The Good Economist - Part 2

September 11, a date which will live in fame.

The year? 1973.

Hugh Courtland was lounging in his apartment in the slums of Chicago. It was a Tuesday, which meant he had no class, as he only taught on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Despite this, he had been out from work sick with a terrible headache. He was at wit’s end, completely stressed with his life. He had been born to a family of New York elites, lived in a mansion, and had been married to one of America’s elite. Now, as a forty-two year old, middle class college professor, he had to see blacks and Hispanics in the vicinity of his living space, took public transportation, and was bedfellows with a Russian expat. If he had a gun, he would consider shooting himself in the head, as there was no demand for washed up economists in the world, but a large supply of bullets.

He sat on the couch in his living room, wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of boxers. He rested his back and zoned out, listening to music on the radio. It was jazz, but softer and whiter, not the ridiculous bebop garbage he had heard in his youth. Larisa Zinovieff, his young Russian girlfriend, laid down beside him, where she was writing notes on a novel she was developing. She was wearing a nightgown, and arched her backside up, attempting to tease Hugh, but he did not care. Due to a long lasting depression, there was no growth in the market of Hugh’s penis.

The phone in the house rang, and Larisa answered it.

“Hello,” she said, with her orcish Russian accent. “Oh, hi, Mr. Friedman! Yes, Hugh is here. Oh, I’ll put him on.”

Larissa handed the phone to Hugh, who picked it up and held it to his ear.

“Hello, Milton,” Hugh sighed. “What is it?”

“It’s Chile,” Friedman snickered. “The boys in the military took over. They overthrew that communist spic Allende! The leader was a general named Augusto Pinochet.”

Hugh began sweating profusely, and his hand began trembling. A surge of energy shot through his body, and he began moaning as his body began convulsing, and a large erection shot up, nearly ripping his boxers off.

“Hugh, are you alright?” Friedman asked.

“Yes, yes,” Hugh panted, a huge smile spreading across his face. “It’s just…That’s great news! Uh, I’ve gotta go, but keep me updated!”
Hugh hung the phone up, turned to Larisa, and kissed her amorously.

“Hugh, you haven’t kissed me like that in years,” Larissa gasped.

“Let’s make a baby, dear,” Hugh smiled. They stripped each other’s clothes off and began making love on the couch. Hugh’s penis grew three sizes that day, attributed to a stimulus package from Chile.

*************

December 7, 1973

Today was a happy day for Hugh Courtland. He was getting married to Larisa, at a Protestant church in Chicago. Many old friends came to the wedding. There was Peter Raymond Walker, a wealthy Chicago landlord, and Helene Walker, his wife. Helene also brought along her uncle, Dr. Derek Smith, an experienced chemist. There was John Milhouse Burton, a successful Milwaukee landlord and proprietor of the Diamond Heights apartment complex. Sadly, Hugh’s mother, Margaret, and his stepfather, Wilfred Vierhook, had passed away years prior. Hugh only wished his mother could see him get married to his true love, and not his whore of an ex-wife.
Hugh had three groomsmen; John van der Boer, his childhood friend and a New York stockbroker, David Lancaster, another good friend and CEO of the Florida based Lancaster Fruit Company, and his best man was none other than Arnaldo Orozco, the twelve-year incumbent of the Central American nation of Val Verde. Larisa’s bridesmaids were some of her female friends whose names Hugh did not care to learn.
After they were married, there was a controlled wedding party, with alcohol being served in an elegant manner, such as glasses of wine or cocktails, not anything boorish like beer or malt liquor. Hugh and Larisa were given toasts by John, David, and Arnaldo. Later on, Hugh was approached by several guests who wished to congratulate him.

“Hello, Mr. Courtland,” Helene’s uncle Derek said. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, but I know all about your family. Congratulations on your marriage.”

“Oh, well thank you,” Hugh smiled, shaking Derek’s hand.

“Your father was a great man,” Derek continued. “I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

“My father died in prison, I’m not sure…” Hugh stuttered, but Derek leaned into Hugh’s ear.

“Heil Hitler,” Derek whispered. “The Anglo-Teutonic Reich will rise up one day.” Derek walked away, and Hugh was left in utter confusion. However, this confusion soon turned to revulsion when he saw a familiar face approach him. It was Harland Stuart, his former roommate and a current professor of music at the University of Chicago. Hugh reviled Harland’s absolutely communist viewpoints, such as the idea that black people can make meaningful art.

“Congrats, Hugh,” Harland said, wearing an all-black suit, along with sunglasses and a beret.

“Thank you, Harland,” Hugh sneered. “What brings you here? I thought you despised me.”

“Well, you ain’t exactly the cat’s meow,” Harland retorted. “But I don’t hate ya, Hugh. I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Larisa seems real sweet, plus she’s foxy.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Hugh mused.

“Well, I’m gonna go get some more wine,” Harland rudely grasped Hugh’s hand and violently shook it, before swaggering away in a drunken stupor. Hugh let out an exasperated sigh and wiped his hand off with a handkerchief.

To Hugh’s surprise, his next guest was a familiar face. Elizabeth Tadworth, now Espinosa, his ex-wife, walked up to him, with their teenage son Roger in tow. Roger was a moody young boy, with dark hair much like his father’s, and wearing a tweed suit and bowtie, matching his father’s fashion taste.

“Elizabeth, what are you doing here?” Hugh cried out. “I thought you despised me.”

“You’re still Roger’s father,” Elizabeth smiled. “I didn’t want him to miss his father’s wedding day. Plus, I’m happy for you and Larisa.”

“Well, thank you…” Hugh responded. He was speechless. He did not expect such civility from a woman he had scorned in the past. Females were irrational and emotion driven, regardless of racial or ethnic stock, unlike a stoic and rational Anglo-Teutonic male like Hugh.
“Happy wedding day, dad,” Roger said, hopping into his father’s lap. Hugh allowed a brief smile to escape his iron jaw and hugged his son. This was probably one of the happiest nights of Hugh’s life.

*************

February 16, 1979

Hugh and Larisa were in a bookstore in Chicago. Larisa had just published her novel, Prometheus Flexed. It was about a young heiress, Anya Randovich, and her economist lover, Jonas Galtland, in their quest to stop the radical socialist totalitarian government from giving free milk to schoolchildren. It was an epic novel that railed against tyranny of government, and promoted the ideal that anyone who opposes a neoliberal laissez-faire free market should be thrown out of a helicopter by government thugs.

Larisa’s novel was not the only good thing in the life of the Courtlands. Back home, their five year old son, Augustus Arnaldo Courtland, was currently with a babysitter. Hugh had made sure that Larisa converted to Calvinist Protestantism before Augustus was born; as his eldest son Roger had been corrupted by his stepfather Carlos Espinosa’s Roman Catholicism, Hugh would not allow Augustus to be corrupted by Larisa’s Russian Orthodoxy. Hugh often cringed when remembering that his wife, despite her intelligence and ruthless commitment to laissez-faire capitalism, was merely a noble savage from the barbaric Mongoloid tribe of Rurik.

After signing copies of books, Larisa answered questioned from several fans. The first one was a young man with blond hair and pale skin. He was wearing sunglasses, a red T-shirt, black jeans, and red sneakers.

“Hey, Ms. Zinovieff,” the young man began. “Or is it Mrs. Courtland now. Or can I call you Larisa?”

“Larisa is fine,” Larisa laughed.

“Alright, Larisa,” the young man said. “My name’s Dave. I just wanna say, I really liked elements of the book. You know, I love the liberty us American citizens get. I don’t want the government telling me what I can’t say, or telling me what to do with my own money, or trying to take my guns away. But I was wondering, wouldn’t it be a violation of personal liberty to throw someone out of a helicopter just for having different political views? Especially if it’s agents of the state doing so.”

“Well, I-” Larisa began, unsure of how to answer.

“Leave my wife alone, you communist!” Hugh screamed, utterly offended that this adolescent simpleton would dare attack the system of the night-watchman state.

“Hey, relax!” Dave shouted, holding his hands up. “Don’t get so offended, man.”

“LEAVE!” Hugh howled at the top of his lungs. The fascist agitator named Dave shrugged and walked away. Hugh sighed and rubbed his temples. He knew it was a violation of his principle of stoicism, but if there was one emotion an Anglo-Teutonic male was allowed to express, it was pure, unbridled rage.

“So, who’s next?” Larisa laughed awkwardly.

*************

May 23, 1984

Hugh was seated in the waiting room of a CIA office in Miami, Florida. The memories of this city brought him great anguish, but he had a job to do for his country. Larisa was back home in Chicago, taking care of a now ten year old Augustus. Hugh had been personally asked to travel to Florida by President Ronald Reagan, whom Hugh was an immense admirer of. He believed America could never recover from the radical communism of Jimmy Carter, so he was relieved when the Hollywood actor brought common sense back to Washington DC. Reagan was probably the best president since George Washington, in Hugh’s well informed opinion.

“Agent Wood will see you now,” the flighty receptionist called out. Hugh nodded and followed the young female into the building, briefcase in hand. She took him to what looked like an interrogation room. Seated inside was an older man wearing military fatigues. Despite his age, he was an athletic man with a stocky build, and looked like a true Anglo-Saxon warrior.

“Professor Courtland, I presume,” Agent Wood said, holding his hand out. Hugh smiled and shook his hand.

“That would be correct,” Hugh replied. “And you’re clearly Agent Wood.”

“Ah, please, call me Arnold,” the agent laughed. “Arnold Anderson Wood, if you want to be proper. Anyways, let’s get to business. Our files tell me you were involved in the Dallas job with Tadworth. That’s how I know you’re trustworthy, cause that was a big job.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Hugh chuckled. “Now, what’s our current job going to be?”

“Well, I was going to retire soon,” Arnold explained. “But Ronny was sure that I was the man for this mission, so I’m doing one last job before I call it quits.”

“And what do you plan on doing after?” Hugh inquired.

“Actually, I wanted to become a college professor like you,” Arnold exclaimed. “But I want to specialize in history. Good men like us need to counter Marxist whores like Angela Davis who have rooted their way into academia.”

“Amen to that,” Hugh said. “So, what am I doing on this job?”

“Well, we’re going to be taking a plane to Peshawar, in Pakistan,” Arnold began. “We’re going to meet with some mujahideen men and negotiate with them about supplying them with arms and training?”

“Dirty Muslim barbarians?” Hugh gasped.

“Well, yes,” Arnold sighed. “But look, it’s either them or the Soviets. I think the nuclear communist empire is a greater threat than some goat fucking farmers with flintlock rifles.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Hugh replied. “Alright, I’m ready to go when you are.”

Hugh followed Arnold to a private jet, which was headed for Peshawar. It was a long ride, so the two of them were provided with refreshments. The two talked about their various exploits over the years.

When the plane finally touched down in Peshawar, Hugh and Arnold were greeted by Fareed Khan, a filthy Muslim brute who was the CIA’s local liaison in the area. Fareed escorted the two men to a building where the mujahideen in question were staying.

“These men are two of the founders of the organization Maktab al-Khidamat,” Fareed explained. Their names are Abdullah Azzam and Osama bin Laden.”

Hugh and Arnold were escorted in to meet the two men. Abdullah Azzam looked like a typical Arab savage, but Hugh sensed something different Osama bin Laden. Though still inferior to the Anglo-Teutonic man, Hugh could tell that bin Laden came from a moneyed family in the Arabian Peninsula, far above a “Palestinian” shitskin like Azzam.

The meeting went like a typical CIA negotiation meeting, and the terms of arming and training were agreed on when Hugh and Arnold left. On the plane back to Miami, the two men reflected on the mission.

“You’re going to want to get rid of Azzam,” Hugh remarked, giving his analysis on the situation. “He’ll be trouble in the future. But that bin Laden fellow, keep him around. He’s trustworthy.”

*************

March 6, 1992

Hugh rushed to the hospital when he received a call that Larisa had gotten into a car crash. A seventeen-year old Augustus was in the back seat, trembling in fear at the thought of his mother injured, or worse, dead. Hastily parking the car, Hugh ran into the hospital, with Augustus trailing behind him. After filling out some paperwork at the front desk, they were escorted to her room by a nurse.
“Now, your son might want to stay outside for now,” the nurse explained. “She was unconscious when we brought her in, so she might not be in the best state.”

Augustus nodded and remained outside as Hugh went into the room. Larisa was a bloody mess; she was wrapped in bandages that were soaked red, and she was hooked up to a hundred different machines.

“Hugh, is that you?” Larisa croaked.

“Yes, it’s me, darling,” Hugh said, stroking her head. “How are you feeling?”

“Well, I’m on painkillers right now, but it hurt like hell before,” Larisa grunted.

“I’m so sorry,” Hugh pouted, kissing her on the forehead. “What do you need done before you can get out of here?”

“Oh, a bunch of surgery, therapy,” Larisa sighed. “It will be annoying.”

“I’m sure it’ll cost a lot,” Hugh pondered. “I don’t know if our insurance with the university will cover it all.”

“Oh, there’s no need to worry,” Larisa smiled. “The doctors found I had a rare bone disease, which counted as a disability. I’m eligible for Medicare.”

“You’re…what?” Hugh stammered, being revolted at the mention of that accursed policy implemented by the Democratic communist Lyndon B. Johnson.

“Yes, I’m eligible,” Larisa cheered. “We don’t have to pay a cent.”

“That’s…lovely…” Hugh sputtered, sweating profusely. He hated the thought of his wife injured and in extraordinary pain, but he truly reviled the idea of his wife leeching money from the government.

“Darling, I love you so much,” Hugh sniffled, tears forming in his eyes. “I’ll always love you forever.”

“I love you too, babe,” Larisa replied. “I’m going to survive, don’t worry.”

“It’s not that,” Hugh sobbed. “Clearly your mind was ruined in the accident, or by the painkillers. I must put you out of your misery.”

Hugh grabbed a pillow and pressed it down over Larisa’s head, smothering her. She began twisting and shaking, and her heart monitor began beeping rapidly. Hugh cried with intense sorrow as she grew still, and the monitor droned on.

“Better dead than red,” he whispered, dropping the pillow to the ground.

*************

June 9, 1994

It had been two years since Larisa Courtland had passed away. Her death had created a rift between Hugh and Augustus, for while Augustus did not know that his father was involved in his mother’s death, he had felt Hugh’s character change. Augustus was now a student at the University of Chicago, though he avoided the economics department like the plague. While it gave Hugh no pleasure to see his son drift away from him, he knew it was an important step in Augustus gaining independence and pulling himself up by the bootstraps. In Augustus’ absence, Hugh furthered his dedication to stoicism. He would be distant to the little family he had left, and “friends” became associates or colleagues. Hugh vowed to never feel another emotion ever again.

Despite his strong commitment to stoicism, however, Hugh had to admit himself that his fortitude was faltering. He found himself subscribing to pornographic magazines, and masturbating to them three to four times a day. Perhaps he was not as enlightened as he thought; he was displaying the fecundity of a boorish Catholic migrant. However, he was also a wasteful masturbator; instead of spending his seed in the wombs of submissive Anglo-Teutonic women, he was shooting his splooge into tissues, which he left strewn about his empty apartment. At least the tissues were white.

However, he was going to solve his problem. Earlier in the month, he had contacted some of his associates in the CIA, about desiring a mate. This would be solely for biological purposes, in order to placate his arousal and contribute to the white birth rate. His associates assured him that he would be receiving a Caucasian girl from Georgia.

Hugh had to stop himself from jolting up when he heard his doorbell ring. He composed himself in a stoic manner and walked over to answer the door. When he opened it, he saw a young woman standing before him. She had pale skin, dark hair, and a curvaceous figure which was accentuated by her skimpy clothes. However, something about her seemed off.

“Your friend say to give this to you,” the young woman babbled in a striking Eurasian accent, tossing a manila envelope into Hugh’s arms. Hugh struggled to suppress a face of shock as he looked at his mail order bride. She was nearly a spitting image of Larisa.
Hugh looked at the Mongoloid whore that stood before him. He scoffed and opened the envelope, reading the information inside. The girl’s name was Ekaterine Maisuradze. She was a Georgian girl who had turned to sex work in the economic collapse after the fall of the Soviet Union.

“So, er, Ekaterine,” Hugh began. “Or can I call you Katherine? Or Kat?”

“Call me whatever you want,” she sighed. “Just tell me what you want. You want me to suck you? You want to fuck me?”

“Well, Kat,” Hugh said. “I would like to engage in sexual intercourse with you, on solely utilitarian grounds. There is no romantic intent here, so try not to fall in love with me.”

“That will be easy,” Kat scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Now, you want me to take off clothes?”

“Yes, of course,” Hugh uttered. She stripped her clothes off, revealing ample breasts and firm buttocks. Hugh circled her while stroking her chin, staring at her body analytically, calculating her effectiveness at childbirth via the width of her hips. “Yes, this will be satisfactory. Now, I demand that you pleasure my copulatory organ.”

Kat rolled her eyes, dropped to her knees, and undid Hugh’s belt. She pulled down his pants and stared at his flaccid minuscule penis. She grabbed the soft phallus and began jerking, attempting to get a reaction out of it. She gripped it tighter, slapped it, tickled the balls, and even stuck a pinky finger up Hugh’s anus to get it to stand up, but nothing was seeming to work.

“Here, why don’t you try reading from this book,” Hugh ordered, handing Kat a copy of Prometheus Flexed. “Maybe your voice will do it.”
Kat sighed and began reading the first chapter while tugging at Hugh’s penis. As she read through, Hugh felt the blood rush to his penis, and it sprung up, fully erect.

“Quick, put it inside your vagina!” Hugh cried. Kat hopped up onto Hugh’s laugh and put the tumescence inside her. She began riding it, and Hugh howled like a boorish wild animal as she continued to read the book. He could feel that he was close to completion.

“Wait, who wrote this book?” Kat asked mid-coitus. “Who’s Larisa Zinovieff?”

As soon as it had sprung up, Hugh’s tumescence had just as quickly fallen. Hugh screamed in anger and pushed Kat to the ground.

“You ruined it!” Hugh seethed, staring into Kat’s fearful eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Kat panted. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“GET OUT, WHORE!” Hugh screamed at the Mongoloid harlot. “Leave, or else…or else I’ll fucking kill you!”

Kat barged out of the apartment fully nude, screaming and sobbing. Now alone again, Hugh sighed and collapsed back on his couch. He stared down at his flaccid penis once more. He tried to get it to stand up again, but there was no luck. It would be the last erection Hugh ever felt in his life.

*************

July 4, 2001

Hugh Courtland was seventy years old. A great many things had changed in his life. He had seen World War 2, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Chilean coup, the Soviet-Afghan War, d’etat, the Gulf War, and the fall of the Soviet Union. He had gone through two wives, and sired two sons. His first son, Roger, was now a successful realtor in Miami, while his second son, Augustus, had become a prolific fiction writer. Though he no longer regularly taught classes, he had been a tenured professor of economics at the University of Chicago for forty-three years now. Now a senior citizen, he was stoic as ever. However, given it was the country’s birthday, he decided it was permissible to have a little bit of fun.

His colleague, Dr. Arnold Anderson Wood of South Florida, was in the area and had invited him to meet up at a local bar. Though Hugh found public drinking establishments to be quite uncouth, he respected Dr. Wood and decided to go. When he arrived, an aged Dr. Wood was seated with a well-dressed younger gentleman who looked out of place in the bar.

“Good to see you, friend,” Dr. Wood cheered, shaking Hugh’s hand.

“Good to see you, doctor,” Hugh smiled. “If I may ask, who’s your associate here?”

“Ah, this is a partner from across the pond.” Dr. Wood explained. “Tell him who you are, George.”

“Thank you, Arnold,” the well dressed man began in a posh English accent. “I am George Henry Rockford, the Baron Rockford. Most call me the Right Honourable Lord Rockford.”

“Well, good to be in a noble’s presence,” Hugh remarked. “Now, what’s a man of your pedigree doing in a bar like this? No offense, Dr. Wood.”

“None taken,” Dr. Wood laughed. “I’m not a wimpy socialist Al Gore voter.”

“Well, Mr. Courtland,” Lord Rockford explained. “I am a man of class, of course, but I’m not a pansy. I served in the Troubles and the Falklands War. A warrior like me is not afraid of being in a locale below his caste.”

“Ah, of course, milord,” Hugh replied. “I’ve never had the pleasure of serving my country’s military, sadly.”

“Well, I’ve heard of your intelligence work,” Lord Rockford exclaimed. “And you’ve got quite the resume under your belt.”

“Thank you, milord,” Hugh said, suppressing a blush.

The three men continued talking over drinks; Dr. Wood and Lord Rockford had beers, while Hugh had a fancy gin and tonic cocktail. As the time passed, Hugh soon had to leave, for his bedtime was soon.

“Oh, Hugh, before you go,” Dr. Wood called out. “I can’t say much, but just letting you know, we’re working an operation in New York City, and I want you to stay out of that city until the operation is finished. I can’t say when, but you’ll know when it’s happened. Please, a mind like yours is not something we want to lose.”

“I shall heed your warning, my good associate,” Hugh smiled. He shook hands with Dr. Wood and Lord Rockford before heading back to his apartment.

***************

September 10, 2001

Hugh was on a plane to Boston, to pay his ex-wife Elizabeth Tadworth a visit. Though he would normally never give her an irrational female the time of day, she had called him and said it was a matter of dire importance. A bit of emotion shone through his cold iron shell, and he felt like he owed the mother of his first son that much.

Elizabeth was one of the few of the Tadworth clan still remaining in Boston; the only other one was her liberal minded nephew Reginald. Her husband, that boorish Cuban migrant Carlos Espinosa, had died in 1998, leaving her all alone. Her father Thomas had died many years ago, and her brother Bowen (who was Reginald’s father) had moved to Florida for retirement. Her uncle, and Hugh’s former friend Clifford, had already moved to Virginia before his death; his eldest son Lawrence had moved to Wyoming to become a sheep rancher, and his youngest son Walter remained in Virginia to become a successful toy manufacturer.

It was a cold night when the plane arrived to Boston. Hugh took a cab to the old Tadworth estate, which looked almost barren and empty. He arrived at the door, where he was greeted by an aged Elizabeth. Though she was an old and frail woman, her beauty still shone through, and Hugh foolishly reminisced on their love.

“It’s good to see you, Hugh,” Elizabeth smiled.

“Seeing you is rather adequate,” Hugh stated, trying to maintain his stoic nature. “So, what is this matter of dire importance you called me about?”

“I needed to talk about us,” Elizabeth sighed, with a look of longing in her eyes.

“Us?” Hugh exclaimed. “There is no us. We divorced decades ago. Our son is a grown adult. There is no benefit to us continuing to engage in a relationship, platonic, romantic, or otherwise.”

“Please, Hugh,” Elizabeth pleaded. “I know that our marriage was far from perfect, but we both made mistakes, and we learned from them. I know we’ve both grown old, but our lives aren’t over yet. Your Larissa is gone, as well as my Carlos, but we’re still here.”

“Elizabeth,” Hugh stammered. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’ve rethought a lot of my past mistakes,” she sighed. “I shouldn’t have cheated on you with Carlos. Yes, I know you were cheating too, but I had driven you away by not being interested in your work. When I slept with Carlos that day, I was driven by lust. Yes, he was more attractive, in better shape, and better at sex than you, but that doesn’t compare to your intellect. See, Carlos was actually quite stupid, and he was only successful as a businessman because he had inherited the business from his father. We only survived all these years because of my family’s money. He’s not like you, Hugh. My father was an intelligence officer, but…you’re the smartest man I know. And that’s what I learned that I love the most. Please, Hugh, spend the night.”

“I don’t know…” Hugh stuttered. The truth was, deep down, he had longed for Elizabeth for many years. And yet, he felt that he could not give into his emotions. It would be betraying his stoic life philosophy.

“I’m too old…and weak,” he sighed.

“I have some blue pills that will give you your vigor back,” Elizabeth smirked.

“No, I can’t,” Hugh cried. “I’m very sorry with how things turned out between us, Elizabeth, but I must not falter from my true calling!”

Hugh barged out of the Tadworth estate. Lost and unsure of where to go, Hugh remained awake. He wandered through the frigid streets of Boston, restless and conflicted. All his pent up emotions were threatening to burst out of him, but it would be irresponsible of him to do so. He looked into the sky and pleaded for an answer. He was standing in the birthplace of the American Revolution, point zero of all the glorious liberty and patriotism. He collapsed to his knees, and a single tear fell from his eye. Of all his past mistakes, his past transgressions, his past vices, this tear was his greatest shame. The stoic was broken, and he was just a pathetic old man.

*************

The next morning, Hugh was in a rush to leave. He hated not having planned a flight ahead of time, but it was urgent he left Boston. He could not confront his emotions like this ever again. He remembered that he was scheduled to meet with some Chilean expatriates in Los Angeles in a few days. These men were upset about the current president of Chile, Ricardo Lagos, a social democratic and progressive politician. Disgusted that communism would resurge in Chile after being graced by the godly rule of Augusto Pinochet, Hugh hoped to be able to facilitate regime change again.

Hugh arrived at Logan International Airport, where he ran to buy a ticket to Los Angeles. His old, frail body was panting with exhaustion, but he managed to score a ticket for Flight 11 with American Airlines, which departed at 7:45 AM.

One the way through security, Hugh bumped into a brutish looking Arab man. Hugh was disgusted to be in the presence of such an ugly and horrid desert savage.

“Oh, I’m very sorry,” the man said in a thick Arabic accent.

“You listen here, goat fucker!” Hugh barked. “You immigrants just want to ruin this country and make it socialist! Why don’t you go back to where you came from?”

“I will be in Paradise soon enough,” the man smiled before walking towards the terminal. Hugh ignored the man’s delusional comment and continued making his way to the plane. He was seated in a section of business class close to the front of the plane. Hugh sighed and rested his briefcase between his legs, hoping the flight would feel quick.

An hour after the plane took off, Hugh heard a commotion at the front of the plane. Flight attendants were screaming hysterically, and loud shouting in Arabic babble could be heard.

“What is going on?” Hugh exclaimed. While other passengers were panicking, Hugh was absolutely furious at this interruption. He stood up and made his way towards the cabin. When he finally got there, he saw five Arab brutes at the front; they had hijacked the plane.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hugh cried out, crossing his arms. The Arab boors looked at him with anger.

“Stand back, infidel!” one of the Muslims barked.

“Wait, hold on,” another Muslim said. His eyes widened with realization. “You’re Hugh Courtland! You’re the Western man that Sheik Osama admires!”

“What?” Hugh scoffed.

“Yes, he told us that he met you in Peshawar,” the terrorist explained. “Back in the jihad against the Soviets in Afghanistan. He said you had the most wisdom, dignity, and noblesse he had ever witnessed in a kafir.”

“Oh…” Hugh uttered. “But what’s going on here?”

“My friend, we will wage the ultimate jihad,” the terrorist cheered. “Allah will accept us into Paradise, and gift us each seventy-two virgins. Because of your friendship with Sheik Osama, Allah will smile upon you fondly.”

Hugh looked outside and saw the plane was flying straight towards the North Tower of the World Trade Center. In a moment of last-minute delirium, Hugh saw a vision from his childhood; his father, the business magnate Andrew Courtland, being driven away in a police cruiser for funding the Nazi Party in Germany. Furthermore, he heard screams, the screams of his father and mother, the socialite Margaret Bouchard Courtland, the screams of horror at the news of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s reelection. Suddenly, every mistake, every transgression, every vice in Hugh's life, all struck through hiss heart like a bolt of lightning.

“Father, no!” he screamed, his brain reduced to that of a fearful child, hallucinating his father’s arrest. He could not process anything else.

The plane crashed into the North Tower, and a great explosion fire roared out over the Manhattan sky. Hugh Courtland was dead.
-
The final chapter, A Patriot’s Funeral, will be coming soon.