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Newspaper Scandal

Newspaper Scandal

Feature Photo by abolfazl shaker –

Newspaper Scandal

It’s seven, giving me an hour before hitting the trail to my factory. during this time of the day, I’m alone, quiet, my local newspaper lying on the twelve-seater table in the breakfast room. A crackling log fire burning, the smell of Canadian Pine from the furniture, and my favorite Columbian ground coffee percolating on the hot plate.

“Buenos días, señor Pierre.” “De coffee, she is ready, señor; I fix for you, no?” “Si Angelina, gracias.” Our Cook, housekeeper, and butler, all bound in one, is from Columbia, hence my coffee preference. Angelina’s family is in the coffee business back home, and she insists on me drinking their brand.

 “Angelina only make Ferrozo Coffee in dees house Meester Pierre or no coffee at all!” She stated. “Then you must make it like my Grandmother did, Angelina.” “How she make it?” “Many years ago, Granny used to buy her baking flour in a small muslin bag, and once emptied, she washed the bag, turned the open end, and sewed an elastic strip onto it. She would put the bag into an enamel coffee jug, fill it with water, and add Trekker Koffie from the crushed beans into the bag once it boiled. Then it was allowed to percolate for thirty minutes.

“What ees dis tre… coffee? She struggled with the name. In my Grandmother’s time, it was coffee drunk by the Dutch Farmers of the day.

A truly win-win situation arose from this discussion, and with no help from me, Angelina sourced some calico, found an enamel coffee jug, sewed up some bags, and percolated Ferrozo.

I didn’t tell Angelina that my Grandmother drank her Trekker Koffie with condensed milk. (during the Boer War in South Africa, fresh milk was not freely available) The outcome of this was that I became a condensed milk addict. Angelina thought I drank my coffee without milk (as her fellow Columbians did), but I had a secret stash of condensed milk that I used.

Coffee was poured, and the newspaper opened– my two favorite items. Now happiness is mine.

On opening the paper (I always look to see the date in case the wrong paper was delivered. It happens, you know;) lo and behold, it was tomorrow’s date! I checked my watch to confirm it was right; tomorrow’s date. I looked up to see if there was anyone with whom I could share this phenomenon. I didn’t think Angelina would appreciate my vexation, so continuing to read, I accepted it as a printing error.

I happily worked through the news items, and then it happened. It was at the bottom of page three; I could not believe my eyes.

Company Owner and CEO Detained By Police.

Mr. Pierre Williams, the owner, and CEO of Williams Cables Ltd, has been detained by the Police, pending investigations into certain irregularities concerning the company’s tax returns.

Neither the Public Officer, Ms. Fossie, nor Mr. Williams would comment. The Police Chief Public Relations Officer, Inspector Len Jones, explained that no comment could be made until Mr. Williams came before the local magistrate.

Case covered by Staff Reporter Janice Morrison.

Hey, this is me. I thought, dumbstruck.

Before I knew it, I coughed and sprayed my coffee over the breakfast table with shock. I was in the process of mopping up the mess on my shirt when a distressed Angelina came striding into the room. “Meester Pierre come kweek, there is men at the door, saying eet is Police.” I had barely stood up from the table when two men in overcoats pushed Angelina out of their path. And while one explained they were arresting me on charges of defrauding the Receiver of Inland Revenue, the other roughly pulled my hands behind me and locked them in cuffs. The first then proceeded to read me my rights.

Protesting, I asked if I could change my shirt.” Please come with us, Mr. Williams, and don’t offer any resistance.” feigning politeness, the officer said quietly.

Pushing a sheet of paper, along with a chewed-end pen, the policemen at a desk stated,” We need a statement from you.” “Officer, I need to speak to my attorney before I am willing to make any statement, please.” Anger melted a little of my fear; his eyes met mine. Standing suddenly, he beckoned me to follow him. “He wants to make a call.” The Sergeant, who was as broad as he was tall, passed me a mobile with my attorney’s number dialed.

Joseph Berelowitz was a no-nonsense attorney and a man with a razor-sharp mind. “Hello Bill, Joe here. “Give me an hour; I’ll be with you. We’ll apply for bail.”

I gripped the handle of the coffee mug with some difficulty, the shock of it all making my hands shake uncontrollably. “I need a pub, not a coffee,” trying to present a humorous front. I reassured Joe that I had no faintest idea of what was happening. “Get up to your office and sort this out as soon as possible.” Joe was anxious. “This is serious. Call me with whatever you find.” “Give me a couple of hours, I’m going home to change, and I’ll head for the office.”

Rushing in through the front door, I nearly knocked Angelina flying. “Sorry, Angelina.” “Is Meesta Pierre OK?” “Yes, I’m fine; I just need a whiskey.” Angelina walked away, staring at me wide-eyed over her shoulder.

The phone rang, “Williams,” I answered the call. A strange gruff voice on the other end stated, “Your wife is here with us, and if you want to see her again, you’ll get over here right away.” “What are you talking about?” I demanded. My wife’s voice screamed in the background, “Pierre, they want to kill me, help me please…” My wife was hysterical. The male voice came back on the line. “You’ve got one hour to get over here, Unit 16 G, Dock Terminal A. You now have 55 minutes. The phone clicked.

With my heart thumping, I drove like a madman, the clock racing ahead. I knew Terminal A and pulled up at 16G. The door opened, and I was pulled into the room by my collar. A figure shoved me into a filthy chair. My wife was tied to a chair with her mouth taped, face red and swollen. Her mouth was bleeding through the tape in one corner.

“Your partner Ms. Fossie has an unpaid bill we need to collect.” “She’s not my partner. She’s my employee,” I retorted. Wham! A back-hander from one of the three men smashed across my face, crashing me to the floor. The hitter lifted me by my lapels. He pushed his face into mine, rotting teeth stench swathing my nostrils; then, he punched me in the gut. I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath.

They lifted me onto the chair once more, and one of the others muttered, “Enough, I want him to talk.” “We need the stash or the money. You got it?” Wheezing heavily and fearing another blow, I said cautiously, “I don’t have the stash; Ms. Fossie must have it, but how much does she owe you?” “Twenty G’s” “Twenty thousand! What?” “Listen, mister, don’t f***k with me; you heard what I said.” “OK, untie my wife, drive us to the cash machine, and I will see if I can draw that amount.” “Mister, your wife, stays here; we go for the cash. We get the cash, and you come to collect your wife. Let’s go!”

The leader walked close behind me. “One wrong move, you dead meat, and we go kill your wife, right?”

Suddenly from behind, a voice yelled, “Freeze, Police!” I slowly raised my hands, as did the big guy behind me. Sirens and lights were flashing from the squad cars; this added to the drama as people in the street stared in disbelief.

An officer led me to a waiting patrol car, and there was my wife. I leaped in alongside her; we hugged and wept. “Would you like a visit to the hospital or straight home?” The officer asked. “Straight home.” We chorused.

“Tell me, officer, how did you know where to find my wife?” “Well, Mister Williams, we had your phone wired, and the gang kindly gave us the address when you got your instructions. They are part of a drug ring and in cahoots with your Ms. Fossie. Who, incidentally, was responsible for tampering with your tax account. It seems she owed them a lot of money. Call me Paddy, by the way, he said in his fine Irish lilt.” “Do you know, Paddy, I read about the story in the newspaper this morning, a paper dated tomorrow.” “Surely not; that is strange now.” Officer Paddy smiled. Just as I thought, indeed, the work of a Leprechaun!

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others. Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers. Often, when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

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Brave You Are


You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.

Ernest Hemingway

Feature Image Photo by Josh Hemsley

Five am cold, dark, and rainy outside. Thursday is the three-week chemo treatment day, and we prepare for the drive to the hospital. Two sleepyheads are fumbling around in the room, a queue for the loo, trouble for those that linger. Make the bed, lay out clothes, queue for a shower—a bowl of cereal for breakfast, dress and ready to roll. Week eighteen, last of the chemo’s, it’s been a rough ride.

Next is the blocker treatment, probably for life. How will the after-treatment effects of this be?

You suffered like no human should be asked to suffer, left wondering if it was all worth the pain, loss of taste, hair shaved off, ulcerated mouth, to name a few.

I recall that day at the hospital, some months ago when you were told by the medical professional that you had second-stage cancer in your breast, lymph glands (and later lungs too.) A mastectomy was almost inevitable. Even with her reassuring words, full recovery was possible with modern and progressive technology; did you, just for a second, wonder how long you had left on this earth?

But you responded with a strong voice, brave and determined, even though inside you were suffering. It was me who was shattered to a place of tears – my only relief.

Blocker treatment, three done, with each three weeks more to come, no end in sight. Complications set in from the womb; is it spreading? No, we state with strong affirmation! Yet you take it in your stride; medical professionals are amazed at your resilience. How you still have such a fantastic sense of humor, laughing often.

Even after all the treatment, you are as brave as ever, but I know you suffer silently; forgive me for the times I forget this…

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others. Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers. Often, when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

All rights reserved sirpeterjamesdotcom©2020-01-20

If you are spiritually inclined see my other site;

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A Dog Called Patch


Feature Photo By Mitchell Orr

A Dog Called Patch

Taken from a true story.

Our Patch was a unique breed of dog. I’m not entirely sure which of about fourteen species he best fitted, so I think I’d best describe him as a little of each.

Our Patch was genial, gregarious, outgoing, and highly sociable. As his name implied, he also had Joseph’s coat of many colors. He was short-haired and of medium height, with one ear raised up and the other flopped down.

We had found Patch at an animal rescue center, and our boys fell in love with him. (I felt it was because of how he cocked his head when they spoke to him.)

Patch had unlimited energy, and my husband and I felt that our quarter-acre property would give him enough space. Our garden was surrounded on three sides by a six-foot wall and a solid hedge in front.

We had not bargained that Patch had a very naughty side to his nature, which came as a surprise. My husband and I were at work each day and our teenage sons were off to school, this resulted in Patch having a fair time on his own.

A day or two after joining our family, we heard Patch barking and someone screaming. We all left the breakfast table, rushing outside to see what was causing the raucous. Well, if it weren’t for the severity of the situation, I would have laughed until my sides ached at what I saw. There was our Milkman on the roof of his cart screaming for help! Patch was not in the least bit concerned as he was busy lapping up milk from broken milk bottles that crashed to the ground as the Milkman made a hasty retreat to his cart.

While I consoled the Milkman, our boys took Patch indoors. A neighbor casually mentioned to my husband that he saw Patch sitting on top of the wall each day. We could not believe that Patch could climb the wall. One day, the two of us watched him skirt up and sit on top of the wall. From that post, he had a birds-eye view of the goings-on in the neighborhood.

The best was yet to come. While walking out the gate, on my way to the bus stop one morning, Patch tried to follow me. I shooed him back into the yard. As my bus arrived, there was Patch, head cocked and tail wagging happily. He tried to follow me onto the bus. Once more, I chased him off and sat down, relieved. Now the bus driver began hooting furiously. I stood up to see what was happening. There was Patch, sitting in front of the bus, refusing to move. “Lady, you will have to get off the bus and take your dog home, please,” the driver was furious.

For about a week, all was calm with Patch, and I was hoping he had turned over a new leaf. No more chasing the Milkman, no more lying down in front of the bus.

But wait, better is yet to come. One Friday evening, as I returned home from work, I noticed a piece of clothing on the front lawn. Picking it up, I was shocked; it was a pair of black lace nickers! I was horrified, suspecting the worst of my sons.

I spoke to my husband about my find, and we agreed to have a stern talking to our two boys after supper.

We called them in and pointed to the pair of nickers on the coffee table. “What’s this all about then?” My husband asked, pointing to the underwear. My eldest stated, “Nothing to do with me, Dad.” The younger made a similar response.

“Right then, lads, since you have nothing better to say, you are gated until I get the truth.” The boys, with shoulders hung, were followed by Patch, tail between legs, left the room.

The next day, as I was cleaning the lounge, something caught my eye. It was Patch jumping down the wall from our neighbor’s side. He strutted across the lawn, proud as punch, with a pair of nickers in his mouth. I ran out front shouting at him. He darted around the back, like lightning, through the kitchen, upstairs to the bedrooms, and made his way under our eldest’s bed.

We all stood around the bed as the boys tried to persuade Patch to come out. We moved the bed finally. “Look at this, Mum,” our younger exclaimed.

Under the bed, was a collection of nickers and bra’s, with Patch standing protectively over them.

“Looks like we’ve found the culprit,” my husband offered sheepishly.

If you feel this article has value, please send this link to others. Writings are meant for people, not for dormant files in our computers. Often, when we share them, it results in positive changes in the lives of individuals and communities.

All rights reserved sirpeterjamesdotcom©2020-01-20

If you are spiritually inclined see my other site;

Please feel free to send in questions (see ‘Contact’) and comments (hit the ‘Comments’ Button.)