his arms, legs and back.

He turns on the shower full blast, cold, just to experience what some of his clients live with. The freezing water, and cool room start his teeth chattering.

Chattering teeth remind him of her, the only woman he ever loved, or even noticed.

Skiing trips, the Alps. She made him love travel again. Mr. Lies smiles as he walks out of the bathroom toweling himself dry.

Mr. Lies reaches into his dresser, and puts on a set of Fruit of the Looms. He stands in front of his dresser looking at the fiberboard backing. There was a mirror in the dresser when he bought it, but he removed all the mirrors from his loft that Night. Now he wanted to sell, but he didnít care what he looked like at home, it didnít matter. When he was working, selling, he assumed whatever persona was necessary for the sale. He had closets with winter gear for his Polar clients. To mingle in warmer locales and Guyabera shirts with huaracche sandals. He has a mundu, (in a middle class color of course) for Indian getaways, and power suits to pressure power brokers into blowing off steam. He was all of these, when he was needed in the role. That was why he didnít have mirrors in his home, he didnít have a role to play when he was alone.

The rattle of the heating system on the floor below him made him choose an outfit. He looked at his schedule, and chose a conservative dark blue single-breasted suit. The gleaming black wing tips almost allowed him to see the sedate pattern in his tie.

Mr. Lies didnít own any cologne, in some places it wold mark him as an outsider, a person from Elsewhere. That was true, but he never let truth get in the way of a sale except for that one time. When he met Her. She asked him what was the best place in the world to watch a sunset. He said Negril, if you are eye level with the water. He usually gave people standard answer number 203( The place farthest from where they are at that moment, or the point which would be most expensive to get to).

The clanging of the pipes tells Mr. Lies to continue his morning routine. Fully dressed he sits at the small square table in his kitchenette, and pours himself a bowl of Post Raisin Bran. He eats with the television blaring around him. Mr. Lies can not hear the crunch of the bran flakes, and it doesnít matter to him. Only the sale matters.

After eating he washes the bowl and replaces it in its appointed place in the cabinet.

He picks up the remote control from its place on the table and kills the television.

Mr. Lies checks the battery in his satellite phone, and laptop computer before he steps out into the hallway of his building. The laptop is light enough to carry with 2 fingers, but he cradles it like it is alive.

He scans the hallway as he walks to the metal cage elevator. Once inside he closes the door swiftly, and goes to street level.

Mr. Lies walks over to his usual yellow cab, and gives the driver a $20. The driver accelerates into traffic without checking his mirrors. Mr. Lies flips open his laptop, brings up his contact management program and begins memorizing the names and faces of his prospective clients for the day. He learns the names, faces, previous vacations, and is up to birthdays when the cab arrives at the Delta international departures gate. Mr. Lies gives his cab driver another $20 and open the curbside door himself. Mr. Lies closes the door hard as the cab pulls away. The red Caps ignore Mr. Lies, he never has any bags. He walks straight to the metal detector. He doesnít break stride when the machine beeps at him. The bored guard looks up, notices that itís Mr. Lies, and then goes back to his professional wresting magazine.

Mr. Lies approaches the gate and sees a motley line of passengers waiting to board. He glances over at a ticket agent, and the young man walks over with a Pilots hat for Mr. Lies. Mr. Lies says "Thank you in a voice loud enough for most of the line to turn, and watch him pout on the pilotís hat.

Without looking right of left Mr. Lies steps around the line and boards the plane. He picks a seat in First class. Mr. Lies sits at a window seat, next to the exit, and puts the pilotís hat on the seat next to him.

The flight, sale, and the flight home are a blur to him.

Mr. Lies finds himself in his cab, speeding towards his house. The sun has been down for hours, but there is no darkness in the city.

The cab pulls up in front of his house. He pays the cab driver the customary $20 before stepping out.

Mr. Lies keeps his shoulders back as he walks into his building. He maintains his posture in the elevator, and all the way into his loft.

When he closes the door he lets his shoulders slump, and peels the pleasant look off

his face. He doesn't have to deal with people again until tomorrow...



You can trust in Mr. Lies, honest...



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