Ed.”
“No” he said again “My name is Chubbie's Ed, with an S.”
“Ok Chubbie's Ed.” I said, somewhat confused. Ed was head of an American Christian Motorcycle Association from Philadelphia on an around the world poker run to save the Liberty Bell. The Liberty Bell was being sold at auction next month. It was hard times back in Philadelphia; the city was half empty. They had lost a lawsuit brought by the ACLU, gay pride and the Osoma administration. The city went bankrupt. It had something to do with the term brotherly love, a Jewish feast and a new mosque. The whole lawsuit sounded crazy to me. Osoma had been shot at in Philadelphia and slightly wounded by flying glass. Washington, D.C. was now a ghost town with troops around the mall protecting Osoma's family. The wrath of almighty God was turning on the Israel-hating, Bible defiling, earth worshiping, humanist, fascist, socialist voter fraud friendly Osoma administration. Talking to Ed about the fall of my beloved America was depressing as hell. I understood now more about the 'Jewish Exit' paperwork! American Jews were flooding to Israel, many thousands each month; running for their lives from Osoma. As I entered Ed's room, the maid was very courteous and obeyed my polite commands.
After a shower, a snack (some really good chili) and some new found clothes (of Ed's), I listened through the door as police, or troops, opened my door down the hall and rushed in. Through the peephole, it looked like four of them in all. Not exactly a SWAT team! How insulting! No respect! At least I knew now that I was being hunted. Yes, I was on the run, just as I had expected. I wondered just what the whole deal was. Why is it so often in this life, one doesn't even know the basics. Starting out again on foot, I now had some local currency; about twelve thousand U.S. In dollars was hidden about my body. The police were still searching my hotel. I was heading east for no other reason than stubbornness. During my hitch-hiking and walking, I met many wonderful people. I started feeling like a tourist; clothes do make the man (ha-ha). It felt good to have money. Money is empowering. I could eat at small diners. I kind of missed those soup vendors of Thailand. Some of the Indian food was very good, but one of the main spices they so often use was not my favorite. It stung my nose (ha-ha). Often rides were offered to me, but none were going very far, it seemed. I spent two nights in small bed and breakfast type places. The signs would say 'Hotel', but they were just private homes with rooms added to the sides. Most nights I was still camping with my same trusty wool blankets. I now had new sheets. My backpack was stacked high. It was real fancy with a lightweight frame. Many of the locals also carried bundles, so I figured I looked Indian. I tried my best to blend in and wore a scarf like I saw others do. Many rode mini-scooters or bikes. I was looking to buy one used, if I could. While traveling I just kept moving at my steady slow pace, always staying off the main roads.
The second 'hotel' I stayed in was modest even by local standards. It had a very small sign, so I almost missed the place. I was tired and worn out from my day’s journey. The lady of the house waved me in near dusk. This behavior was very rare and bold for a woman in India. I was glad she did, for the rattle and splatter of a coming thunderstorm was upon me. I ran as quickly back to her door as my tired, old body would allow. This family had only two rooms added to their house. She put me in the room next to them. At dinner, I noticed that my plate had three helpings to their one. Her two school-age kids were very polite; their mother very strict and also a Christian. I claimed I wasn't feeling well and did not feel much like eating and retired to my room. She opened an inside door so that I didn't have to brave the storm raging outside. By not shutting the door completely, I could see the family from
“No” he said again “My name is Chubbie's Ed, with an S.”
“Ok Chubbie's Ed.” I said, somewhat confused. Ed was head of an American Christian Motorcycle Association from Philadelphia on an around the world poker run to save the Liberty Bell. The Liberty Bell was being sold at auction next month. It was hard times back in Philadelphia; the city was half empty. They had lost a lawsuit brought by the ACLU, gay pride and the Osoma administration. The city went bankrupt. It had something to do with the term brotherly love, a Jewish feast and a new mosque. The whole lawsuit sounded crazy to me. Osoma had been shot at in Philadelphia and slightly wounded by flying glass. Washington, D.C. was now a ghost town with troops around the mall protecting Osoma's family. The wrath of almighty God was turning on the Israel-hating, Bible defiling, earth worshiping, humanist, fascist, socialist voter fraud friendly Osoma administration. Talking to Ed about the fall of my beloved America was depressing as hell. I understood now more about the 'Jewish Exit' paperwork! American Jews were flooding to Israel, many thousands each month; running for their lives from Osoma. As I entered Ed's room, the maid was very courteous and obeyed my polite commands.
After a shower, a snack (some really good chili) and some new found clothes (of Ed's), I listened through the door as police, or troops, opened my door down the hall and rushed in. Through the peephole, it looked like four of them in all. Not exactly a SWAT team! How insulting! No respect! At least I knew now that I was being hunted. Yes, I was on the run, just as I had expected. I wondered just what the whole deal was. Why is it so often in this life, one doesn't even know the basics. Starting out again on foot, I now had some local currency; about twelve thousand U.S. In dollars was hidden about my body. The police were still searching my hotel. I was heading east for no other reason than stubbornness. During my hitch-hiking and walking, I met many wonderful people. I started feeling like a tourist; clothes do make the man (ha-ha). It felt good to have money. Money is empowering. I could eat at small diners. I kind of missed those soup vendors of Thailand. Some of the Indian food was very good, but one of the main spices they so often use was not my favorite. It stung my nose (ha-ha). Often rides were offered to me, but none were going very far, it seemed. I spent two nights in small bed and breakfast type places. The signs would say 'Hotel', but they were just private homes with rooms added to the sides. Most nights I was still camping with my same trusty wool blankets. I now had new sheets. My backpack was stacked high. It was real fancy with a lightweight frame. Many of the locals also carried bundles, so I figured I looked Indian. I tried my best to blend in and wore a scarf like I saw others do. Many rode mini-scooters or bikes. I was looking to buy one used, if I could. While traveling I just kept moving at my steady slow pace, always staying off the main roads.
The second 'hotel' I stayed in was modest even by local standards. It had a very small sign, so I almost missed the place. I was tired and worn out from my day’s journey. The lady of the house waved me in near dusk. This behavior was very rare and bold for a woman in India. I was glad she did, for the rattle and splatter of a coming thunderstorm was upon me. I ran as quickly back to her door as my tired, old body would allow. This family had only two rooms added to their house. She put me in the room next to them. At dinner, I noticed that my plate had three helpings to their one. Her two school-age kids were very polite; their mother very strict and also a Christian. I claimed I wasn't feeling well and did not feel much like eating and retired to my room. She opened an inside door so that I didn't have to brave the storm raging outside. By not shutting the door completely, I could see the family from
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