France is often referred to as America’s “oldest ally,” a relationship dating back to its crucial support for the American Revolution in 1778.1 Yet, despite this deep historical bond and shared values of democracy and liberty, there’s a recurring perception—particularly in the United States—that France is not always a good or reliable ally.2 This feeling stems not from a failure to cooperate, but from France’s fierce commitment to strategic independence and its history of prioritizing its own national and European interests over American foreign policy consensus.3
This dynamic of cooperation mixed with occasional confrontation has defined the Franco-American relationship for centuries.
The Root of the Tension: Strategic Autonomy
The fundamental reason France is often perceived as a “difficult” partner is its pursuit of “strategic autonomy.” This doctrine is rooted in the country’s post-World War II desire to reclaim its great power status and ensure its security is never wholly dependent on another nation, even a friendly one.5
This drive for independence has been most clearly defined by two major actions:
De Gaulle’s NATO Withdrawal (1966):6 Under President Charles de Gaulle, France famously withdrew from NATO’s integrated military command structure (though it remained a political member of the alliance).7 De Gaulle evicted all foreign troops and NATO bases from French soil, insisting that France develop its own nuclear deterrent (force de frappe). This was a clear message that France would determine its own defense policy and would not automatically submit to American military leadership.8
A Truly European Defense: France remains the EU country that most aggressively champions a truly independent European industrial and defense policy.9 While cooperating closely with the U.S. and NATO on specific missions (like counterterrorism), French leaders, particularly Emmanuel Macron, have consistently argued that Europe must avoid becoming a “vassal” of the United States, especially given shifts in American politics and foreign policy.10
High-Profile Disagreements and Diplomatic Splits
While cooperation on trade, intelligence, and culture is robust, the perception of France as a “difficult” ally is reinforced by several key diplomatic splits:
1. The Iraq War Opposition (2003)11
The most significant modern rift occurred when France, led by President Jacques Chirac, vehemently opposed the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq.12 France threatened to use its veto in the UN Security Council against a resolution authorizing military force, effectively blocking international legal consensus for the war.13
Consequences: This opposition led to a wave of “Francophobia” in the United States, epitomized by calls to boycott French goods (like wine) and the absurd, temporary renaming of “French fries” to “Freedom fries” in some US government cafeterias.14 The diplomatic fallout strained the alliance for years.
2. The AUKUS Submarine Debacle (2021)
A recent and painful blow to the French alliance was the AUKUS security pact between the United States, the United Kingdom, and Australia.15 The deal saw Australia abruptly cancel a multi-billion dollar conventional submarine contract with France in favor of acquiring U.S. nuclear-powered submarines.16
The Snub: France was not consulted and viewed the move as an extraordinary act of betrayal and a diplomatic “stab in the back” by its allies. President Macron temporarily recalled the French ambassador from Washington—a rare and severe diplomatic rebuke—underscoring the feeling that the U.S. prioritizes its own geopolitical interests, even at the expense of its “oldest friend.”17
Historical Context of Complications
The current tensions are not new; they follow a pattern of cooperation and conflict that extends across centuries:
Historical Point of Friction
Description
Quasi-War (1798–1800)
Shortly after their initial alliance, tensions over U.S. neutrality in the French Revolutionary Wars led to French seizures of American ships, resulting in an undeclared naval war.
The Suez Crisis (1956)
The U.S. and the Soviet Union jointly opposed the invasion of Egypt by the U.K., France, and Israel. France viewed the U.S. action as a humiliation and a clear example of America undermining its core allies to serve its own global agenda.
Vietnam War
De Gaulle’s France openly and vocally criticized American involvement, urging the U.S. to withdraw.
In short, the feeling that France is a “difficult” ally is an unavoidable consequence of its determination to be a great power in its own right—one that reserves the right to disagree with Washington on matters of global order, trade, and military strategy. For France, being a loyal ally doesn’t mean being an obedient one.
Take a look at this excerpt from Author W. W. Watson. This is a series of private detective novels. This is from Book 2. Scroll to the bottom of the page to get the book, if you like it, from Amazon…
The sense of closure from the Robert case proved illusory. The city’s hum, once a comforting backdrop, now felt like a constant, low-level thrum of impending trouble. It started subtly; a missed call from a blocked number, a cryptic email with no sender’s information, a fleeting glimpse of a familiar face in a crowded street that vanished as quickly as it appeared. These were small things, easily dismissed as coincidences, the product of an overactive imagination fueled by months of relentless investigation and emotional turmoil. But they chipped away at my newfound peace, a slow, insidious erosion of calm.
Then came the letter. A simple, unmarked envelope slipped under my apartment door, containing a single photograph – a grainy, poorly lit image of Sally standing outside a dimly lit bar, a man’s arm draped possessively around her shoulders. The man’s face was obscured by shadow, but the silhouette, the posture, the way he held her… it was chillingly familiar.
My stomach clenched. I knew that face. Or at least, I knew the
shape of it. It resonated with a memory, buried deep beneath the layers of recent trauma, a fleeting image from a case I’d worked years ago – a case involving a brutal assault, a string of unsolved disappearances, a network of organized crime that had stretched far beyond my reach. The man in the photograph, I was almost certain, was a peripheral figure from that investigation, someone I’d only caught a glimpse of, a shadowy figure on the edge of the frame. Someone I’d never been able to identify, someone who’d vanished without a trace.
The implications were staggering. My investigation into Robert’s infidelity had inadvertently unearthed something far more sinister, something that connected to a dark chapter in my past, a case that had haunted me for years. It was a chilling revelation, a cruel twist of fate that thrust me back into the murky waters of organized crime. This wasn’t just about a broken marriage anymore; this was about something far bigger, far more dangerous.
The photograph wasn’t just a threat; it was a challenge. A gauntlet thrown down, daring me to pick it up and face the consequences. The carefully constructed peace I’d worked so hard to achieve was shattered, replaced by a familiar knot of anxiety that tightened in my chest. The nightmares returned, sharper, more vivid, filled with distorted faces and the chilling whisper of impending danger.
My cautious, methodical approach, honed over years of experience, was suddenly inadequate. This wasn’t a simple infidelity case; this was a potential descent into a dangerous underworld. I needed to tread carefully, to plan each step meticulously. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake; the consequences could be devastating.
My first step was to verify the photograph. Was it a genuine image, or a carefully constructed fabrication designed to manipulate, to provoke a reaction? The quality of the photograph was poor, the details obscured, but there were subtle elements that suggested authenticity – the subtle grain, the way the light fell on the building in the background, the slightly blurry details that hinted at a hasty, clandestine shot.
I ran the image through various forensic enhancement programs, pushing the pixels to their limits, attempting to coax more information from the shadows. The results were frustratingly inconclusive. The man’s face remained obscured, his features hidden beneath the veil of darkness. But I did find something else – a barely visible detail in the background of the image – a street sign, partially obscured, but identifiable as a street located in the city’s less desirable district, known for its high crime rate and its connection to several organized crime syndicates.
The location provided a starting point. I checked local police reports, scouring databases for any activity in that area that might shed light on the man’s identity or Sally’s activities. There was nothing immediately obvious; the police reports were a sea of mundane incidents – petty theft, domestic disputes, vandalism. But something felt off. The sheer volume of minor offenses, their clustering within a small geographical area, suggested a pattern, a suggestion of organized crime operating at a low level, using the smaller crimes as a distraction or as a way to maintain control over the territory.
My investigation led me down a rabbit hole of back alleys, shady bars, and clandestine meetings. I spent nights following shadows, observing individuals who seemed to exist on the periphery of the city’s underbelly. The investigation was a slow, painstaking process, a delicate dance between observation and discretion. One wrong move, one misplaced step, could have dire consequences.
Days bled into weeks, the anxiety a constant companion. Sleep offered little respite, the dreams a chaotic mixture of blurred faces, cryptic messages, and the suffocating weight of impending danger. My old fears returned, sharper and more intense than ever before. The memory of the near-fatal incident with my friend, the agonizing physical and emotional pain, felt like a constant threat, a stark reminder of the dangers inherent in this line of work.
I sought guidance from my therapist, Dr. Evans. He listened patiently, offering words of encouragement and practical advice. He reminded me of the importance of self-care, of the need to maintain a balance between my work and my personal life. His words were calming, his presence a source of strength and stability in a world that was increasingly uncertain.
Through the fog of fear and uncertainty, a new understanding started to emerge. This wasn’t just about solving a case; it was about protecting Sally, about preventing a potential tragedy. The stakes were high, the risks considerable. But I couldn’t stand idly by. The sense of responsibility, the weight of the potential consequences, drove me forward. The fight was on, and this time, it was personal. The shadows loomed large, but the flickering flame of determination within me burned brighter than ever. The city held its breath, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath its surface. I was ready.
The city’s underbelly, once a distant, shadowy realm I only glimpsed from afar, now felt unnervingly close. The investigation into Sally’s husband’s infidelity had led me down a rabbit hole, and I was rapidly losing sight of the surface. The blurry photograph, the ominous location, the sheer volume of seemingly unrelated petty crimes in that specific area – all pointed to something far more intricate and dangerous than I had initially anticipated.
My next step involved deep dives into the city’s databases, exploring connections beyond the police reports. I focused on property records, business licenses, and even social media profiles of residents in the area identified in the photo. The digital breadcrumbs were sparse, but they began to reveal a pattern. Several businesses in that area, seemingly legitimate establishments like a laundromat, a small grocery store, and a repair shop, were registered to shell corporations, their ownership obscured by layers of anonymous holding companies. The addresses, however, all clustered around the same few blocks.
This pointed towards a money-laundering operation, a classic front for a larger criminal enterprise. I recalled a similar tactic used by the organization I’d encountered years ago, the one that had left a trail of unsolved disappearances in its wake. The chilling similarity sent a shiver down my spine. Could this be a splinter group? A resurgence of the same organization? Or something entirely new, using similar methods?
I spent days observing these seemingly innocuous businesses. I watched people coming and going, noting license plates, making mental notes of faces and interactions. I learned to recognize the subtle cues – the furtive glances, the hushed conversations, the nervous fidgeting, the almost imperceptible exchange of small, unmarked packages. The seemingly ordinary citizens were playing a crucial role in a far larger, more sinister game.
One evening, while observing the laundromat, I witnessed a meeting that sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Two men, both dressed in unremarkable clothes, met in a secluded corner of the parking lot. One was short, stocky, with a face etched with years of hard living; the other was taller, leaner, with a cold, calculating gaze. They spoke in hushed tones, occasionally glancing over their shoulders, their body language betraying a deep-seated unease.
Using my long-range lens, I managed to capture a brief glimpse of what they were exchanging – a small, leather-bound book, seemingly innocuous at first glance. But closer examination revealed a series of intricate symbols embossed on the cover. These symbols, I realized with a jolt of recognition, were similar to the ones I’d encountered in the old case files, symbols used by the organized crime syndicate I’d battled years before.
The book, I suspected, contained vital information – perhaps a ledger of transactions, a list of members, or even a detailed plan for a major operation. My gut instinct screamed that this was my key to understanding the larger network. Securing that book was now my top priority.
The following days were a whirlwind of planning and preparation. I reviewed my previous surveillance techniques, refining them, incorporating new elements learned over the years. The challenge was significant: the men were obviously cautious, aware of potential surveillance. They were professionals. I needed a strategy that minimized my risk, maximized my chance of success, and left no trace of my involvement.
I mapped out the men’s movements, noting their routines, their preferred routes, their meeting points. I identified the blind spots in their security, the moments when their attention was diverted, the windows of opportunity. I devised a plan – a carefully orchestrated sequence of events designed to snatch the book without raising their suspicion.
The execution of the plan required nerves of steel and precision timing. It involved a carefully planned diversion, a subtle manipulation of their routine, and a daring snatch-and-grab operation under the cover of darkness. The risk was considerable. One wrong move could expose me, not only jeopardizing the investigation but potentially putting Sally in harm’s way.
The night of the operation arrived, cold and damp, the city lights reflecting in the puddles on the slick pavements. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic drumbeat accompanying my every step. I moved like a ghost, my movements fluid and silent, blending into the city’s nocturnal tapestry.
The diversion went off without a hitch. The distraction created the necessary opening, allowing me to approach the meeting point undetected. The snatch itself was swift and clean, a blur of motion and a decisive grab. Before the men could react, I was gone, melting back into the shadows, the leather-bound book safely secured in my possession.
The book’s contents revealed a network far more extensive than I had imagined. It detailed a sophisticated money-laundering scheme, an intricate web of shell corporations, and a series of planned illicit activities that stretched far beyond the city limits. The names and aliases mentioned were chillingly familiar – echoes from the past, remnants from my previous encounters with the organization.
The implications were profound. This wasn’t simply a case of infidelity; it was a major criminal operation, with far-reaching implications. I had stumbled onto something far bigger, far more dangerous than I ever could have anticipated. The city, its bustling life continuing oblivious, held its breath, a storm brewing under its seemingly calm surface, a storm I was now squarely in the middle of. And as I delved deeper, I realized the true magnitude of the threat, a threat that extended far beyond Sally and her husband’s personal drama. This was a fight for survival, not just for myself, but potentially for the city itself. The stakes were impossibly high, and I was prepared to pay the price.
The leather-bound book, now safely tucked away in my apartment, felt heavier than its actual weight. Its contents were a damning indictment of a criminal network I had only glimpsed years ago, a network that seemed to have resurfaced with renewed vigor and sophistication. The intricate web of shell corporations, the coded language, the subtle allusions to future operations – it was all a testament to their meticulous planning and their chilling efficiency. But the book also revealed something unexpected, something that added a whole new layer of complexity to the case: a series of names, seemingly unconnected to the money-laundering scheme, yet intricately woven into the fabric of the organization. These names belonged to individuals I knew – some acquaintances from the police department, others from the shadowy world of private investigation.
The realization sent a cold wave of dread through me. It wasn’t just a case of organized crime; it was a conspiracy that reached into the very institutions I had trusted, the people I had considered allies. The lines between right and wrong, between friend and foe, had become hopelessly blurred. I was forced to confront the unsettling truth that some of the people I’d interacted with over the years might be complicit, knowingly or unknowingly, in this criminal enterprise.
The weight of this revelation forced me to re-evaluate my approach. I couldn’t just rely on my instincts and investigative skills; I needed a more strategic approach, one that navigated the treacherous waters of betrayal and hidden allegiances. My network of contacts, once a reliable source of information, now seemed unreliable, possibly compromised. Every conversation, every exchange of information, was now fraught with suspicion, a minefield of potential deception…
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My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, became a temporary forensic lab. The dining table transformed into a command center, littered with maps, photographs, financial records, and transcripts of intercepted phone calls. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering aroma of cheap takeout containers. Days bled into nights as I painstakingly organized the evidence, meticulously documenting every detail, creating a comprehensive narrative that would stand up to the scrutiny of the legal system… #BookWorm #Readers #KindleUnlimited #WWWatson #Crime #Noir #Mystery #PrivateEye
New York City’s formation began with the Lenape Native Americans, who inhabited the area long before European explorers arrived. Here’s a brief overview of the city’s early history:
Early Settlement
Lenape Native Americans: The Lenape people were the first inhabitants of the region, living in the area between the Delaware and Hudson rivers. They hunted, fished, and farmed the land, and had a rich cultural heritage.
Dutch Settlement (1624): The Dutch West India Company established a permanent settlement called New Amsterdam on Manhattan Island. Peter Minuit, the settlement’s governor-general, purchased Manhattan from the Lenape for 60 guilders (approximately $24) in trade goods.
English Rule (1664): The English seized control of New Amsterdam from the Dutch and renamed it New York City after the Duke of York.
Growth and Development
17th-18th Centuries: New York City grew rapidly, with immigrants arriving from the Netherlands, England, France, and Germany. The city became a major trading center, and its population became increasingly diverse.
American Revolution: New York City played a significant role in the American Revolution, serving as the national capital from 1785 to 1790.
19th Century: The city’s population exploded, growing from 123,000 in 1820 to over 813,000 by 1860. The Erie Canal, completed in 1825, connected the city to the Great Lakes and further boosted its growth.
Key Milestones
1626: Peter Minuit purchases Manhattan Island from the Lenape.
1653: New Amsterdam is incorporated as a city, and a wall is built across Manhattan Island (later known as Wall Street).
1664: The English seize control of New Amsterdam and rename it New York City.
1785-1790: New York City serves as the national capital.
1825: The Erie Canal is completed, connecting the city to the Great Lakes.
Post-War Transformation
After World War II, New York City underwent a dramatic transformation, emerging as a global center of economic, cultural, and political influence. The end of the war brought a surge in population, rapid urban development, and an expanding economy fueled by industries and international trade. The city became a beacon of cultural innovation, with the rise of modern art, music, and architecture shaping its evolving identity ¹.
Growth and Development
The post-war period saw significant growth and development in New York City. Some key events and trends include:
Housing Crisis: The influx of returning veterans and new residents created an unprecedented housing crisis, forcing city planners to take dramatic action.
Public Housing Projects: Large-scale public housing projects like Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village were built to address the housing shortage.
Urban Renewal: Urban renewal programs targeted deteriorating neighborhoods for slum demolition and replacement with high-rise apartments.
Transportation Expansion: The expansion of transportation infrastructure, including highways and commuter rails, enabled the growth of suburban communities.
The Great Depression’s Impact
The Great Depression had a devastating impact on New York City, with unemployment soaring above 20%. However, World War II brought significant economic growth, and the city’s economy began to flourish. The war effort created new opportunities for women and ethnic minorities in the workforce ² ³.
Post-War Cultural Scene
The post-war period saw a flourishing cultural scene in New York City, with:
Abstract Expressionism: The city became a hub for abstract expressionist art, with artists like Betty Parsons promoting innovative works.
Broadway Shows: Broadway theaters premiered iconic shows, reflecting the optimism of the era.
Music and Entertainment: The city experienced a surge in music and entertainment, with the rise of jazz and other genres.
Challenges and Decline
Despite its growth and prosperity, New York City faced significant challenges in the mid-20th century, including:
Suburbanization: The city’s population began to decline as residents moved to the suburbs, leading to a decrease in tax revenue.
Fiscal Crisis: The city faced a severe fiscal crisis in the 1970s, with a large movement of middle-class residents to the suburbs exacerbating the problem.
Crime and Social Issues: The city struggled with high crime rates and social disorders, reaching a nadir in the 1970s.
The 1970s to the 1980s were tumultuous times for New York City, marked by economic decline, rising crime rates, and social unrest. Times Square, in particular, became a hub for illicit activities.
Times Square’s Dark Side
Prostitution and Crime: Prostitution was rampant, with brothels operating openly and streetwalkers soliciting clients. Organized crime, particularly the Italian mafia, controlled many of these establishments.
Mafia Involvement: The mafia’s grip on Times Square’s sex industry was evident in the 1973 indictment of Martin J. Hodas, aka the “King of Peep,” for running a multi-million dollar pornography operation and allegedly hiring associates to fire-bomb rival massage parlors.
Police Corruption: The police force was criticized for corruption, with many officers accused of taking bribes from brothel owners and pimps.
Harlem’s Struggles
Poverty and Unemployment: Harlem faced significant economic challenges, with high poverty and unemployment rates.
Crack Epidemic: The 1980s saw a devastating crack cocaine epidemic, which fueled violent crime and addiction.
Urban Decay: Many of Harlem’s grand buildings crumbled into disrepair, reflecting the neighborhood’s economic decline.
Community Response and Activism
Despite these challenges, New York City’s communities showed resilience and determination. Grassroots activism flourished, with community groups fighting for affordable housing, tenants’ rights, and social change. Cultural movements, including art, music, and performance, also emerged as a form of resistance and social commentary.
Gentrification and Revitalization
In the following decades, efforts were made to revitalize Times Square and Harlem. These initiatives aimed to drive out crime and prostitution, replacing them with family-friendly entertainment and businesses. While these efforts had some success, they also raised concerns about gentrification and the displacement of long-time residents.
Early 1990s: Challenges and Revitalization
The early 1990s presented New York City with significant challenges, including a recession, high crime rates, and a fiscal crisis. However, this period also saw efforts to revitalize the city.
Crime and Safety Concerns: Crime rates were high, with a focus on reducing violence and improving public safety.
Economic Challenges: The city faced budget cuts and economic struggles, impacting various city services.
Mayor Giuliani’s Initiatives: Mayor Rudy Giuliani implemented policies aimed at reducing crime and improving quality of life, which had a positive impact on the city’s development.
The September 11 Attacks
Aerial view of the 9/11 Memorial and Museum on Monday, May 21, 2018. Credit: 9/11 Memorial, Photo by Jin S. Lee
The September 11 attacks in 2001 were a pivotal moment in the city’s history, resulting in the loss of thousands of lives and a profound impact on national security and global politics.
Aftermath and Response: The city and nation came together in the aftermath, with rescue efforts and support for those affected.
Changes in Security: The attacks led to significant changes in security policies and procedures across the United States, including increased surveillance and screening measures.
Long-Term Impact
The post-9/11 period saw lasting changes in various aspects of life in New York City and beyond.
National Security: The creation of the Department of Homeland Security and changes in intelligence gathering and sharing were key responses to the attacks.
Memorials and Tributes: The National September 11 Memorial & Museum was dedicated in 2014 to honor the victims of the attacks.
Community Resilience: The city demonstrated resilience and determination in the face of tragedy, with ongoing efforts to rebuild and strengthen communities.
New York City has undergone significant transformations to become a safer and more vibrant place. The city’s efforts to improve safety are evident in various initiatives, including the Vision Zero program, which aims to eliminate traffic fatalities. Some notable safety improvements include ¹:
Protected Bike Lanes: NYC DOT has installed protected bike lanes on various streets, such as Seventh and Eighth Avenues, 51st Street, and McDonald Avenue, to reduce conflicts between cyclists and vehicles.
Pedestrian Safety Improvements: The city has implemented pedestrian safety improvements at intersections like Times Square, E 170th Street and Teller Avenue, and Spofford Avenue and Coster Street, featuring new traffic signals, pedestrian refuge islands, and improved markings.
Traffic Calming Measures: NYC DOT has introduced traffic calming measures, such as speed humps, curb extensions, and raised crosswalks, to slow down traffic and enhance pedestrian safety.
Some popular places to visit and enjoy in New York City include:
Central Park: A tranquil oasis in the heart of Manhattan, offering a range of recreational activities, scenic landscapes, and iconic landmarks like the Bethesda Fountain and Loeb Boathouse.
Brooklyn Bridge: An engineering marvel and iconic symbol of the city, offering stunning views of the Manhattan skyline, East River, and Brooklyn waterfront.
Times Square: A bustling area known for its bright lights, giant billboards, and lively street performances, attracting millions of visitors each year.
9/11 Memorial & Museum: A poignant tribute to the victims of the 9/11 attacks, featuring two large reflecting pools, a museum with artifacts and stories, and the Survivor Tree.
High Line: An elevated park built on an old rail line, offering scenic views of the Hudson River, Chelsea, and the city’s west side.
These are just a few examples of the many amazing places to explore in New York City. With its rich history, diverse culture, and ongoing efforts to improve safety, the city continues to evolve and thrive.
Check out this book from New York Writer W. G. Sweet…
The nightmare would begin insidiously, with the faintest whisper of a sound, a familiar vibration that would build, slowly at first, then with terrifying speed. It was the hum of the engine, the low thrum of the car carrying them towards an unseen precipice. He would feel the familiar press of the seat beneath him, the faint scent of Ann’s perfume, a scent that would soon be overwhelmed by the acrid stench of burnt rubber and fear. Then, the unmistakable sound, the prelude to chaos: the high-pitched shriek of tires desperately seeking purchase on asphalt, a sound that ripped through the fabric of the night and into the very marrow of his bones… #Horror #Thriller #Romance #Readers #Kobo #WGSweet https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-re-do?
The “dance hall western whore” stereotype, widely popularized by Hollywood, is a misleading and historically inaccurate portrayal of women working in saloons and dance halls during the American West. While some women did work as prostitutes, a distinct class of entertainer existed whose primary role was to socialize with and encourage men to spend money, not to provide sexual services.
The lives of dance hall girls
Distinct role: In most towns, a clear distinction existed between saloon or dance hall girls and prostitutes, who were sometimes called “soiled doves” or “painted ladies”. A dance hall girl’s job was to dance with lonely men and flirt to encourage them to buy drinks, for which the women received a commission.
A respectable living: In the Old West, where men far outnumbered women, dance hall work offered a respectable and often lucrative path to independence. Some women earned more in a night than a working man did in a month. Many women worked only temporarily before marrying, sometimes to a man they met at the dance hall.
Protection by owners: Saloon owners had a financial interest in protecting their dance hall girls. They often demanded that customers treat the women with respect, and men who harassed or mistreated them could be ostracized or banned from the establishment. Many women carried concealed weapons for self-defense.
Theatrical fashion: In contrast to Hollywood’s revealing costumes, historical dance hall girls wore eye-catching but generally modest clothing. They dressed in bright, frilly dresses with colorful petticoats, often with bodices cut low and shorter hemlines to make dancing easier.
The reality of prostitution
Separate class: Prostitutes occupied a lower class than saloon and dance hall girls, though it could be a higher-paying profession than other limited options for women, such as being a seamstress or laundress.
High risks: Life as a prostitute was far more dangerous, with high risks of violence, disease, addiction, and abuse. They faced social stigma and often died in poverty.
Working conditions: Prostitutes worked in different types of establishments, from high-end parlors run by influential madams to small “cribs” or as streetwalkers. Some madams were highly successful and well-known in their communities.
Societal hypocrisy: Despite being legally outlawed, prostitution was tolerated and even taxed by many Western towns, with brothels often contributing significantly to municipal revenue. “Respectable” women shunned prostitutes, but their husbands often frequented brothels.
In the American Old West, a “dance hall girl” and a “whore” were not the same, though the line could be blurry and the popular image of them has been conflated by Hollywood. The terms describe distinct roles, and not all women working in saloons were prostitutes.
Dance hall girl
Role: A dance hall or saloon girl was primarily an entertainer. Her job was to socialize, dance with male customers, and encourage them to buy drinks. The dance hall earned money from the dance tickets and the drinks the customers purchased, and the girls earned a commission on these sales.
Income: For many women, this was an honest and lucrative profession that provided them with independence in the male-dominated frontier. It was not uncommon for a popular girl to earn more in a single night than a working man did in a month.
Social status: Despite their flirtatious roles, most dance hall girls were not “fallen women.” In fact, some were treated as ladies by their patrons. Many were able to use their work to meet and marry respectable men.
Prostitute
Role: Prostitutes, also known as “soiled doves,” “shady ladies,” or “painted ladies,” engaged in sex work for a living. This was a distinct profession, separate from being a dance hall girl, though the two fields sometimes intersected, particularly in the roughest frontier towns.
Social status: The social hierarchy for sex workers varied. Some worked in more upscale “parlor houses” run by a madame, while others worked independently or in the lowliest “cribs,” small, dilapidated shacks on the outskirts of town. The work was generally more dangerous than being a dance hall girl.
Overlap: Though it was rare for a successful dance hall girl to double as a prostitute, some did. For example, Old West figure Big Nose Kate was a gambler, saloon girl, and prostitute during her life.
Historical nuance
The historical nuance between these roles is often lost in popular media. Hollywood often portrays saloon girls and prostitutes as the same, but for women in the Old West, the distinction was a meaningful one that affected their earnings, working conditions, and social standing. While both occupations were outside the bounds of “proper” Victorian society, the dance hall profession was a legitimate and often profitable job that allowed women to earn a living with dignity.
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Private Investigations 1: A John Rourke Private Detective Story
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The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked windowpane, mirroring the hazy fog in my mind. The Fields case was closed, the invoice sent, but the quiet aftermath felt heavier than any stakeout. It wasn’t the physical exhaustion, though that was considerable. Weeks of sleep deprivation had etched themselves onto my face, in the dark circles under my eyes and the stiffness in my shoulders. No, it was a deeper weariness, a hollowness that gnawed at my soul.
I’d dealt with worse, seen things that would curdle the milk in a saint’s coffee. I’d faced down thugs with shivs, navigated treacherous alleyways, and stared into the eyes of men who wouldn’t hesitate to snuff out a life. But this case… this one was different. It wasn’t the brutality, the violence, or the threat of physical harm; it was the insidious erosion of trust, the slow, creeping revelation of deceit that had left me feeling strangely… violated.
The initial excitement of the chase, the adrenaline rush of the stakeout, the satisfaction of uncovering the truth – all of that had faded, leaving behind a residue of bitterness and disillusionment. Melinda, bless her trusting soul, had confided in me, revealing her vulnerabilities, her fears, her suspicions. I’d sworn an oath, implicit though it was, to protect her, to find the truth, and to bring justice to her situation. But the truth, as it so often does, was far more complicated, far more messy, than I had anticipated.
The truth wasn’t just about Paul Fields’ infidelity; it was about corporate greed, about a web of lies woven by powerful men, about the systematic corruption that festers in the shadows of the city’s glittering façade. And I, a lone wolf in a world of sharks, had been forced to navigate that treacherous terrain, using every tool at my disposal, even the ones that left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I thought about the woman who’d arrived at the neighbor’s house, the unknown variable that had changed everything. Her presence suggested a much deeper conspiracy, a level of intrigue that extended far beyond the personal drama of a cheating husband. The investigation had morphed, evolving from a simple case of infidelity into something far more sinister, far more dangerous. The lines between right and wrong had become increasingly blurred, forcing me to make difficult choices, compromises that continue to haunt me.
The “less-than-savory sources,” as I’d vaguely termed them on the invoice, weighed heavily on my conscience. The favors I’d called in, the debts I’d incurred, were not easily forgotten. These weren’t transactions you could record in a ledger; they were unspoken agreements, exchanges of information and influence that lived in the shadows, their consequences unpredictable. There were whispers in backrooms, hushed conversations in dimly lit bars, and promises made in the dead of night that could come back to haunt me. The city was a labyrinth of such deals, and I, a seasoned traveler of its darker paths, knew the price of admission.
I rubbed my weary eyes, the stale cigarette smoke clinging to the air in my office. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock, each second a tiny hammer blow against the walls of my already fragile composure. The loneliness was crushing; the burden of the case, the weight of the city’s secrets, had pressed down on me, leaving me feeling isolated, estranged even from Joan, my wife.
Joan, ever the anchor in my turbulent life, had borne witness to my late nights and erratic moods. She’d seen the strain etched onto my face, the exhaustion in my eyes, the growing distance between us. She understood the nature of my work, the shadowy corners I inhabited, but she couldn’t fully comprehend the toll it took on me, the way it slowly chipped away at my spirit, leaving me hollowed out and depleted.
I’d tried to explain, to articulate the moral ambiguity of my profession, the subtle betrayals, the compromised ethics. But words failed me. How do you explain the feeling of walking a tightrope between justice and compromise, between the need to earn a living and the desire to uphold some semblance of integrity? How do you convey the weight of a city’s secrets, the burden of its untold stories, the constant threat of danger lurking just beneath the surface?
The pay from the Fields case, while generous, couldn’t compensate for the emotional cost. It couldn’t buy back the sleep I’d lost, the peace of mind I’d sacrificed, the trust I’d begun to question. It couldn’t erase the images seared into my memory – the fleeting glimpse of fear in Melinda’s eyes, the calculated coldness in Paul Fields’ gaze, the sinister smiles exchanged in smoke-filled backrooms.
I lit another cigarette, the match a fleeting flicker in the darkness. The smoke curled upwards, a ghostly representation of my own internal turmoil. The city outside continued its relentless rhythm, oblivious to my struggles, its lights twinkling like distant stars, cold and uncaring. The case was closed, but the emotional aftermath remained, a lingering echo of the shadows I’d navigated, a testament to the price of truth, a price far exceeding the sum on the invoice.
This wasn’t just a case closed; it was a wound that wouldn’t heal easily, a scar etched onto my soul. The investigation had taken more from me than I initially anticipated. It had stolen my peace, my sleep, and a piece of my integrity. The truth was often bitter, leaving a residue of cynicism and distrust. I looked at my reflection in the window, a stranger staring back, weary and worn. The lines on my face seemed deeper, the shadows under my eyes more pronounced. The city lights outside, once a beacon of excitement, now seemed to mock my solitude.
The following days were a blur of paperwork, an attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy in my chaotic life. I responded to other inquiries, trying to immerse myself in the routine of my profession, hoping to distract myself from the emotional turmoil of the Fields case. But the memories persisted, haunting my waking hours and invading my dreams.
One evening, I found myself staring at an old photo of Joan and me, taken years ago, before the weight of the city had begun to bear down on us. We were younger, carefree, our smiles bright and unburdened. The photograph was a reminder of a simpler time, a stark contrast to the grim reality of my life now. The distance between us was palpable, a chasm carved by the relentless demands of my job, by the unspoken burdens I carried within.
I knew I had to make amends, to reconnect with Joan, to bridge the gap that had grown between us. I realized that I needed to share my burdens, to lighten the load I’d been carrying alone. I needed her strength, her compassion, her unwavering belief in me. And maybe, just maybe, with her support, I could begin to heal the emotional wounds inflicted by the Fields case, to find my way back from the shadows and into the light.
The process of healing would be slow, arduous, and require more than just a few nights’ rest. The memories would linger, but I needed to find a way to confront them, to process them, to integrate them into my life rather than let them define it. I needed to confront the moral ambiguities, the compromises I’d made. Was it worth it? The answer wasn’t simple, a clear-cut yes or no. It was a complex equation weighed against the price of justice and the cost of survival. But perhaps in confronting the cost, in acknowledging the pain, I could begin the process of healing. The city, with its darkness and secrets, would always be a part of my existence, but I wouldn’t let it consume me completely. I needed to reclaim my life, my relationships, and my sense of self.
The journey would be long, but I wouldn’t walk it alone. I would lean on Joan’s unwavering strength, her unwavering faith in me. I would find solace in simple things – the warmth of her embrace, the quiet comfort of her presence. I would remember that even in the darkest corners of the city, there was still hope, still light, still the possibility of redemption. And in that hope, I found the strength to move forward, to face the future, one step at a time, one day at a time, one case at a time. The weight of the Fields case would always be a part of me, a stark reminder of the price of truth and justice, but it would not define me. I would choose to define myself – a private investigator, a husband, a man trying to navigate the treacherous waters of life, to find his way back into the light.
The next morning, sunlight, harsh and unforgiving, sliced through the blinds, revealing the dust motes dancing in the air of my cramped office. The lingering scent of stale coffee and cigarettes hung heavy, a testament to another sleepless night. The Fields case, officially closed, continued to gnaw at me, a persistent irritant under my skin. The neat stack of paperwork on my desk, the final invoice, felt like a flimsy shield against the storm brewing inside.
It wasn’t just the moral ambiguity of the “less-than-savory sources” I’d employed; it was the unsettling feeling that something was still amiss, a loose thread dangling in the intricate tapestry of the case. The woman at the neighbor’s house, her face obscured by shadow and distance, had been a phantom, a silent specter haunting my every waking moment. Her arrival, seemingly innocuous, had shattered the neat resolution I’d presented to Melinda, leaving me with a gnawing unease that refused to be silenced.
I reread Melinda’s initial statement, her words painting a picture of a seemingly perfect marriage, cracks subtly appearing only upon closer inspection. Paul, a successful businessman, had been exhibiting increasingly erratic behavior, an odd combination of paranoia and carelessness that had raised her suspicions. He’d been unusually meticulous in checking the locks, adjusting the blinds, and scanning the street from his study window. These weren’t the actions of a man with a clear conscience, but neither did they conclusively point to infidelity.
Then there was the matter of the neighbor’s house, a seemingly ordinary dwelling that had suddenly become the focal point of my investigation. I ran a background check on the property, discovering its owner, a reclusive old woman who rarely left the house, seemingly estranged from her family. The timing of the woman’s visit, coinciding with the apparent resolution of the infidelity angle, sparked a flicker of suspicion that quickly grew into a blazing inferno of intrigue.
Driven by a renewed sense of purpose, I dusted off my contacts, the shadowy figures who operated in the city’s underbelly. These weren’t the kind of people you met in respectable establishments; they frequented dimly lit bars, backroom poker games, and seedy motels, their business conducted in hushed whispers and furtive glances. They dealt in information, secrets, and favors, and their services came at a price.
Private Investigations 1:
The chipped paint on my beat-up Ford was flaking like old skin. The smell of stale coffee clung to the interior like a cheap perfume…
Happy Sunday. It has been a long weekend for me. I suppose that like everyone else I try to cram too many things into the weekend. I always end up with undone items on my weekend list.
Yesterday I ran into an arguer. Some people will listen to what you say, or expect you to listen, and then you can agree to disagree or maybe even enlighten each other and learn something that changes your mind. Arguers on the other hand are never wrong so there is no need at all to back up on what they have said, or apologize, or change their mind or anything other than point out that you are absolutely wrong and then proceed to argue you into submission. Couple that with religious extremism and you have got a formidable opponent. Now not only are they right but the Holy Ghost, Jesus and God himself say so. I know that because I have had them tell me, like the arguer the other day, that the Holy Ghost gives them the words to say. Talks to them. My friend said, Hmm, usually when you have voices in your head it means that you have an illness, usually a mental illness. I agreed.
I would love to go further with this line of thought, but I wont. I will say be who you really are and don’t let people push you around. And don’t waste your time with arguers. You just have to accept the fact that they are not interested in solving the problem, or compromise, they are only concerned with winning. It’s a ME ME ME thing, and so it really has nothing at all to do with you.
I have about a week or two before I am back into full time writing. I have already got the notebooks out and the storyline working. Now that Earth’s Survivors and The Zombie Plagues are splitting there is a lot to write. I have it worked out in my head and that is my start. The rest comes when I sit down and begin to write it in a few weeks. I am really looking forward to it.
I am going to leave you with a free story from the Rapid City stories. This is Two. These are short stories but I have a longer book stuck in my head that I will write someday, and as the Earth’s Survivors and The Zombie Plagues books progress, Rapid City will play a larger and larger part. So one way or the other the story will be written…
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
A short foreword. I did not realize when I wrote the original story that there would be interest in it as any more than a good, short read. But, like many of the readers out there, I got caught up in the life of Robert Evans… What was it like? Traveling from town to town? Selling your skill to the highest bidder. I found myself so curious that I sat down to write it out and find out. At the very least this will be a long series of short stories, but it may just turn into a novel with the short stories as a prelude to The true story of Robert Evans life….
Wendell Sweet 01 – 2013
The novel based on this short story is available at Amazon.
Rapid City
The newfound resources provided a small measure of comfort, but the shadow of suspicion and mistrust lingered, a constant threat to their already precarious existence. They had survived the attack, but the war within Rapid City had only just begun, a war fought not with guns and blades, but with suspicion, betrayal, and the relentless erosion of trust. #Dystopian #Apocalyptic #Zombie #KU #Audio #Readers #Listeners #DellSweet
They had come from north of the border. Two men and two women, and they picked up others as they came. They were twenty when they came to the river where it had cut into the floor of the desert and spread out nearly a mile wide.
Near the spot they had decided to build there was a set of rapids that stretched for nearly a mile. So they had named the city Rapid City, half joking, but it had stuck as they had worked to build the city. And city was a kind name. Rapid city, six months later, had been no more than a collection of ten wood sided structures, and the river had moved more than a mile away. Wetlands had formed where the river had been, and they seemed to be slowly turning to swampland.
Ten had died over the last few weeks. The fight, and that was what it was, was taking a toll on them.
On this day, the sun hung straight up in the sky. Dust coated the buildings, the odor from the swamp seemed to hang over the little town like a veil. Gary sat on the front porch of the church and looked out at the little town. His wooden chair leaned back into the wall, feet on the railing. And in the daylight it seemed unreasonable that there could be any such thing as the Un-Dead. It seemed, in fact, completely impossible.
The first few deaths they had not been prepared for. The first had been Gary’s friend Daniel. They had buried him in a small cemetery they had built a mile from the town to bury a few wanderers who had found the town in a half dead state and not lasted long after they did manage to find it. Daniel was the first of their own they had found a need to bury.
They had buried him in the early morning after finding him dead in his bed. It had been a horrific scene. They had thought quite possibly it had been wolves. The windows were open to let in the summer breezes. The wolves, they had seen them out by the swamp, could have easily come through the window. Daniel had been savaged. His throat ripped open. They had buried him in early morning and by that evening twenty six wolves had been dragged back into town. If there were any left they had hidden themselves well.
Then evening had come and the whole world had changed. It was not far into the night when the noises had begun out at the cemetery.
In the desert noises carry a long way. They had been unsure of what the noises meant at first. What they had decided was that there should have been no noise at all out there in the darkness. Six of them had taken their rifles and gone out into the darkness, following the noise to it’s source.
When they had arrived at the cemetery the grave had been opened. But, not just opened. Dug up, and dug up from the inside outward. There was no way they could deny it, although they did until a few nights later when Daniel himself had come back.
It had been deep into the night. Deep. Gary, Mitch and Sam and Freddy had had the watches. The watches, at first, had been to watch for the never ending gangs of murderers and thieves that seemed to be flooding out of the north. The watches by that night, had consisted of nothing more than hanging around in the church building, which was their newest and best built building, and maintaining a presence in the town just in case someone happened into the town in the middle of the night. No one ever had in the last few months.
There was no denial after that night. Daniel had come from the shadows, stinking of the grave, and made a grab for one of the rotting corpses of the wolves that they had meant to drag back out to the swamp earlier in the day but hadn’t gotten to. Gary had seen him clearly. He had turned to the others but it was one of those things where everyone had just happened to be looking in the right direction at the right time. No one had missed it. No one had only partially caught it. When he had turned to them they had been turning to one another. The only that didn’t happen was nobody thought to go for a weapon until a few minuets later. And, even then, they were not sure exactly what they were doing.
They had not caught him that night, but they had caught him the next night when he had killed and was eating Barry Evers in the storage shed behind John Sampsons place. That had been a bad deal, Gary thought now.
Gary had shot him twice. Nothing. He had not even stopped trying to eat Barry’s face. Mitch had stepped up and blew his head off.
Rapid City had no doctor. W had had a veterinarian at the first but he had run off with Freddy’s wife and that was the last we’d seen of him. Together, Gary and the others had looked over the body. And, body it was, and had been for several days. Daniel had died and had somehow not died at the same time. That was the first time Gary and the others had talked about Zombies. Some of the travelers through Rapid city had talked about them, it was the hottest topic, usually. It was supposed that the north was infected with them. But They had never seen one, and they had never discussed them until that night.
As it turned out the Zombies were infesting the swamp. They had buried Daniel for the second time only to find Freddy dead the next morning. His throat ripped open the same way Daniels had been And Mitch had argued for taking his head off. It was the right, the smart thing to do. To make sure he didn’t come back. But they had not. They had not wanted to sink to that level of barbaric depravity. Sam had argued against it and it had not been a hard thing to get behind. But that night when the noise had started they had grabbed their weapons and made for the cemetery
They had found him nearly free of the grave. And there had been more. Six other Un-Dead had been standing close to the grave. Waiting for him.
Before the killing was over they had gotten two of those waiting and Freddy. They had dumped all three into the grave. Mitch had taken a round pointed shovel and severed their heads. It had taken forever and had been about the most gruesome thing Gary had ever seen. But he had been unable to take his eyes off the scene.
Gary tipped his chair forward and stood from the chair as the legs came down on the wooden decking. A rider was approaching on the main street. Gary loosened his pistol from his holster. It was one of those nylon webbed ones. They were all wearing one kind or another now. This was surely not a Zombie but they were down to ten. They were vulnerable on many fronts now. Not just from the undead, but from the living too who seemed to have no problem killing each other for next to no reason at all. A dog. A vehicle. A horse, and horses were becoming major items, but mostly women. Women were the keys. Men could not procreate, women could. True, they could do it with any man. But a man could not do it without a woman at all. Gary had seen many men killed over a woman.
“Right there will do,” Gary told the man in a clear strong voice.
The man stopped the horse in the street but stayed on his mount looking across the short stretch to Gary where he stood on the porch. They were down to ten now. Two men and eight women. It was like the Zombies only wanted the men. Or maybe wanted the men out of the picture.
“Heard this was a peaceable town,” The man said.
“Was… Ain’t now… Now it’s a plague town… You best ride on,” Gary told him.
“I ain’t heard of no plague,” The man said. His eyes were like diamonds looking out from under the brim of his hat. He wore no gun, but a wire stock machine pistol protruded from a scabbard off the saddle.
“You heard of this plague… They call it the plague of the dead… The Un-Dead… Zombies. Call it what you will, you heard of it or you ain’t real… And I can tel you they are real and we got them right here… You don;t even want to think about spending no time here at all.. We been losing a man a night lately…” Gary shifted, rocked on his heels to take the tingling out of his legs. He had sat in the chair too long. His left leg was nothing but pins and needles. He kept his eyes on the man who shifted in his saddle slightly.
“Ain’t real,” He said.
“Uh huh… Got a little cemetery outside a town… Rode right by it.”
“Uh huh… Saw it,” The man agreed.
“Up until a few weeks ago that cemetery was empty. Go tell those dead men Zombies ain’t real.” He stepped forward and spit over the rail into the dust.
Silence held. The dust seemed to settle more fully onto the town. At last the man spoke.
“Any way I’d like a drink… Wouldn’t deny a man a drink, would you,” he asked?
“No I would not. And I will tell you what you do. Point that horse due East out of town. You’ll hit the river and fresh water about a mile out… Ain’t been no fresh water here in months. Drink your fill.”
His eyes seemed to blaze from the brim of his hat. “I believe I’ll remember you, Friend.”
“Good. You do that. Then remember I saved your stupid ass by sending you on your way… Ain’t no way to fight these bastards…” He spit over the rail once more. “We expect to be dead inside of a week… Got about seven hours until full dark. That will put you up in the hills… Ain’t heard of trouble from the Un-Dead up there.”
The stand off lasted a few more minuets in the hot sun and then the man turned his horse and rode away without another word.
Donita waited in the shadows of a building starring at the lights in the church building. They were forty now. Strong. And she was their undisputed leader.
She had undergone many changes on the journey across the wastelands of the west. Her body had finished it’s changes. Her mind had come back to her. And her authority had come more fully to her.
They were forty bot they could have been seventy. She would not stand those who showed the least bit of defiance. With her there was no second chance. There could not be. If defiance was in them it would only grow. If they grew they would become strong. If they became strong she would not be able to control them. If she could not control them they could control her, and she could not abide that. She ruled and bowed down to no one at all.
She took them as babies. When they were lost in the pain and confusion of transition. She killed them. Took their heads and let them continue their journey to the dead. It served a reminder to those with her, but she was not sure it mattered after a time. She had so many that were loyal to her that none could get close to her. And chief among them was the big man she had taken up north, Jeff.
The passage into death took some of what you were. You did not come through it the same. The skin pulled taught upon your bones. The fat stores were gone, and you were reduced to the basics. Not so with the big man. He had come through virtually unchanged. That and the strength that naturally came to them made him the strongest in the group. He was easily stronger than and three of her others; any five breathers. He stood beside her now. Waiting on her orders.
The moon was new in the sky. Still competing with the setting sun. They had set out from the swamp just past twilight. She hoped the breathers were thinking that there was no need to worry until later in the evening when full dark came.
She watched a few seconds longer. They were at their evening meal. They took them together now. Hoping for security in the numbers. Shadows moved on the curtains as she watched. They would be the most vulnerable now, and it was time to end this fight with them. The night before they had killed one of the twins. One of her twins, and they had to pay for that.
She hesitated the briefest of seconds longer, then, as a group, they took the building and the feasting lasted into the early morning hours.
I watched the sunrise on the wall across from me. I could’ve turned but my heart wasn’t in it.
The walls were plywood, scarred, gouged and in need of a coat of paint. But there would be no paint, of that I was sure. Even if it could be found no one would be bothered to take the time to put it on.
The pain was running around in me like a live thing. A ferret gnawing its way out of a burlap sack. It was the biggest thing in my life right now, overshadowing the why and how of me seeing this sunrise and hopefully a few more.
The sun crept a little further up the wall and the shadows in the room began to fall back under the furniture and creep into the corners, This day was coming whether I wanted it or not. Whether I was in any shape to see it or not.
I shifted slightly and the pain became a monster. The wall flickered in my vision and then I was gone, dropping off into a deep, black void…
~
My eyes came open like rusty springs on a screen door, screaming and reluctant. The shadows were coming back down the wall. Maybe I had avoided the day after all. I caught a movement to my right and turned my eyes faster than I should have. Doc Mulberry sat in the gathering shadows, chair tipped back, feet off the floor. He grinned at me when my eyes fell upon him.
“Well, now. If it ain’t Robert Evans, lately of the prettty-close-to-being-dead.” He drawled.
I tried to move my arm and the pain shot back up and into my shoulder like a live wire in the old days of electricity. It lit up the pain in my chest which I had barely even noticed at that point. I swiveled my eyes down to look.
“It’s there,” Doc told me. He quietly lowered the chair to the floor and caught it with his feet.
My eyes found it. I had expected to see a wrapped stump somewhere below my shoulder, at least below the elbow. In fact, I had expected not to wake at all. What I saw was my whole arm. Wrist wrapped. Fingers pale and blue tinged. I recoiled and thrust my arm away despite the pain that caused the gray to seep into the corners of my vision. “What in fu… !”
Doc leaned from the chair and spoke forcefully. “You got the blood in you now…. I left it….” He sat back and waited for me to lie back into the bed.
I cursed, still holding the arm away from my body. But I was tired and the pain was back, and I let it down, resting it once more at my side. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
“I thought it over,” Doc said in a soft, low voice. “If I’d taken the arm you’d a been done for. You ain’t no one armed gunfighter… I watched you close.. If you’d a started to turn I’d have done you right then. Believe it…” He paused for a bit. Kicked the chair back off the floor and balanced against the wall once more.
“Heart’s still beating… You ain’t dead by a long shot… But, well, you ain’t exactly alive either…”
I rubbed at my eyes. “What made you believe I’d want to live like this?” I took a deep breath, then another. “And what is this anyhow… I mean what is this going to be,” I asked?
“Not a clue,“ the doc answered. He had closed his own eyes I noticed as I looked over at him.
“But you left me this way?”
“I did,” Doc agreed. “But, you got your arm. You can use it. And you can’t hardly tell.”
“You mean the arm don’t look all that bad? I figured you’d at least have to cut a big chunk out of my wrist… Into my arm…”
“That too,” The Doc agreed. “But, no… I wasn’t talking about the arm… You got the blood… It was bound to make some changes… Bound to.”
“Christ on a fuckin’ roller skate… What in fuck are you talkin’?”
He came down hard, the chair legs banging the floor. He reached down and picked up an old plastic cased hand mirror where it lay on the floor next to his chair. “Here,” he said, offering the mirror. “Better take a look.” He stood and walked to me, placing the mirror in my good hand. “Eyes,” he said as he walked back to his chair, tipped it back once more, and balanced against the wall.
The light was low in the room, but more light would not have changed a thing. They eyes that looked back at me from my own head were not my own. Pale white, washed out. Pink at the edges, and a green glow from the center that held silver irises. I blinked and refocused but it made no difference. “Christ,” I groaned.
“I don’t think Christ has got a thing to do with it,” Doc Mulberry told me. “Was a whore… A month or two back… Got bit, same as you. Laid right there in that same bed. Those Goddamned Zombies out to the swamp…” he took a breath, pulled a stubby cigar from his vest pocket. He made them himself: Rolled from tobacco he grew out near the river. He lit it with an old lighter that he somehow managed to keep in fluid. Inhaled and blew out a cloud of blue-gray smoke that drifted up to the ceiling.
“Bad news and don’t even offer me a smoke.”
He flipped me one of the cigars, came off the wall once more. Lit it and then rocked back against the wall. This time balancing the chair. Rocking it with the motion of his feet. “Her eyes turned.. Same as you. I come and stood looking at her… Waiting to see.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. She turned that fast. Nearly got me. Come off that bed as strong as two men…” He inhaled deeply. “Shot her in the head as we struggled against the other wall over there. What a mess that was. Told myself this time I would not take the chance. You ain’t no whore. Had the gun right to your head…”
“Jesus,” I muttered.
He laughed. “Yeah… Yeah… But you never turned… Never did… I can’t tell you why…” He came down on the legs fast once more banging to the floor. “You… You ain’t feeling funny, right? Like.. Like you want to eat me or something… Right?” His hand clutched at his belt but there was no gun there. He glanced over at the dresser where he had left it and I heard him cuss under his breath.
“Doc.. Doc,” I told him. He finally looked over, eyes a little too wide. “I ain’t… I ain’t got no urges… None at all… “Cept an urge to smack the livin’ shit out of you for allowing this at all. What if I had been? Been filled with urges? What the fuck would you have done then?”
He tipped the chair back up. Chewed at the thick stump of cigar and squinted his eyes at me. “Would have got you somehow… Thing is I knew… I knew.” He took a deeper breath. Sucked at the cigar, and the tension seemed to leave him. He took the chair up full and balanced against the wall full.
“Chest hurts more than it did when I got shot,” I said, changing the subject.
“Flesh wound… Bad bullet… Probably made it himself. Wonder it even went in… Dug it right out with a rusty pocket knife.”
“Prick,” I said.
He laughed. “Well anyhow. You ain’t fit to travel for a day or three.”
I nodded. “What about some whiskey,” I asked?
“Sent Milly locke over for some when it became clear you was coming out… She’ll be back any minuet, I expect.”
I nodded and let the silence hold. Watching the shadows deepen in the room. “So what goes now,” I asked?
Doc shook his head. “I do not know, Robert. I do not know,” he told me.
Wendell Sweet wrote his first fiction at age seventeen. He drove taxi and worked as a carpenter for most of his life. He began working on the internet in 1989 primarily in HTML, graphics and website optimizations.
He is a Musician who writes his own music as well as lyrics. He is an Artist accomplished in Graphite, Pen, and Electronic media. He has written more than twenty books and several dozen short stories.
Using a free AI source to generate a book-outline for you, BTW: The photo above was also generated with a free AI, META in this case…
There are a few absolutely free sources and the ones I will use are the same ones you can use, browsers. Meta has its own, and Chrome has its own. So I will use those two and post the prompt and the results. First META.
The Prompt I typed into META: Can you give me a book outline for a romantic novel. It should follow a standard Romance Novel outline. It should have a few plot twists. It should have a love interest for the main female character.
The Result: Here’s a romantic novel outline with a few plot twists:
Title: “The Art of Falling”
Main Character: Alexandra “Lexi” Thompson, a talented but struggling artist in her late 20s.
Love Interest: Ethan James, a successful art gallery owner in his early 30s.
Story Outline:
Act I:
Lexi’s struggling to make a name for herself in the competitive art world, working multiple jobs to make ends meet.
She meets Ethan at an art gallery opening, where her art is featured without her knowledge or permission.
Ethan is drawn to Lexi’s talent and feisty personality, but their first meeting ends in conflict.
Act II:
Ethan offers Lexi a show at his gallery, but she refuses, suspicious of his motives.
Lexi’s best friend and confidant, Sarah, convinces her to reconsider, and Lexi agrees to meet with Ethan.
As they work together, Lexi and Ethan’s chemistry becomes undeniable, but their pasts and fears threaten to derail their relationship.
Plot Twist: Ethan’s business partner is revealed to be Lexi’s ex-boyfriend, who sabotaged her art career and broke her trust.
Act III:
Lexi’s feelings of betrayal and hurt resurface, causing tension between her and Ethan.
As they work through their issues, Lexi and Ethan grow closer, and their feelings deepen.
Complication: A rival art gallery owner tries to poach Lexi, offering her a lucrative deal that could compromise her artistic integrity.
Climax: Lexi must choose between her art and her feelings for Ethan. She decides to stay true to herself and her art, and Ethan commits to supporting her.
Resolution:
Lexi’s art career takes off, thanks to Ethan’s support and guidance.
Lexi and Ethan confess their love for each other, and the novel ends on a hopeful note.
Themes:
Trust and vulnerability
Following one’s passion
Overcoming fear and self-doubt
Potential for subplots:
Lexi’s friendship with Sarah
Ethan’s past heartbreak and commitment issues
The rivalry between Ethan’s gallery and the rival gallery owner
This outline provides a standard romance novel structure with a few plot twists to keep things interesting. The themes of trust, vulnerability, and following one’s passion are woven throughout the story, and the supporting characters add depth and complexity to the narrative.
Here is the Chrome, Gemini result:
The Prompt is the same: Can you give me a book outline for a romantic novel. It should follow a standard Romance Novel outline. It should have a few plot twists. It should have a love interest for the main female character.
The Result: That sounds like a fun project! A solid outline is the foundation of any great novel.
Here is a standard, 3-Act structure outline for a Romantic Novel, complete with a few plot twists and the introduction of a love interest for the main female character (FMC).
Romance Novel Outline: The Art of the Second Chance (Title)
Core Concept
Title:The Art of the Second Chance
Genre: Contemporary Romance / Second Chance Romance
FMC:Elara – A talented but jaded architect who gave up on her career-defining dream project after a humiliating public failure and heartbreak five years ago. She now designs small, anonymous suburban additions.
Love Interest (LI):Leo – A charismatic, successful, and globally recognized urban planner who has returned to the city to spearhead a major, high-profile revitalization project—the very project Elara had initially been attached to. He is known for being fiercely private about his past.
Conflict: Elara is forced to work with Leo on the project she abandoned, fearing a repeat of her past failure while battling the resurfacing chemistry and old hurts between them.
Act I: The Setup and The Inciting Incident (The Meet Cute/Meet-Again)
Chapter
Plot Point
Details & Romance Elements
1-3
Setup: Elara’s Normal World
Introduce Elara and her safe, monotonous life. Show her reluctance to take any professional risks. Establish her close, supportive friend/family network (the Mentor/Best Friend figure). Hint at a painful past related to her architecture career.
4
Inciting Incident (The Call to Adventure)
Elara is reluctantly offered a last-minute consulting job on a major, high-profile project. She tries to refuse but is convinced it’s an opportunity she can’t afford to pass up.
5
Meeting/Reunion
Elara arrives for the project’s kickoff meeting and is blindsided: the lead urban planner is Leo, her former college rival and the man who publicly and professionally embarrassed her just before she left the industry five years ago. (The Initial Conflict is established).
6-8
The Resistance
Elara and Leo clash immediately, establishing their Tension and Banter. Their professional styles are incompatible. Elara tries to find a way to quit without losing face. Leo subtly challenges her to prove her old talent is still there. First Glimpse of Chemistry despite the animosity.
9-10
Plot Point 1: The Decision
They are forced to work closely together on an unexpected emergency deadline. Their combined skills lead to a surprising success. Elara realizes the project needs her, and she can’t walk away. She and Leo agree to a Temporary Truce for the sake of the work.
Export to Sheets
Act II: Rising Action and The Deepening Connection
Chapter
Plot Point
Details & Romance Elements
11-15
The Professional Partnership
Elara and Leo settle into a pattern of intense work. They begin to see and respect each other’s talents. Tension builds from forced proximity. They start having deeper, non-work-related conversations where old memories are tentatively explored.
16
Plot Twist 1: The Confidante’s Secret
While snooping for project documents, Elara accidentally overhears a confidential phone call between Leo and his assistant. She realizes the real reason Leo returned to the city is related to a long-held secret about the project’s ownership—a secret that could jeopardize everything. She confronts him, escalating their conflict.
17-20
The Emotional Wall Crumbles
Leo is forced to be more vulnerable, sharing a partial truth about his past and his intentions, which Elara finds surprisingly sympathetic. They share a personal moment (a late-night talk, a shared meal) where the Emotional Connection deepens, leading to their First Kiss/Intimate Moment.
21-25
The Honeymoon Phase & Stakes Raise
Elara and Leo begin a secret relationship outside of work. They are happy and the work is thriving. Everything seems perfect. The external stakes rise as a rival company attempts to sabotage the project, forcing Elara and Leo to rely entirely on each other.
26
The Midpoint/Goal Shift
Elara realizes she’s not just falling for Leo, but also falling back in love with her career and the confidence he brings out in her. Her primary goal shifts from finishing the job to making a life with Leo and her career. The external pressure is at its highest.
27-30
Growing Intimacy & Warning Signs
Their relationship becomes more serious. Elara notices Leo is still extremely guarded about one particular piece of his past—the actual reason for the humiliation five years ago. She starts to feel that he’s still holding back a major secret.
31
Plot Point 2: The Revelation (The Betrayal)
Elara’s investigation into the project’s history uncovers the full truth about the incident five years ago. It wasn’t just professional jealousy—Leo had actively covered up a mistake he made that forced Elara to take the blame, ruining her reputation to protect his family’s business interests. The Black Moment arrives as Elara confronts him with the evidence.
Export to Sheets
Act III: Climax and Resolution
Chapter
Plot Point
Details & Romance Elements
32-34
The Breakup and Separation
The Dark Night of the Soul. Elara is devastated by the extent of Leo’s betrayal. She ends the relationship and attempts to quit the project entirely, realizing she was wrong to trust him. Leo is desperate but respects her decision, realizing the depth of his past mistakes. Elara’s friends/family rally around her, but she must ultimately choose her own path.
35-37
The Climax: The Professional Showdown
The final presentation/vote for the project is scheduled. Elara must choose: does she walk away and guarantee her safety, or does she use her knowledge and talent to deliver the best version of her vision? She decides to attend, not for Leo, but for her own career. She gives a stunning presentation, showcasing her unique vision and winning the approval of the board despite Leo.
38
The Grand Gesture
Leo, having seen Elara’s true strength, realizes his mistake wasn’t just the past lie, but his continued reluctance to be fully honest. He performs his Grand Gesture—not by pleading, but by publicly confessing the truth about the five-year-old incident and taking full accountability, thus clearing Elara’s professional name once and for all. He resigns from the project to prove his sincerity.
39
The Reconciliation
Elara now sees Leo’s true change and sacrifice. She forgives him, not because he’s perfect, but because his vulnerability proves he’s willing to risk everything for her. They reconcile, agreeing to build a future based on complete honesty.
40
Resolution & Epilogue
Happily Ever After (HEA). The project is successfully completed (with Elara now in a well-deserved, elevated role). Elara and Leo are together, having found a healthy balance between their careers and their personal life. A final scene hints at their shared future (e.g., designing their own home, planning a future project together).
There you go, two free sources that you can generate a book outline from. Let me know what you think. I do have a paid account, but that would be a different scenario in that it has to do it, I pay for it. This is something anyone can do absolutely free. There are other browsers that also have built in AI that you can use to do the same thing. Hope this helped you to realize that you can use AI, not be afraid of it, Dell…
Boldt Castle, located on Heart Island in the Thousand Islands region of New York State, is a majestic castle with a romantic and tragic history. The castle was built by George Boldt, a millionaire hotel magnate, as a tribute to his beloved wife, Louise.
History of Boldt Castle
In 1900, George Boldt began constructing the castle as a grand gesture of love for his wife. The castle’s design was inspired by European castles, specifically those along the Rhine River in Germany. Boldt hired the renowned architectural firm G.W. & W.D. Hewitt to design the castle, which would feature 120 rooms, including a grand staircase, beautiful stained glass, and intricate woodwork ¹ ².
The construction of Boldt Castle was a massive undertaking, involving over 300 workers, including stonemasons, carpenters, and artists. The castle’s design was meant to be a testament to Boldt’s love for his wife, with many features incorporating hearts, including the island’s shape, which was blasted to resemble a heart.
The Tragic Story Behind the Unfinished Castle
Tragically, Louise Boldt passed away suddenly in January 1904, just months before the castle’s planned completion. George Boldt was devastated by her death and immediately stopped all construction on the castle. He never returned to Heart Island, leaving the castle abandoned for over 70 years. The castle and its surrounding structures were left to the mercy of the wind, rain, ice, snow, and vandals, causing significant damage.
Restoration and Current State
In 1977, the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority acquired Heart Island and the nearby yacht house for $1, with the agreement that all revenue generated from the castle’s operation would be directed towards restoration. Since then, over $50 million has been spent on restoring and rehabilitating the castle and its surrounding structures. Today, visitors can explore the castle’s grand halls, lush gardens, and hidden nooks, each filled with the echoes of a love story that transcends time ² ¹.
Exploring Boldt Castle
Visitors can access the castle by ferry or tour boat from Alexandria Bay, New York, Clayton, New York, Gananoque, Ontario, Rockport, Ontario, and Ivy Lea, Ontario. The castle is open seasonally from mid-May to mid-October, and guided tours are available. Some of the highlights of the castle include ¹ ³ ²:
The Main Castle: A six-story structure with over 120 rooms, featuring grand staircases, beautiful stained glass, and intricate woodwork.
The Power House: A picturesque building that once housed the castle’s power generators, now featuring exhibits on the history of the castle and its restoration.
The Alster Tower: A whimsical structure designed for entertainment, featuring a bowling alley, billiards room, and stage for performances.
The Gardens and Scenic Views: Beautifully manicured gardens and scenic views of the St. Lawrence River, perfect for relaxation and photography.
The George C. Boldt Yacht House: A historic yacht house located on nearby Wellesley Island, featuring a collection of antique and wooden boats.
Tips for Visiting
Visitors should plan their visit according to the castle’s operating hours and ferry schedules.
The castle is a popular tourist destination, so expect crowds during peak season.
Audio guides and self-guided tours are available, allowing visitors to explore the castle at their own pace.
Don’t miss the stunning views from the castle’s balcony and the beautiful gardens surrounding the castle.
In conclusion, Boldt Castle is a must-visit destination for anyone interested in history, architecture, and romance. Its tragic love story and stunning architecture make it a unique and unforgettable experience. With its beautiful gardens, historic structures, and picturesque surroundings, Boldt Castle is a true gem of the Thousand Islands region .
John Dillinger was born on June 22, 1903, in Indianapolis, Indiana, to John Wilson Dillinger Sr. and Elizabeth “Lizzie” Wilson. His early life was marked by tragedy when his mother died in childbirth when he was just four years old. His father remarried, but John’s relationship with his stepmother was strained. He grew up in a grocer’s store where his father worked and was known to be a bit of a troublemaker as a child.
Dillinger’s life of crime began early. At 21, he was arrested for theft and sentenced to 10-20 years in prison. During his time at the Indiana State Prison in Michigan City, he befriended several other notorious criminals, including Homer Van Meter and Harry Pierpont. These relationships would later shape his criminal career.
After serving nine years, Dillinger was paroled in 1933. However, he soon returned to crime, committing a series of bank robberies across the Midwest. His exploits earned him the nickname “Public Enemy No. 1” from the FBI. Dillinger’s notoriety grew, and he became a folk hero of sorts, with many people sympathizing with his actions against banks, which were seen as symbols of the economic hardship of the Great Depression.
One of the most significant figures in Dillinger’s life during this period was Polly Hamilton, a young woman he met while still in prison. She became his girlfriend and visited him regularly during his incarceration. Their relationship continued after his release, and Polly often accompanied Dillinger on his robberies.
Another crucial figure in Dillinger’s life was Anna Sage, also known as “Woman in Red.” Sage, a Romanian-American woman, had her own criminal record and became involved with Dillinger. She played a pivotal role in his eventual demise. Sage, who had been in trouble with the law and was facing deportation, agreed to cooperate with the FBI in exchange for leniency on her own charges. She lured Dillinger to the Biograph Theater in Chicago, where he was watching a movie, promising him a night out.
On July 22, 1934, outside the Biograph Theater, FBI agents ambushed Dillinger as he left the movie. Sage, wearing a red dress that would become infamous, was with him. The FBI agents, led by Melvin Purvis, had been informed of Dillinger’s presence by Sage. As Dillinger attempted to draw his gun, he was shot multiple times. He died shortly after, at the age of 31.
Dillinger’s life of crime and his eventual death captivated the nation. His exploits were widely covered in the media, and his legend grew as a result. Despite his notoriety, Dillinger’s actions were often romanticized, and he became a symbol of rebellion against the system.
Interestingly, Dillinger’s criminal career was marked by several close calls and narrow escapes. He was known for his brazen robberies and his ability to evade capture. However, his relationship with Anna Sage ultimately proved to be his downfall.
The Biograph Theater, where Dillinger met his end, still stands in Chicago and has become a piece of American history. Visitors can see the theater and learn more about the events that transpired there. Dillinger’s legacy continues to fascinate people, and his story remains one of the most infamous in American crime history.
In the years following Dillinger’s death, the FBI’s reputation grew significantly, and Melvin Purvis became a national hero. However, the role of Anna Sage in Dillinger’s death has been the subject of much debate. While some view her as a traitor, others see her as a pragmatic woman who made difficult choices to save herself.
Dillinger’s impact on popular culture is undeniable. He has been the subject of numerous films, books, and documentaries. The 1945 film “Dillinger” and the 1973 film “Dillinger” starring Warren Oates are just a couple of examples. More recently, the 2009 film “Public Enemies” directed by Michael Mann and starring Johnny Depp as Dillinger, brought his story to a new generation.
John Dillinger’s life was a complex mix of tragedy, crime, and notoriety. From his early days in Indianapolis to his eventual death in Chicago, his story is a fascinating and cautionary tale of the allure and consequences of a life of crime. Despite the passage of time, Dillinger’s legend endures, captivating audiences and reminding us of the darker side of the American Dream.
Dillinger’s robberies often involved careful planning and execution. He and his gang would meticulously plan each heist, using stolen cars and guns to carry out their crimes. Dillinger’s brazen nature and charm made him a compelling figure, both to the public and to those who knew him personally.
The FBI’s pursuit of Dillinger was relentless. Led by agents like Melvin Purvis…
The Ford Mustang is more than just a car; it is a cultural phenomenon, a symbol of American freedom and ingenuity, and the progenitor of an entire class of automobiles. Its development and evolution over more than five decades represent a masterclass in automotive innovation, marketing, and a relentless pursuit of performance and style. Launched in 1964, the Mustang created the “pony car” segment, a new category of affordable, sporty coupes that combined European flair with American V8 power. Its story is one of audacious vision, a record-breaking launch, and an enduring legacy that has captivated generations of drivers.
The genesis of the Mustang can be traced back to the early 1960s, a time when Ford was seeking to capture the burgeoning youth market. Lee Iacocca, then Ford’s general manager, spearheaded the project. He and his team recognized that a new generation of buyers was seeking something different from the large, heavy sedans of the era. The target was a car that was stylish, compact, and, crucially, affordable. The original design brief, known internally as the “Special Falcon,” called for a sporty vehicle built on the chassis of the compact Ford Falcon to keep costs down. A team of designers, including Gale Halderman, worked tirelessly to refine the vehicle’s appearance. Their inspiration came from a blend of European sports cars and American muscle, resulting in the iconic long hood, short deck, and signature galloping horse emblem.
Ford’s marketing strategy for the Mustang was nothing short of brilliant. The car was officially unveiled at the 1964 New York World’s Fair, but a nationwide blitz of simultaneous television commercials and print ads began on April 17, 1964. The public’s response was unprecedented. Dealerships were swamped with customers, many of whom had seen the car for the first time just hours before. On its first day, Ford took over 22,000 orders. By the end of its first year, over 400,000 Mustangs had been sold, shattering all expectations and confirming Iacocca’s bold vision. The car’s appeal lay in its wide array of customization options, from engine sizes to interior appointments, allowing buyers to create a car that felt uniquely their own. This accessibility and personalization were key to its success.
The Mustang’s initial generation, often referred to as the “1964 ½,” quickly evolved. The first few years saw the introduction of the legendary Shelby GT350 and GT500 models, which cemented the Mustang’s performance credentials. The 1967 model year brought a redesign that made the car larger and more aggressive, accommodating larger V8 engines. By the late 1960s, the “muscle car” era was in full swing, and the Mustang grew in size and power to compete with rivals. However, the energy crisis of the 1970s and new emission standards forced a dramatic shift.
For its second generation, the Mustang II (1974-1978) was a complete departure. Based on the subcompact Pinto, it was smaller, lighter, and more fuel-efficient. While despised by performance purists, the Mustang II was a commercial success during a challenging economic period. It proved that the Mustang nameplate could survive a paradigm shift, even if it meant sacrificing the muscle car ethos for a more practical, economical vehicle.
The third generation, the Fox body Mustang (1979-1993), was a return to form. Built on Ford’s versatile Fox platform, it was lighter and more efficient than its predecessors. This generation, with its angular styling, was a long-running hit, undergoing several significant updates over its 14-year production run. The Fox body revitalized the Mustang’s performance image, particularly with the introduction of the 5.0L V8 and the return of the convertible. It became a favorite of enthusiasts and racers, establishing a new foundation for the car’s enduring appeal.
The fourth generation, known as the SN95 (1994-2004), brought a much-needed stylistic change. The design was a modern take on the original Mustang’s iconic lines, moving away from the boxy Fox body. It featured a more rounded, swooping aesthetic and introduced the potent SVT Cobra models. This era also saw the introduction of the New Edge styling in 1999, which added sharper creases and a more aggressive look.
The fifth generation, the S197 (2005-2014), was a landmark moment for the Mustang. It was a complete redesign that embraced “retro-futurism,” drawing heavily on the classic Mustangs of the 1960s for inspiration. Its powerful lines and throwback styling resonated with both long-time fans and new buyers. This generation was a huge success, culminating in the introduction of the fearsome Shelby GT500 with a supercharged V8, re-establishing the Mustang as a global performance icon.
The current, sixth generation (S550), launched in 2015, marked another seismic shift. For the first time in its history, the Mustang was engineered to be a global vehicle, sold in markets worldwide. It was the first to feature independent rear suspension as standard, greatly improving its handling and ride quality. The S550 also offered a turbocharged four-cylinder EcoBoost engine alongside the traditional V6 and V8 options, expanding its appeal to a more diverse audience. Its design is an evolution of the retro theme, with sharper lines and a more contemporary feel. The launch of the Mach-E, an all-electric crossover that bears the Mustang name, signals Ford’s commitment to pushing the brand into the future while honoring its legendary status.
From its humble beginnings as a “Special Falcon” to its current position as a global performance machine, the Ford Mustang’s development has been a continuous story of adaptation and reinvention. It has weathered economic downturns, changing consumer tastes, and technological revolutions, all while retaining the core spirit of the original. The Mustang is more than just a car; it is a testament to the power of design, the allure of performance, and the enduring dream of open-road freedom that is deeply woven into the fabric of American culture. Its history is a living chronicle of the automotive industry itself, and its future promises to be just as dynamic and transformative.
A 2006 Ford Mustang GT. A fantasy what if car that was not built in this offering. The stripe package, lo-poly body and graphics set this model apart. This model is designed and rendered in Direct X. The ZIP file also includes converted files in 3DS, OBJ, FBX and includes the maps and graphics as shown on the images below.
A retro Mustang design with a custom stripe package. A Retro Ford Mustang. A fantasy what if car that was not built in this offering. The stripe package, lo-poly body and graphics set this model apart. This model is designed and rendered in Direct X. The ZIP file also includes converted files in 3DS, OBJ, FBX and includes the maps and graphics as shown on the images below. https://youtu.be/yHUlnuOP_Ps
Wastelands 18. This is my ride if I were in the Wastelands. A junk yard patched up Ford Mustang. Dual methane tanks on the back. Room for me and my dog, just like Max… The result was stuffed with a methane powered V10 and fitted with a 4 wheel drive drivetrain and lifted. Large tires finished it out and it was set out on missions in the Wastelands. This model is designed and rendered in Direct X. The ZIP file also includes the maps and graphics as shown in the images below and converted versions in 3DS, FBX and OBJ.
I grew up in a small town. In small towns everybody knows everybody and most often they know more about you and your circumstances than even you do.
I was talking to a friend a few weeks back about how I learned I was mixed race. I had thought I was just a white kid like any of the other white kids I hung out with. Of course we didn’t all look white, but you don’t really think about things like that when you’re a kid. There’s too much other stuff that has to be dealt with. This is one of those other things.
This is from the short story book True Two. There is a longer collection of true stories True One. And I have been working intermittently on a novel length collection for a few years now that will cover my time on the streets and more…
THE DAM is Copyright Wendell Sweet and Writerz.net Publishing 2010 – 2024
All rights are reserved by the copyright owner and publisher.
You may not copy, reproduce, print or otherwise distribute this copyrighted material without the copyright owners and publishers permission. Permission is granted to use small portions of the text in critical articles or opinions about the writing. If you wish to share this story with a friend please point them to this blog address.
This is not a work of fiction. The names have been changed for some of the individuals, but not all. I never answer questions about real events or reveal anything about those people when I am asked.
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THE DAM
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THE DAM
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It was summer, the trees full and green, the temperatures in the upper seventies. And you could smell the river from where it ran behind the paper mills and factories crowded around it, just beyond the public square; A dead smell, waste from the paper plants.
I think it was John who said something first. “Fuck it,” or something like that,” I’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” Pete asked?
“Yeah… I think so,” John agreed. His eyes locked on Pete’s, but they didn’t stay. They slipped away and began to wander along the riverbed, the sharp rocks that littered the tops of the cliffs and the distance to the water. I didn’t like it.
Gary just nodded. Gary was the oldest so we pretty much went along with the way he saw things.
“But it’s your Dad,” I said at last. I felt stupid. Defensive. But it really felt to me like he really wasn’t seeing things clearly. I didn’t trust how calm he was, or how he kept looking at the river banks and then down to the water maybe eighty feet are so below.
“I should know,” John said. But his eyes didn’t meet mine at all.
“He should know,” Gary agreed and that was that.
“That’s cool. Let’s go down to the river,” Pete suggested, changing the subject.
“I’m not climbing down there,” I said. I looked down the sheer rock drop off to the water. John was still looking too, and his eyes were glistening, wet, his lips moved slightly as if he was talking to himself. If he was I couldn’t hear. But then he spoke aloud.
“We could make it, I bet,” he said as though it was an afterthought to some other idea. I couldn’t quite see that idea, at least I told myself that later. But I felt some sort of way about it. As if it had feelings of it’s own attached to it.
“No, man,” Gary said. “Pete didn’t mean beginning here… Did you,” he asked?
“No… No, you know, out to Huntingtonville,” Pete said. He leaned forward on his bike, looked at john, followed his eyes down to the river and then back up. John looked at him.
“What!” John asked.
“Nothing, man,” Pete said. “We’ll ride out to Huntingtonville. To the dam. That’d be cool… Wouldn’t it?” You could see the flatness in John’s eye’s. It made Pete nervous. He looked at Gary.
“Yeah,” Gary said. He looked at me.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’d be cool.” I spun one pedal on my stingray, scuffed the dirt with the toe of one Ked and then I looked at John again. His eyes were still too shiny, but he shifted on his banana seat, scuffed the ground with one of his own Keds and then said, “Yeah,” kind of under his breath. Again like it was an afterthought to something else. He lifted his head from his close inspection of the ground, or the river, or the rocky banks, or something in some other world for all I knew, and it seemed more like the last to me, but he met all of our eyes with one sliding loop of his own eyes, and even managed to smile.
~
The bike ride out to Huntingtonville was about four miles. It was a beautiful day and we lazed our way along, avoiding the streets, riding beside the railroad tracks that just happened to run out there. The railroad tracks bisected Watertown. They were like our own private road to anywhere we wanted to go. Summer, fall or winter. It didn’t matter. You could hear the trains coming from a long way off. More than enough time to get out of the way.
We had stripped our shirts off earlier in the morning when we had been crossing the only area of the tracks that we felt were dangerous, a long section of track that was suspended over the Black river on a rail trestle. My heart had beat fast as we had walked tie to tie trying not to look down at the rapids far below. Now we were four skinny, jeans clad boys with our shirts tied around our waists riding our bikes along the sides of those same railroad tracks where they ran through our neighborhood, occasionally bumping over the ties as we went. Gary managed to ride on one of the rails for about 100 feet. No one managed anything better.
Huntingtonville was a small river community just outside of Watertown. It was like the section of town that was so poor it could not simply be across the tracks or on the other side of the river, it had to be removed to the outskirts of the city itself. It was where the poorest of the poor lived, the least desirable races. The blacks. The Indians. Whatever else good, upstanding white Americans felt threatened or insulted by. It was where my father had come from, being both black and Indian.
I didn’t look like my father. I looked like my mother. My mother was Irish and English. About as white as white could be. I guess I was passing. But I was too poor, too much of a dumb kid to even know that back then in 1969.
John’s father was the reason we were all so worried. A few days before we had been playing baseball in the gravel lot of the lumber company across the street from where we lived. The railroad tracks ran behind that lumber company. John was just catching his breath after having hit a home run when his mother called him in side. We all heard later from our own mothers that John’s father had been hurt somehow. Something to do with his head. A stroke. I really didn’t know what a stroke was at that time or understand everything that it meant. I only knew it was bad. It was later in life that I understood how bad. All of us probably. But we did understand that John’s father had nearly died, and would never be his old self again, if he even managed to pull through.
It was a few days after that now. The first time the four of us had gotten back together. We all felt at loose ends. It simply had made no sense for the three of us to try to do much of anything without John. We had tried but all we could think about or talk about was John’s father. Would he be okay? Would they move? That worried me the most. His sister was about the most beautiful girl in the entire world to me. So not only would John move, so would she.
He came back to us today not saying a word about it. And we were worried.
When we reached the dam the water was high. That could mean that either the dam had been running off the excess water, or was about to be. You just had to look at the river and decide.
“We could go to the other side and back,” John suggested.
The dam was about 20 or 30 feet high. Looming over a rock strewn riverbed that had very little water. It was deeper out towards the middle, probably, it looked like it was, but it was all dry river rock along the grassy banks. The top of the Dam stretched about 700 feet across the river.
“I don’t know,” Pete said. “the dam might be about to run. We could get stuck on the other side for awhile.”
No one was concerned about a little wet feet if the dam did suddenly start running as we were crossing it. It didn’t run that fast. And it had caught us before. It was no big deal. Pete’s concern was getting stuck on the little island where the damn ended for an hour or so. Once, john, and myself had been on that island and some kids, older kids, had decided to shoot at us with 22 caliber rifles. Scared us half to death. But that’s not the story I’m trying to tell you today. Maybe I’ll tell you that one some other time. Today I’m trying to tell you about John’s father. And how calm John seemed to be taking it.
John didn’t wait for anyone else to comment. He dumped his bike and started to climb up the side of the concrete abutment to reach the top of the dam and walk across to the island. There was nothing for us to do except fall in behind him. One by one we did.
It all went smoothly. The water began to top the dam, soaking our Keds with its yellow paper mill stink and scummy white foam, just about halfway across. But we all made it to the other side and the island with no trouble. Pete and I climbed down and walked away. To this day I have no idea what words passed between Gary and john, but the next thing I knew they were both climbing back up onto the top of the dam, where the water was flowing faster now. Faster than it had ever flowed when we had attempted to cross the dam. Pete nearly at the top of the concrete wall, Gary several feet behind him.
John didn’t hesitate. He hit the top, stepped into the yellow brown torrent of river water pouring over the falls and began to walk back out to the middle of the river. Gary yelled to him as Pete and I climbed back up to the top of the dam.
I don’t think I was trying to be a hero, but the other thought, the thought he had pulled back from earlier, had just clicked in my head. John was thinking about dying. About killing himself. I could see it on the picture of his face that I held in my head from earlier. I didn’t yell to him, I just stepped into the yellow foam and water, found the top of the dam and began walking.
Behind me and Pete and Gary went ballistic. “Joe, what the fuck are you doing!”
I heard it, but I didn’t hear it. I kept moving. I was scared. Petrified. Water tugged at my feet. There was maybe 6 inches now pouring over the dam and more coming, it seemed a long way down to the river. Sharp, up-tilted slabs of rock seemed to be reaching out for me. Secretly hoping that I would fall and shatter my life upon them.
John stopped in the middle of the dam and turned, looking off toward the rock and the river below. I could see the water swirling fast around his ankles. Rising higher as it went. John looked over at me, but he said nothing.
“John,” I said when I got close enough. He finally spoke.
“No,” was all he said. But tears began to spill from his eyes. Leaking from his cheeks and falling into the foam scummed yellow-brown water that flowed ever faster over his feet.
“Don’t,” I screamed. I knew he meant to do it, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Don’t move,” Gary said from behind me. I nearly went over the falls. I hadn’t known he was that close. I looked up and he was right next to me, working his way around me on the slippery surface of the dam. I looked back and Pete was still on the opposite side of the dam. He had climbed up and now he stood on the flat top. Transfixed. Watching us through his thick glasses. Gary had followed John and me across.
I stood still and Gary stepped around me. I have no idea how he did. I’ve thought about it, believe me. There shouldn’t have been enough room, but that was what he did. He stepped right around me and then walked the remaining 20 feet or so to John and grabbed his arm.
“If you jump you kill me too,” Gary said. I heard him perfectly clear above the roar of the dam. He said it like it was nothing. Like it is everything. But mostly he said it like he meant it.
It seemed like they argued and struggled forever, but it was probably less than a minute, maybe two. The waters were rising fast and the whole thing would soon be decided for us. If we didn’t get off the dam quickly we would be swept over by the force of the water.
They almost did go over. So did I. But the three of us got moving and headed back across to the land side where we had dropped our bikes. We climbed down from a dam and watched the water fill the river up. No one spoke.
Eventually john stopped crying. And the afterthought look, as though there some words or thoughts he couldn’t say passed. The dying time had passed.
We waited almost two hours for the river to stop running and then Pete came across…
We only talked about it one other time that summer, and then we never talked about it again. That day was also a beautiful summer day. Sun high in the sky. We were sitting on our bikes watching the dam run.
“I can’t believe you were gonna do it,” Pete said.
“I wasn’t,” John told him. “I only got scared when the water started flowing and froze on the dam… That’s all it was.”
Nobody spoke for a moment and then Gary said, “That’s how it was.”
“Yeah. That’s how it was,” I agreed…
###
Check out all of the True stories at Amazon:
True: True Stories from a small town
True: True Stories from a small town #1
The True: True stories from a small town are true stories from that place. From my childhood up through my adulthood. Some heartfelt, some heart rending, some the horrible truth of the life I lived at that time… #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #2
In my younger days I lived my life like there was no tomorrow. I wasn’t thinking about what to do when the check came due, when life changed, when I crossed someone or they crossed me. I wish I had grown up different, but my time on the streets and the lessons that taught me. #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #3
In AA they say that addictions will take you to hospitals, Mental Institutions and Prisons. It’s true. They will. I have been in all of those places because of my addictions. But addictions are not responsible for the life I lead entirely, and certainly not responsible for the things I did. #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
True: True stories from a small town #4
The True: True stories from a small town are true stories from that place. From my childhood up through my adulthood. Some heartfelt, some heart rending, some the horrible truth of the life I lived at that time… (Based on a true story from my life. Names have been changed, but truthfully almost all of them are dead now so it doesn’t matter.) #NonFiction #Crime #OrganizedCrime #Childhood #Readers #KU #Amazon
