Self Rediscovery

[Fifty150]

The Sheik. Sheiky Baby. She was actually his daughter. The Candy Girl. Her Daddy was The Sheik.

"Daddy is actually a real Sheik. He rules our tribe. My mother is the 5th wife. She's Dutch Afrikaan. I have her eyes, fair skin, and blonde hair. So I won't be in line to ever rise to his place, unless something happens to my 9 brothers, and their sons.

Our government was overthrown by religious zealots. We had to leave our ancestral lands. Our entire tribe, and many other tribes, fled to neighboring territories. We were offered refuge, of course, since we brought with us our goats, young girls who are sought after as brides, and our Swiss accounts. We had to buy our way into a refugee camp.

Then The Russians came. We were no match against their tanks and helicopters. Goat herders in turbans, with sticks, suddenly having to defend against an invasion. Our people simply want to survive as we had for thousands of years. On our land. Grazing our sheep, growing figs and pistachio, and selling our poppy.

This Congressman came, from your House of Representatives. My Dad told my brothers, that he must be crazy to fly around the world with buckets of chicken. But there he was, in a private plane, stocked with The Colonel's 11 herbs and spices. He met with my Dad, as well as a dozen other tribal chiefs. I don't know all of the details. As a woman, I was obviously not allowed onto the plane. My Dad did bring back KFC, for the family."



I'm listening. She's doing most of the talking. We're driving down Interstate 5, South. Riding in a mini bus, with Port Authority logos on the doors. There was an armed, uniformed Port Authority officer driving. A shotgun mounted in a quick release rack on the dashboard. The passenger compartment, where we were sitting, was upfitted with overstuffed benches, and cold beverages in chillers. This was the limousine version of a prisoner transport bus. The Crooked Commissioner usually uses it for transporting dignitaries. It makes them feel special when there's an armed escort, with lights and sirens to move traffic out of the way.



The Port Authority is operated by Port Commissioners. They oversee The Free Trade Zone. All cargo being loaded and offloaded is under their oversight. Or sometimes, what nobody sees, when everyone is turning their head the other way. All of the major ports have their own armed law enforcement.

We stop at Harris Ranch to use the facilities and refuel. It was the time of year where there was a layer of frost on everything. The bus was heated, but I could feel a chill in the air as I stepped off the bus. The cop driving us was wearing a leather motor officer jacket with a furry collar. I wrapped my leather motor jacket around Candy Girl's shoulders. I was just wearing a Pendleton and Levi's. I was shivering in my boots.

"Nine sons. I have nine brothers. I'm the only daughter. Daddy sent me here, to America, to represent his interests. Because my mother is a Western woman, and I have been raised with Western culture, Daddy felt that I was better prepared. The Senator and his wife, your Auntie, set it up for me to be their conduit. Anyone who wants to connect with them, does it through me.

Back home, all of the other Emirs now must go through Daddy, as a conduit to The West. It is known that through his daughter, me, their voices are heard on Capitol Hill. And when Congress allocates funding for my people, it goes through my father's hands, before it's doled out to the other tribes. Everything. Daddy is like the distributor. Whether it's seeds for the cabbage crop to feed the villagers, to surplus boots, food, medicine, clean water, guns, bullets, and money. Daddy gets it all, and decides how to divide it.

Daddy, through me, has become the conduit for our people here in The USA. When someone from our homeland wants to get a message to someone in a remote village without phone lines, they can come to me. If they want to send money home, they come see me. I can handle all of their care packages by dispatch of a shipping container from The Free Trade Zone. The Commissioner and I have an understanding. Which is why we are riding in his van, with one of his officers, and why I have you with me."


What? Me? I don't know what she is talking about. I have no idea where we're going, or what she is doing. She made a steak dinner, and we went for a walk around the block. Literally, around the block. As in, we turn the corner, and this mini bus with a cop is parked along the curb. Next thing I know, we are on an Interstate freeway going towards The Border.

By the way, where are we going?


"Long Beach. A distant cousin, the daughter of another Emirate, is visiting. We're going to get her from the docks. She is traveling first class. On a cruise ship. You know your way around. Help me make sure that she has a good time. "

What? Why would she come on a boat? What the heck do you need me for?

And boom! Just like that. Her hand moved up my thigh.

 

[Fifty150]

The Princess Rubali. Is everyone from The Hindu Kush beautiful? She had green eyes. She wore what I thought of as cultural clothing. She had about a half dozen girls following her. Her maidens. Her servants. Pushing carts with their luggage. Somehow, all of those girls and the baggage fit into the Port Authority's bus.

A nearby freight ship was offloading container boxes. Not the Conex that you find on a construction site. These were Mil-Spec. There was even special apparatus used to offload them. They didn't even bother to hide Uncle Sam's initials. I pay taxes now. It made a taxpayer like me, wonder where my tax dollars were going.

Our uniformed Port Authority Officer had walked off towards a row of buildings several hundred feet away. He came back driving a station wagon. He got out and handed me the key. "I just took care of everyone's paperwork. I'll take care of The Harem. Good luck." As he pulled away in the bus, I noticed one of the flatbeds with the government shipping containers pull in behind him to follow The Bus.

The Princess Rubali was standing next to the station wagon. Not knowing what to do, I went over to the passenger side and held the door open for her. That's when I noticed the shotgun mounted to the floorboard. A Remington 870. The Princess got in, as if it were perfectly normal.

Not knowing what else to do, I started driving. I know my way around The SouthLAnd. I take The 110 up towards Chinatown. I knew a spot there that had sandwiches. Nothing fancy. I ordered a lamb, a beef, beef stew, pickled eggs, pickled pigs feet, and a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Conversation was light. There was none. We ate in silence. She ate like she was hungry. All that food on a cruise ship, and she's eating like she didn't eat on the boat. Between mouthfuls of food, she managed to finish her beer, and started taking sips from mine. I ordered another round. We had a third round by the time the meal was finished. A six pack for lunch. I ordered another six beers to take with us. For the road.

I still didn't know what to do. Where to go. But we were driving. I cruise through Chinatown, and take the freeway ramp by Dodger Stadium. The Princess Rubali opened a few more beers and handed one to me.

"Take me to High Desert. I have to see the adopted brother of my father. You know of him as Ali Baba. The Baba who sleeps with his daughter.

My father, is the eldest son of his father. Born of the first wife. Ali Baba is the illegitimate son of my grandfather's concubine. Raised alongside my father and uncles, despite the fact that he had no blood relation to us.

Officially, he has no status. He cannot take our name. He will never inherit title. My father sent him here, to America, because it is shameful how he sleeps with Ariana. He was provided with enough to make a living, and he got greedy. But you know the story. You're a part of the story. You have slept with The Ali Baba's daughter. Ariana has spoken of you and the Little Eva girl."


This is awkward. The first time I meet this girl. She is royalty. Royalty to a tribe of goat herders, who are rumored to molest their ewe. Royalty nonetheless. And she just casually mentions that she has knowledge of me, in a menage-a-trois. Ten hours to Susanville. I'm tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. Calculating in my head where the next fuel stop is going to be. Wondering why she is reaching across the 12 gauge and fondling me. Not knowing what to do, or what to say, I say, "do you always travel with shipping containers?"


"Those annoying things. No thanks to your American Congress. This member of your House of Representatives, and his Western Whore, came to our land. They had white powder on their nostrils. They flew in a private plane, loaded with The Colonel's 11 herbs and spices.

Now, they keep sending those big, ugly, metal boxes. Then we have to send them back, like it's some sort of bottle deposit for recycling. The women in the village really don't have the time to deal with those things. Every time they come in, we have to clean them out, repack them, and send them back. All while our men are in the field for weeks at a time with the goats, and being attacked by The Russians.

Luckily, The Usos are helping us on this end. It's part of the deal we have, for them to protect Ali Baba behind the bars. The Booty Bandits don't get to practice getting him pregnant, and nobody steals his Ramen noodles. The Usos get to do all of the work. Unload the containers, then repack them, and send them back to us. "


So that's how this is playing out. The Uso are The Fudge Packers. They get to be longshoremen for the load. Buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken and MANPADS go to The Hindu Kush. Magic carpets and refined poppy product comes back. The Ali Baba becomes the sacrificial lamb. He will stay locked up, as long as it takes, to foster this new arrangement, and to promote whatever other opportunities. The Senator and his wife, The Auntie, are making money upfront, off the float, and on the back end.


Her hand is doing things to me, and I have not consented.

I'm being used.


"