Mazel Tov!

All right, I feel really bad and guilty and whatnot for not attending fellow BBer Mottel's wedding, so I'll use this forum instead to say a big mazel tov!

Continued!

Key: e. TRS le7 Sarabonne Dovid Mottel Cheerio Crawling Axe Sef


Eric ran for all he was worth. Suddenly, he was hit by the front-end loader he had been chased by and landed in a nearby ditch. He landed flat on his rather plump posterior and was more shocked than injured. He cursed the heavens and rummaged around for his monocle.

"What kind of job is this for a nice Jewish boy wearing a tweed jacket, suspenders, hair-plugs, and a monocle anyway?" he wondered. Reaching into his coat pocket for his inhaler, Eric felt something warm and wet oozing onto his fingers. Eric pulled out his monocle, and popped it into his eye socket. And then he saw the rhino. Knees buckled, he ran for Tijuana. And promptly fell flat on his face, it's hard to run with buckled legs.

"What the hell is going on here," he muttered to himself, as blood dripped from his fingers, his monocle fell to the ground, his suspenders snapped, and he noticed--for the first time--that the rhino and the front-end loader were both gone. Ira Eric Green was definitely beginning to have second thoughts about his new "legitimate" career as a stunt double. It wasn't only the danger involved; the pay was shoddy, and it left him with no time for his true love, competitive matzah ball eating. Fluffy white ones, little brown hard ones, stuffed with ground beef and jalapeno, fried with mango sauce... whenever Ira thought about matzah balls, he could barely contain himself...

Slowly the world came back in focus as Ira settled down from the trip - taking matza balls laced with acid, was not good for ones health. "Could this be the cause of my tinnitus?” Ira thought, suddenly remembering his trip to Prague as a representative to Russian mafia.

Little did Ira Eric Green know that the high-pitched beeping noise he had been hearing since that trip was really a result of a tracking device that had been installed during the night he had stayed in a sleazy Russian hotel. As Ira slowly rose to his feet, perhaps a cup of coffee would help stable his blurred vision and pounding headache.

Sipping his coffee, he moseyed over to the calendar to see when the next matzah-ball-eating competition would be. As he began searching through the dates, he discovered that the next contest would be in three days. He sipped his coffee, added a fourth teaspoon of sugar and then noticed where the contest would take place. "The Brooklyn City Hospital- front parking lot", he read off the notice. "Oh dear", he thought, "talk about flirting with the past." He slurped down the rest of his coffee and gave a loud belch.

A man standing next to him said, "My dear sir, that was absolutely disgusting, I've never been so offended in my life!"

He looked over at the man and said "How in tarnation did you get inside my kitchen?"

"Your kitchen!" the man roared, "who do you think you are, making horrible noises and then thinking you own this place? Be gone!"

"Security?" said Eric Ira Green, with a slight bit of annoyance in his voice, "Can we get this guy off the set?"

Ira "Eric" Green wagged his head and blinked a few times, trying to dispell the image of the man standing in his kitchen. "Guess acid takes longer to wear off then they said in that recipe book," he muttered to himself, shaking his head harder and faster back and forth. Suddenly, something dislodged itself from his ear and fell to the floor with the quietest of smashing sounds.

"Oh no!" Ira cried, "my prized platinum stud has fallen out! Whatever shall I do?" (Too bad Ira doesn't know what a stud is).

Suddenly, Ira realized that his tinnitus was gone. Ah, and there was that bloody rhino again. "Damn, the acid flashes are getting worse! Well I better rest up and hope this wears off before the competion", he thought yawning and lying down.

Ira heard the instructions from his CIA handler over the earpiece he had inserted back into his ear (where else), and proceeded to the rendezvous point three miles out of town to the left of the Alterra coffee where the wild things were. (Or so he dreamed in his long, deep slumber.) Ira blinked as he saw himself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies - from afar somebody called him, so he answered quite slowly,to a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

She sang to him,

"You're so vain You probably think this song is about you You're so vain I'll bet you think this song is about you Don't you? Don't you?"

and then ran off.

Ira tried to look for his monocle, but instead found a piece of French toast in his jacket; at this point, he heard (amidst now very distinctive lack of tinnitus) a male voice in Eastern European accent say “Brrrekfest ready, Mistterr Eeera”, smelled French toast and woke up. Laying in his 800 count - hot pink - Egyptian cotton sheets, Ira looked around the room to see if the voice he heard was real.

"Of course I'm real!" a raspy voice screamed. The raspy voice belonged to a shriveled old man who was standing in the center of Ira's room (which was coincidentally was painted hot pink), holding a (what else?) hot pink breakfast tray.

"Oh Adrian its just you. What day is it? How long have I been sleeping here on the set?"

"Erm, Meester Ira sir...you been sleeping many a moon, we was very worried."

Ira looked around the room and saw something strange; a cow was staring straight at him! It let out a loud moo and informed Ira that he was from Wisconsin.

"Perchance you hail from the Sheboygan region, my ancestral stomping grounds?" Ira asked hopefully.

The bovine creature was rather appalled by Ira's outragous question and his lacking sense of propriety.

Realizing that the acid has yet to wear off, Ira decided against driving himself to the matzah-ball eating contest and instead asked the cow for a ride. The cow mooed with delight and kneeled down for Ira to climb on, as he grabbed his hot pink 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets and tied it around his kneck for a cape - "yeehaw!"

Creative Word Joint Writing Exersize

With my ADHD and the Chasuna prep, B"H I'm very busy and don't have the time to invest in making blog posts like I used to . . . Writings sentences is fun, but it just takes to dern long.

That's why I'm starting a new Joint writing Exersize - we write things two words at a time!!

Let's get started!

ey: e TRS le7 Sarabonne Dovid Mottel Cheerio Crawling Axe Sef

A Bochur fell off a very thin gilded stool on wheels and then he died. His mother screamed in French, Russian, and Chinese And broke her water gun. Then much to her displeasure she snorted some coca cola. The cat Spat up the phylacteries and started to dance

The One-Sentence-a-Piece Joint-Writing Exercise.

Key: e. TRS le7 Sarabonne Dovid Mottel Cheerio Crawling Axe Sef


Eric ran for all he was worth. Suddenly, he was hit by the front-end loader he had been chased by and landed in a nearby ditch. He landed flat on his rather plump posterior and was more shocked than injured. He cursed the heavens and rummaged around for his monocle.

"What kind of job is this for a nice Jewish boy wearing a tweed jacket, suspenders, hair-plugs, and a monocle anyway?" he wondered. Reaching into his coat pocket for his inhaler, Eric felt something warm and wet oozing onto his fingers. Eric pulled out his monocle, and popped it into his eye socket. And then he saw the rhino. Knees buckled, he ran for Tijuana. And promptly fell flat on his face, it's hard to run with buckled legs.

"What the hell is going on here," he muttered to himself, as blood dripped from his fingers, his monocle fell to the ground, his suspenders snapped, and he noticed--for the first time--that the rhino and the front-end loader were both gone. Ira Eric Green was definitely beginning to have second thoughts about his new "legitimate" career as a stunt double. It wasn't only the danger involved; the pay was shoddy, and it left him with no time for his true love, competitive matzah ball eating. Fluffy white ones, little brown hard ones, stuffed with ground beef and jalapeno, fried with mango sauce... whenever Ira thought about matzah balls, he could barely contain himself...

Slowly the world came back in focus as Ira settled down from the trip - taking matza balls laced with acid, was not good for ones health. "Could this be the cause of my tinnitus?” Ira thought, suddenly remembering his trip to Prague as a representative to Russian mafia.

Little did Ira Eric Green know that the high-pitched beeping noise he had been hearing since that trip was really a result of a tracking device that had been installed during the night he had stayed in a sleazy Russian hotel. As Ira slowly rose to his feet, perhaps a cup of coffee would help stable his blurred vision and pounding headache.

Sipping his coffee, he moseyed over to the calendar to see when the next matzah-ball-eating competition would be. As he began searching through the dates, he discovered that the next contest would be in three days. He sipped his coffee, added a fourth teaspoon of sugar and then noticed where the contest would take place. "The Brooklyn City Hospital- front parking lot", he read off the notice. "Oh dear", he thought, "talk about flirting with the past." He slurped down the rest of his coffee and gave a loud belch.

A man standing next to him said, "My dear sir, that was absolutely disgusting, I've never been so offended in my life!"

He looked over at the man and said "How in tarnation did you get inside my kitchen?"

"Your kitchen!" the man roared, "who do you think you are, making horrible noises and then thinking you own this place? Be gone!"

"Security?" said Eric Ira Green, with a slight bit of annoyance in his voice, "Can we get this guy off the set?"

Ira "Eric" Green wagged his head and blinked a few times, trying to dispell the image of the man standing in his kitchen. "Guess acid takes longer to wear off then they said in that recipe book," he muttered to himself, shaking his head harder and faster back and forth. Suddenly, something dislodged itself from his ear and fell to the floor with the quietest of smashing sounds.

"Oh no!" Ira cried, "my prized platinum stud has fallen out! Whatever shall I do?" (Too bad Ira doesn't know what a stud is).

Suddenly, Ira realized that his tinnitus was gone. Ah, and there was that bloody rhino again. "Damn, the acid flashes are getting worse! Well I better rest up and hope this wears off before the competion", he thought yawning and lying down.

Ira heard the instructions from his CIA handler over the earpiece he had inserted back into his ear (where else), and proceeded to the rendezvous point three miles out of town to the left of the Alterra coffee where the wild things were. (Or so he dreamed in his long, deep slumber.) Ira blinked as he saw himself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies - from afar somebody called him, so he answered quite slowly,to a girl with kaleidoscope eyes.

She sang to him,

"You're so vain You probably think this song is about you You're so vain I'll bet you think this song is about you Don't you? Don't you?"

and then ran off.

Ira tried to look for his monocle, but instead found a piece of French toast in his jacket; at this point, he heard (amidst now very distinctive lack of tinnitus) a male voice in Eastern European accent say “Brrrekfest ready, Mistterr Eeera”, smelled French toast and woke up. Laying in his 800 count - hot pink - Egyptian cotton sheets, Ira looked around the room to see if the voice he heard was real.

"Of course I'm real!" a raspy voice screamed. The raspy voice belonged to a shriveled old man who was standing in the center of Ira's room (which was coincidentally was painted hot pink), holding a (what else?) hot pink breakfast tray.

"Oh Adrian its just you. What day is it? How long have I been sleeping here on the set?"

"Erm, Meester Ira sir...you been sleeping many a moon, we was very worried."

Henry

This is Henry. He is 43 years old, living in a single bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, New York. He works as an entertainer for small children under the ages of 5 and spends his free time complaining to JJ the local barman or reading various romance novels. He likes jelly Beans. He is a hypocondriac and OCD with an affinity for the color red, especially when presented as the lever of a fire alarm. As a result, he has been arrested numurous times which lost him his job, upper-eat side flat, and is currently estranged from his wife Roberta, their little girls Donilaquita and Brieze, not to mention, the pet iguana, Tony.

There. We have an illustration. Now can someone resume our experimental-almost-failure-because-no-one-will-continue-story?

Weird Things

I just got an email from Wikimetro. They claim to want to place ads on my blog, earning me some easy cash. My momma taught me well, and if I don't have to work hard for it, I don't trust it. Any of you guys had any experiences like this?

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

(Cheerio's Paragraph)

His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.

(TRS' Paragraph)

Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.

(Le7's Paragraph)

He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.

(Sarabonne's Paragraph)

It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.

(Dovid's Paragraph)

"Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.

(RAW's Paragraph)

Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.

(EndOfWorld's Paragraph)

Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.

(CA’s paragraph — feel free to trim; sorry, I said I suck at fiction; plus, I am packing for moving)

Henry paced nervously in the ER waiting room. Detained as an attempted murder witness, he was stuck, in his bunny suit, in the hospital, in a nervous state of mind. Henry, a hypochondriac suffering from OCD, did not like hospitals. Besides, he was under a court order to stay away from buildings with fire alarms. Henry had a compulsion to pull them — the red color, the feeling of a pulled lever, the sirens, the lights… Henry gulped nervously and started pacing back and forth. He was going to stay in control. This obsession had him arrested five times, cost him his job and luxury apartment in Manhattan, estranged him from his family and pet iguana. But today he was going to stay in control!.. Henry entered the bathroom. The first thing he saw was a bright-red fire alarm. Staring at him. Sneering with its lever’s white outline. Inviting. Henry backed nervously towards the sink and suddenly realized that his bunny suit’s hands have no zippers. He had no way to splash some water on his face. A scrubbed-in intern with a walrus mustache opened the door of a stall and dropping “Howdy, partner?” in a thick Texan drawl left the bathroom. Without washing his hands. This was too much for Henry. He turned to the fire alarm and licked his lips, tasting bunny fur. The last thought that entered his mind before he reached for the lever was “Ben told me to try pancakes with sour cream in that Russian place”. Henry filled his lungs with slippery air of the hospital bathroom and pulled. Fire alarm exploded in Henry’s head with hundreds of bright sounds. Loud flashes, bouncing off the white bathroom walls, pushed his tortured mind off the cliff, into the abyss of primeval insanity. Ricardo, a hit man for the Colombian mob sent to the hospital to finish off Gershon, entered the ER waiting room and was knocked off his feet, unconscious, by something bright-pink with big ears that ran out of the bathroom, charging towards the ER exit.

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

(Cheerio's Paragraph) His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.

(TRS' Paragraph) Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.

(Le7's Paragraph) He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.

(Sarabonne's Paragraph) It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.

(Dovid's Paragraph) "Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.

(RAW's Paragraph) Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.

(EndOfWorld's Paragraph) Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.

So what is the story?

So I'm sitting here, trying to decide what the whole point of this is.

I know what it is not:

• It's not for social networking. We all have gmail, twitter, facebook and cell phones for that. (I'm looking at you, e.) If we want to keep each other updated, we have personal blogs for a reason. (Yes I know you don't have one e., but that is your choice).

So what inspired this? A few things:

• There has been discussion of bloggers' conventions and writers groups. Due to geographical and may I venture to say physiological/religious barriers that isn't so feasible. 
• The joint story thingermerbobber that took the blogosphere by storm yesterday...

I guess I'm searching for suggestions here? We're all creative and have what to say, so let's put our talents to good use, or at least sharpen them a bit.

So, please, I would be greatly pleasured if you would all sound off and chime in...

The Inspirational Writing Exercise

(Cheerio's Paragraph) His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.

(TRS' Paragraph) Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.

(Le7's Paragraph) He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.

(Sarabonne's Paragraph) It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.

(Dovid's Paragraph) "Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.

(RAW's Paragraph) Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.