End of the World

by D Thomas Jewett

  An ironic smile crossed Joe's face. Hell, I don't even have sex to sell. He shuffled onward.

  It was many months – too many for Joe to count – since he gave up trying to be part of the middle class. He hated this life, but he also hated struggling – fighting to maintain enough income to pay his debts. He had come to realize that being in debt was being a slave, and he decided he wanted no part of it any more.

  True to his intent and tired of living in the rain, Joe arrived at the Catholic homeless shelter shortly after they opened for the evening. He felt for his gun to make sure it was still in his pocket, and then he opened the door, stepping into the shelter. It was a large hall crammed with cots on the floor, and with some bunk beds around the perimeter. The place was already crowded with men – mostly old and middle-aged. I guess the young men work the streets at night.

  Joe spied a man holding a figurine, talking to it and yelling at it. “You're gonna do what I tell ya! No – damn it – you're gonna sleep with me! You're not goin’ off to sleep with that tramp! ...”

  Joe was chagrined. It's a lousy place to be, but at least it's a hot shower and I'm outta the rain, he mused.

  “Hey buddy,” a grizzled man tapped him on the shoulder. “I'm Brad. You're welcome to bunk over there, near me.” He gestured over to the far corner of the room.

  Joe's guard immediately went up. He peered at Brad’s bearded and worn-out face, seeing a man with clear eyes.

  Joe had a sense that Brad was a good guy, just down on his luck. He extended his hand. “I'm Joe.” They shook hands.

  “C'mon,” Brad said. “Follow me.”

  Joe glanced around the room as he followed Brad through the maze of cots, heading toward a far corner.

  “There's an empty bunk,” Brad said as he pointed to a cot against the wall.

  Joe looked at the bunk and pulled back the covers. “Well, I don't see any bugs. I guess this will do.”

  Joe turned around and looked at Brad. “So, what's your story?”

  Brad looked up at Joe, a wry smirk on his face. “I guess we all have a story, don't we?”

  Joe pulled the covers back over the bed and sat down. “Yep,” Joe replied.

  Just then, a group of younger guys came into the shelter. Noisy, boisterous, and obscene; they made their way through the maze of bunks looking for space all in one section.

  Joe looked at Brad. “And?”

  Brad looked around the room. “Look at 'em. A lot of these guys are dangerous. And if they're not dangerous to me, then they're surely dangerous to themselves.” He sighed and continued. “I don't want to get too close to 'em – I like to know who's sleeping near me.”

  “So why single me out?” Joe asked.

  Brad smiled in an ironic sort of way. “Your eyes. I could see it in your eyes the minute you walked in here. You're one of the few who actually looks around – who's aware of where he's at. And I get a sense I can trust you. At least, I can trust you enough not to rip off my head and –”

  Suddenly there was a loud crash out near the middle of the room. A disheveled young blond man was standing over an old gray man. The old man was on his back, looking up at the blond. Then belying his years, the old man rolled away from the young guy and leaped to his feet – crouching like a cat and drawing a knife, all in a single blur of motion. He held the knife out in front of him and waved the young guy to come-on; as though to say, come and get me you bastard!

  Joe wasn’t sure, but he guessed that the young blond guy started it. He watched as a group of young men and boys stood behind the blond man; shouting and cheering him on. So too, a group of older men formed behind the old guy. The fight was quickly turning into a raucous competition between the two groups as their shouting escalated.

  And then there were the long-time street people who stood back and remained quiet, watching intently.

  The old man maintained his crouching stance as he moved to his left. The young guy, sweating profusely with wide eyes, was also moving to his left, keeping the old man in front of him. But the young guy didn't have a weapon, and he seemed more afraid.

  With sweat rolling down his face, the young guy was beginning to look frantic. As he moved, his eyes darted toward the door and then back at his adversary. And then the young guy seemed to make a decision. He shuffled his feet in quick stutter-steps and bolted toward the door. In no time at all he was out the door and gone!

  The crowd watched him flee, and in that instant the raucous voices diminished to stunned silence.

  With the threat gone, the old man took a deep breath and sighed, coming slowly out of his crouch. Joe watched as the old man visibly relaxed. And Joe noticed one other thing – that many of the young guy's supporters followed him out; albeit, at a much slower pace.

  “Well, that was enough excitement for the day. Don't you think?” Brad said it with a wry smile and a humorous undertone.

  “Yeah,” Joe said as he grinned.

  Joe looked around, then noticed he was now standing. He sat back down and looked at Brad. “You were telling me your story?”

  “Oh yeah,” he sighed. “You would never know it to look at me, but I used to live in a middle class suburb. I was an accountant for a big construction company. But they were downsizing, and they could save more money by laying me off instead of laying off one of their young college graduates.” He looked down to the floor. “And then I had all these bills to pay – and I couldn't pay 'em.”

  “How 'bout your wife? Are you married?”

  Brad looked at him with his trademark ironic smirk. “I was. But when all the bill collectors started calling and the foreclosure happened, we just started fighting and fighting. It went on for months and months.” Brad sighed. “I think the day I almost hit her was the day I knew I had to leave – and so I left. I haven't seen her since.”

  “Wow,” Joe shook his head. “You sound a lot like me.”

  * * *

  Joe awoke to muffled sobbing. There was subdued lighting throughout the room, providing enough light so that one could make it back and forth to the latrine. He looked around at the nearby cots but could see no one in distress ... but the sobbing continued.

  Joe closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

  * * *

  Joe awakened to light rustling sounds throughout the room. He lifted his head an inch or two off of the pillow and noted several people packing their things for the day. Some men headed into the adjoining room where the Catholic volunteers provided a good breakfast – SOS[45] was a popular menu item.

  Brad had just returned from the shower. Time to get a shower before there’s a run on the latrine, Joe thought.

  “Watch my stuff?” Joe asked Brad.

  Brad nodded his assent.

  Joe headed off to the latrine, grabbed a towel, and strode into the communal shower area – a room with ten or so shower heads. He found an unused shower and began cleaning the grime, sweat, and stink off of him. He finished his shower and navigated his way back to his bunk.

  “Thanks,” Joe said.

  Brad nodded.

  Joe donned his clothing. Damn how these things stink, he thought. I really need to get ‘em washed, but then I wouldn’t look so pathetic!

  He reached under the pillow and retrieved his .380 pistol, putting it into his pocket. And then he smiled to himself as he remembered the young punk who tried to rob him with it...

  “Gimme your money,” the punk said as his shaking hand pointed the pistol at Joe.

  Joe raised his hands, and said, “C’mon kid. Do I look like I got any money?”

  And then the punk got a scared look on his face and said, “Oh shit!” That’s when the kid dropped the gun – just dropped it – and ran away.

  Shit! Joe mused. That was probably the first time the kid held a gun on anyone. I guess he got scared when he realized he couldn’t shoot me ...

  Joe’s focus snapped back to the present as he realized he was still sitting on his bunk. He stood up and followed Brad into
breakfast.

  * * * * *

  Lance had a gleam in his eyes. “C'mon guys,” he yelled. “Let's get a place to sack down for the night.”

  He heard the gang respond with loud cheers and catcalls. “Yeah, man. Yeah!”

  “We'll go for that Catholic shelter over on 6th,” he yelled. “Whadya say?”

  The gang responded with still more cheers and catcalls. “Yeah, man. Yeah!”

  Lance smiled at the response, and then he turned and glared at the boy next to him. The boy was taking a swig from a bottle. “Gimme that!” Lance grabbed the bottle from his hand and lifted it high on his lips, taking a long drink. “Here,” Lance said as he shoved it against the boy’s chest.

  “Let's go,” he yelled. Lance took the lead, striding arrogantly along the sidewalk toward the Catholic shelter. His gang followed abreast and behind him.

  When they arrived, Lance and the gang crowded through the door together. But the attendant met them at the door, and said, “I'm sorry – we don't have space for all of you.”

  Lance looked at the man and laughed. “Screw you man,” Lance yelled over the din, “we'll find our own space!” Lance shoved the attendant to the side and led the gang into the main hall.

  Lance spied an old gray man laying on a bunk near the middle of the room. He approached and stood next to the bunk, looking down on the man. This guy looks like an easy mark, he thought. “Hey asshole, you're in my cot.”

  The man held his hand to his ear. “Huh?”

  The old bastard doesn't hear too good, he thought. “Hey asshole, you're in my cot!” Lance yelled as he leaned over the man and swung at him with a right cross. The old man put up his arm and blocked the blow, but he couldn't stop himself from falling off the cot and onto the floor.

  Lance looked down at the old man and edged toward him, ready to swing again.

  The old man looked up at Lance, and then his motion was a blur as he rolled away and leaped into a crouched position, holding a knife in front of his body.

  Damn. Where’d that knife come from, Lance thought as he also assumed a crouch. Lance looked at the man warily, moving left even as the old man moved to his left. The old man moved in closer, and Lance found himself moving away. This is bad, Lance thought. I don't even have a knife!

  Still clutching his knife, the old man continued moving to his left. But now Lance could see the man’s sinewy arms and lean, wiry frame – and then there was the gritty focused expression on the man’s face!

  The sweat was pouring off Lance’s ashen face as he took all this in. He didn’t have a weapon, and yet he had chosen this guy thinking the old man couldn't fight back. But damn – as old as he looked, the guy was fucking dangerous!

  Lance's feet moved in a stutter as he glanced toward the door. Focusing on the old man, he continued moving to his left even as his body language leaned toward the door. Suddenly, Lance broke off from the fight and bolted out the door. And when he reached the outdoors, he pulled up but moved well away from the entrance. He watched, waiting to see who followed. But only the gang filed out – the old gray man didn’t follow. The gang collected around Lance, talking amongst each other and with Lance.

  “Hey dude,” said one of the gang, “we need to do it different from now on.”

  “Yeah,” said another. “We need to get some knives, and some guns.”

  “Yeah,” the gang murmured their agreement.

  “Hey!” Lance yelled. “Let's all go down to the park. We'll sleep there tonight.”

  “Yeah, man,” the gang shouted. And the gang followed in lockstep as Lance took the lead.

  * * * * *

  At any given time, Lance had a gang of about twenty guys and girls, give or take a few. They were young, and they were outcasts – outcasts from their families and outcasts from the system. The same system that foreclosed on so many families also left many young people homeless, jobless, and in poverty.

  They survived in any way they could; by theft, by robbery, by confidence schemes, or whatever. Today, they were hungry and they needed food, and they had a scheme for getting it.

  And so, Lance picked out a corner convenience store – one that had several escape routes. The gang cased the store and the surrounding area, which is to say they determined a time when only one counter attendant would be present.

  Lance and his gang entered the store in single file. As he entered, Lance glanced over at the counter girl, watching as she stepped back from the counter. She watched the gang warily as she grasped the telephone handset. She knows what's coming, Lance thought. We’ll just have to make it quick – just as we planned!

  Lance took up a position behind an aisle and out of the path of cameras. “Go!” Lance yelled. And the gang members instantly jumped into action, walking quickly up and down the aisles – and grabbing from the shelves whatever struck their fancy. They moved with haste, stuffing their loot into pockets, bags, or trousers. Their goal was simple, move fast and grab as much as possible!

  Lance counted the seconds as he maintained his position outside the cameras’ view. At the thirty second mark, he yelled “Done!” The gang heard his command and immediately moved to the exit.

  Within seconds they were gone, and the store was left in shambles.

  Chapter 12 – Headlines Of the Day

  Silver market: More AB Jorday Shenanigans?

  NEW YORK (International Press) April 6, 2011 – As of April 6, 2011, the price of silver has not yet closed above $38 per ounce; although silver on the COMEX[46] reached a high of $38.17 during March 24th intraday trading. Many analysts had predicted a higher silver price than was actually achieved; so why were these price targets not realized?

  There is both evidence and reports that extraordinary actions were taken by AB Jorday to suppress precious metals prices.

  According to the Commodity Futures Trading Commission monthly bank participation report (just released), between one and four large banks had added 30 million ounces to their net short silver position on the COMEX, when compared with the previous four weeks.

  Many suspect that AB Jorday was responsible for most (if not all) of this short selling. These suspicions are motivated by AB Jorday’s other actions. It seems that a few days before the first day of notice for delivery for COMEX March silver contracts, a total of 252 million ounces were owed to long contract holders. These contracts have apparently been settled, with only a small fraction settled by the release of silver from COMEX vaults.

  But one man reported that his company owned 4,000 March contracts (20 million ounces of silver) and that a demand was made for delivery of physical silver. The counterparty was AB Jorday; and instead of providing silver, the bank offered cash.

  The company refused the cash offer; and so the bank then offered more than $40 per ounce. The company also turned down this offer. Then, AB Jorday stated they would deliver physical silver against other contracts; but declare a “force majeure” inability to deliver the silver to the man’s company.

  After this, the man’s company accepted a cash payment. The payment reportedly exceeded $50 per ounce.[47]

  This is not the only report of its kind. There have been other reports of other contracts being settled for cash at or above $50 per ounce. By fulfilling contracts with cash, the bank avoids a 50% or greater jump in silver spot prices.

  In addition, on March 15th AB Jorday placed an application for approval as a depository of gold and silver for COMEX contracts. The paperwork normally requires 45 days – but AB Jorday’s application was approved within 48 hours. Analysts believe that any gold and silver that might be stored with the bank may be used to cover deliveries of short contracts, which is one reason why approval was made so quickly.

  * * * * *

  For Immediate Release – March 18, 2011

  United States Attorney's Office

  Western District of North Carolina

  Contact: (704) 555-8387

  Defendant Convicted of Minting His Own Currency

 
; STATESVILLE, NC—Bernard von NotHaus, 67, was convicted today by a federal jury of making, possessing, and selling his own coins, announced Anne M. Tompkins, U.S. Attorney for the Western District of North Carolina. Following an eight-day trial and less than two hours of deliberation, von NotHaus, the founder and monetary architect of a currency known as the Liberty Dollar, was found guilty by a jury in Statesville, North Carolina, of making coins resembling and similar to United States coins; of issuing, passing, selling, and possessing Liberty Dollar coins; of issuing and passing Liberty Dollar coins intended for use as current money; and of conspiracy against the United States. The guilty verdict concluded an investigation which began in 2005 and involved the minting of Liberty Dollar coins with a current value of approximately $7 million. Joining the U.S. Attorney Anne M. Tompkins in making today’s announcement are Edward J. Montooth, Acting Special Agent in Charge of the FBI, Charlotte Division; Russell F. Nelson, Special Agent in Charge of the United States Secret Service, Charlotte Division; and Sheriff Van Duncan of the Buncombe County Sheriff’s Office.

  ·

  ·

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  “Attempts to undermine the legitimate currency of this country are simply a unique form of domestic terrorism,” U.S. Attorney Tompkins said in announcing the verdict. “While these forms of anti-government activities do not involve violence, they are every bit as insidious and represent a clear and present danger to the economic stability of this country,” she added. “We are determined to meet these threats through infiltration, disruption, and dismantling of organizations which seek to challenge the legitimacy of our democratic form of government.”