Out of Bangladesh: Out of Luck? Three Ground Zeros and We’re Out? Outting ‘Mmmericans? 24 Hours to Get the “F” Out? All titles rejected within seconds.

The frustration of fiction. No more.

“‘The chilling scope of the bomb attacks that swept the length and breadth of the country yesterday should have no one in doubt as to the intent, organization, and capability of the terrorists that were behind it,’ a leading English newspaper, the Daily Star, said in an editorial.”

That was straight up from a Reuters report on the desk of Richard Martin Oxman. It knocked him clear out of *the person* he was using.

While the police were high-fiving themselves, and jiving the public around with their low-profile profiling underground in major cities around the country, a new kind of baby stroller was introduced into the the nation’s subway system…and elsewhere.

The one that carried a bomb in the baby carriage.

Meanwhile, Big Al’s carriage and Bad Al’s carriage changed quite a bit down roun’ Al-’Ayun around the same time.

Their *marriage*, following Malone’s knock on Good Al’s Desdemona door…ostensibly to apologize for the slash in the windsurfed sea off Essaouira, was a shock to their collective systems; suddenly they just wanted to be alone with one another.

But when they ventured into the Western Sahara, Morocco’s illegally occupied territory, to escape…Matilda followed in disguise. That would have shocked them even more had they known.

“Not even the rain has such small hands,” whispered Good Al, in appreciation. “I like Cummings too,” dripped The Bad Malone.

“The wind stood up and gave a shout.
He whistled on his fingers and

Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand

And said he’d kill and kill and kill,
And so he will and so he will.” — James Stephens’ “The Wind” (1915)

“…to know which way the wind blows.” — *Subterranean Homesick Blues* (1965)

To the south of Essaouira, due west of Marrakech, there’s the windy beach, the one with gusty winds so strong they drive people to relief in *madness song*, seeking shelter in the medina.

At the estuary of Wadi Qsob, on the far side of the beach, vestiges of the system of defenses built on a rocky promontory by the sultan, silly/senile Sidi Mohammed, are visible. They crumbled long ago, but thick walls can still be made out at the spot where Good Al stood August 7th, one month to the day of 07/07/07, before meeting up again with his off-road mates.

An awful lot of people wouldn’t be playing ball anymore — even if they wanted (to) — if they were…able. But Matilda’s table didn’t anticipate that.

The way the cards fell compelled our Great(ly Rejected) One to board the Royal Air Maroc jet, totally ignorant of Big Al’s presence in the North African nation. She didn’t like the way he ended the relationship, but she certainly wasn’t the type to track unrequited love.

Tracking what came up with the Tarot, however, was a different matter. *Journey, journey, journey*.

Good Al got good and tired of The Great Matilda’s *goodies* around the same time that he lost interest in *civilization* falling apart all around him. Bad Al’s most ingenious means of destruction no longer fazed him much, and he was so fed up with filling Matilda’s *cup*…he just gave up on hard…on all normal human intercourse.

Perhaps that’s how he landed in Merzouga, 33 miles southeast of Erfoud, a small oasis at the foot of Morocco’s Erg Chebbi Dunes.

His *Hummer Holiday* commenced with a 19-mile climb into the desert, 820-feet up…to greet the half-light of a Saharan sunrise. Fascinating colors climbed with him as his bloodlusty companions — strangers all — screamed out of scrunched faces…language most foul…most fatal for the fowl ahead.

In the solitude of his modest Miami rental, Al “Ivan” Martin Malone — quite alone in other respects too — played his flute, fondled the shoelaces from one of his victim’s shoes and molded a clay figure of a child, only to crush it into a lumpen mass when he was finished.

He was watching the Joseph Losey “M” which began to play along with the Fritz Lang film on the tube nationwide as July recorded temperatures way higher than ever before.

As the Great Matilda and the *former* Lead Inspector Malone attempted to discuss Martinism for the fifth time in two days, “Ivan” Malone turned in his ticket at the turnstile for the late-out-of-the-gate 2007 Major League Baseball All-Star Game. Tough security measures were in place, and the annual event was taking place in mid-July instead of earlier (as usual) ’cause of the intentional food poisoning which took place at concessions near the Founders Club of the Marlins’ Dolphins Stadium…leaving fourteen dead in May.

Nothing could have stopped “Ivan” from gaining entrance, but…Good Al Malone had been defrocked –relieved of his righteous official duties– because of being (”inexplicably,” read the report) out of touch with colleagues “at crucial crossroads.” His duly authorized doors were closed. Padlocked shut.

Instead of lighting two cigarettes in bed, doing his favorite imitation of Paul Henreid, Al took in The Great Bottom of The Great Matilda really well, and swelled over her like one of those full Half Moon breakers she had been talkin’ about.

Our Potential Hero had become temporarily *displaced*, courting his particular form of madness. Making no more of a fool of himself than Hamlet hesitating, or sterile farmer Quixote circling like a lunatic Hidalgo, Good Al finished with a flourish before returning to the dim lights of the living room…and a return to the Moon card discussion.

It wasn’t until the real lobster was on the table, however, that the Tarot’s decapod crustacean commanded the conversation’s spotlight: “See…it strives to attain manifestation, crawling from the abyss of water to the land,” instructed Matilda.

As The Great Matilda quietly served Our Great Oceanic Organic Tea to our Good Al Malone, she recounted fragments of her honeymoon for him. Initially. He quickly got her to change the topic, though, back to the business of tracking down…Those Responsible.

Not before, however, he had the thought: “You have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though I asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake.”

Wild thoughts in the ‘midst of a manhunt for The Mastermind. Funny as the hell they were in, but he couldn’t help himself.

His mind was racing into *film noir*. The visual motifs that predominated in his favorite began to catch his attention in Matilda’s room: the low key lighting, the diagonals (of kitsch)…reality not being what it seemed, he was sure. *Mildred Pierce.*

For her honeymoon, she had experienced coastal cuisine in its truest and finest form at The Ritz-Carlton, Half Moon Bay’s signature restaurant, Mavio. Now the entire AAA Five Diamond resort, situated atop a dramatic ocean bluff, was gone. Its array of compelling wines from around the world lay all over the body of Pastry Chef Michel O’Malley and colleagues amidst the remnants of the old 1,000-square foot display kitchen and raw bar. Decadent desserts with innovative pairings and creative plating –along with the personnel– had become the victims of the only 7/7 suicide bombing. Memories of the warm and relaxed ambiance with panoramic ocean views creeped in as she watched the area’s two golf courses burning like a forest fire on the early evening news.

In her reverie, she instinctively reached for her cards.